by Liz Johnson
Close was a relative word, but in this case, they couldn’t get much closer to the banker and his particular friend.
As they stepped into the room, he tried to see it through Millie’s eyes. The furniture most likely wasn’t original to the room, which sported two twin beds, each with four posters and a blue bedspread. Still, her great-grandmother had fallen asleep in this room to the rhythmic crashing on the beach below. She had stood at that window, overlooking the sand and water, and watched the people strolling along the shore.
Even he—no relation whatsoever to Ruth—felt the physical weight of stepping back in time. It was hard to breathe and hard to think about anything but what Ruth might have felt in this room.
Millie immediately went to the window and rested her hand on the white sill. The glass was foggy, but she stared through the panels like she could see forever.
“She loved being here.”
“What’s not to love?”
Looking up and focusing her eyes on the present, she smiled. The makeup she’d worn earlier that night was gone, and in its place was the natural glow of her cheeks. “Good point.”
Maybe it was the smooth line of her cheek or the way she wrinkled her nose or the way she was lost in the past, but he took a step forward. Then another. Until the space between them vanished.
Something had knotted in his chest, and it refused to let go. Especially when she tilted her head and stared back at him with narrowed eyes. Could she see right through him?
He didn’t have even a second to answer that question before she slid around him, strolling across the room. “Let’s find out if she stashed that other journal in here.”
If it was possible, he was both relieved and disappointed that whatever might have happened didn’t. But he refused to focus on it, instead pulling out his knife and setting to work on the grate in the corner.
Unlike the maids’ rooms, this one had a closet, and Millie stepped into it. “Ouch!”
“You okay in there?”
She poked her head out, holding up a finger in front of her face. “Splinter. I’ll survive.”
“Glad to hear it.”
The screws in the grate came out without much effort. They twisted with ease, and he almost didn’t even need to use his knife.
Because maybe they had been replaced by someone using her fingers?
The thought made his heart stop, then slam back into his breastbone. It could be in here. It was in here.
He almost called Millie over to see, but something made him stop. He should find it first. Definitive proof and all that.
Pulling the grate out, he shined the light on his phone into the darkness, giving it a few quick swipes. All was black. Empty.
His stomach sank and he leaned his head into the corner.
Lord, are we even supposed to find this journal? This treasure?
Still hovering somewhere near his toes, his stomach gave a lurch, and he pressed his hand over his eyes as regret washed over him. This was the first time since he’d met Millie that he’d stopped to talk to God about this. Any of it. Of course, it shouldn’t have been. But knowing what he should do and actually doing it were two very different things.
Why hadn’t he spent every day since he’d met Millie asking God for direction and clarity and wisdom? Maybe then he wouldn’t have ended up with a partner who traded in half-truths and was far too pretty for him to ignore.
“Well, the closet’s empty. You find anything?”
He shook his head as he lifted the grate back into place. “Empty. Is your finger okay?”
“Yes. Just a loose baseboard.” Her voice stopped suddenly, and he launched himself across the room before he even knew what he was hoping for. Millie had fallen to her knees, her fingers pinching the pale wooden baseboard. It was only about three inches tall, but there was a definite movement to it. Even more, there were notches in the top of the board, as though someone had wedged a screwdriver or other tool between it and the wall.
“Here. Let me help.” He dropped to her side and used the blade on his Swiss Army knife to lever the board away from the wall.
Suddenly Millie’s fingers vanished and were replaced by the bright flashlight of her phone. “Is that better?”
He nodded just as the board popped loose. They both gasped, and Millie angled her light into the darkness beyond.
Ben stretched out across the floor of the closet, his legs reaching into the bedroom. Pressing his head against the floor, he tried to see into the hole they’d discovered. But it was mostly cobwebs.
He shivered. “I think the spiders beat us to it.”
She gasped and jumped back, the light flickering. “Are they still in there?”
“I’m doing my best not to think about it.” He closed his eyes and reached into the opening. It wasn’t much wider than his hand. Not much deeper either. But suddenly his finger brushed something.
He couldn’t help the yelp that escaped as he jerked back, his hand caked with spiderwebs. Pressing the baseboard back into place, he hoped the spiders would stay behind it.
“What? What is it?” Millie shined her light on his outstretched arm and the gossamer threads clinging to his skin.
He pinched a yellow piece of paper between his fingers.
Millie sucked in an audible rush of air, and his jaw hung slack. “Read it,” she whispered.
He wanted to take the moment to point out that she wasn’t reaching for the spiderweb-covered clue. But this wasn’t the time. This was the time to find the next step.
With his clean hand, he plucked the scrap of paper from its sticky prison and turned it over. Before he could even make out the faded script, Millie leaned over his shoulder and read it herself.
“‘I’ve found a better hiding place. R.’”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Um . . .” Her eyes shifted back and forth, reading and rereading. “It’s probably . . .”
Ignoring the long thread hanging from the end of his shirt sleeve, she hovered over his arm.
The note had been written in pencil and the charcoal had faded, now barely distinguishable from the yellowed paper. But the words were all there. Just as Millie had spoken them.
“Well, there was definitely something hidden here.”
She nodded. Then she swallowed so loudly that he could hear it. “You don’t think . . . Was she hiding the . . .”
“The treasure? No way.”
Her eyes glimmered with something resembling hope, but doubt seeped in like a shroud.
“Why would she leave a note telling someone that she’d moved a stolen treasure? If you think someone knows where it is, then you move it. If someone had suspected her and searched the room, this note would have been evidence against her. No way would she have risked that.”
Millie let out a low sigh. “You’re right. But then what—” She bit her lip. “The journal. Someone was reading her journal.”
Millie expressed no question about it, and he had a hunch she was right.
“But who?” she asked.
“If she hasn’t said anything in her journal . . .” He dragged out the words, wishing she’d say there had been some clue, but with a quick shake of her head, she dashed his hopes. “Then we have to get more details—from someone who was there. Or at least the next best thing.”
“But no one who was there is still—”
He knew the moment she realized what he was suggesting. Her eyes flashed and she opened her mouth, but no sound came out. A quick jerk of her head in a decidedly negative direction was all she needed to communicate.
He narrowed his gaze directly to hers. Her sapphire eyes turned to ice, and she crossed her arms over her chest.
“No.”
He hadn’t even asked a question yet. But she was as smart as she was pretty, and she could probably read his mind.
“We need to know what she does. You know we do.”
Her lips puckered, but her gaze never wavered. “We can�
�t. It’s not . . . it’s not as easy as all that.”
“Right.” What had Millie called her grandma before? Forgetful? “She might not remember?”
Millie’s lashes dropped to her cheeks as her gaze dropped. Her hands shifted from fists under her arms to embrace herself.
A sudden urge to pull her into his own arms washed over him. He wasn’t a hugger. His mom hadn’t been. Neither had the parade of men who came and went. He didn’t really know how to be. But when Millie released a pained hiccup that sounded far too much like a sob, Ben couldn’t remain still. Grabbing her shoulder with his free hand, he did what his instincts said he should. He pulled her to his chest.
She was stiff as a board for a long moment as he clumsily crossed his untainted arm over her back. Suddenly she let out a breath with a loud whoosh, and her arms went around his waist. Tight.
Tucking her head under his chin, she pressed her face into his shirt. Her breath was warm through the cotton, and his skin erupted in goose bumps under the contrasting air-conditioning. Yes, it was definitely the AC that made his whole body feel like he was on high alert.
The cedar smell that had clung to the inside of the closet faded, and she was all sweet citrus and warmth in his arms. She melted like chocolate in the sun, and he could do nothing but hold on and pray she didn’t slip through his fingers.
“Millie?”
She sniffled, and he had never been so grateful that he couldn’t see her face and the tears he could feel through his shirt.
Say something. Say something. Say something.
But the mantra did nothing to bring comforting words to mind as the truth seeped through him. Its icy fingers wrapped around his spine until he shivered. Only one word repeated through his mind. Alzheimer’s.
“Is she . . . worse than forgetful?”
She didn’t say anything. Her body trembled like she was trying to regain her solid state, which came in fits and starts. With her backbone back in place, she shook her head fiercely. Then she stopped. And nodded.
He waited a brief moment to make sure that was her final answer, and it wasn’t until she wheezed against him that he realized how hard he’d been squeezing. Quickly relaxing his hold, he thought about dropping his arm. But she wasn’t ready for that. He could feel it in her arms still around his waist.
When it became clear that she wasn’t going to add any more to her response, he asked another question. “How much worse?”
“Much.” Millie sounded like a bullfrog, but no amount of clearing her throat was enough. “It’s been diagnosed as dementia.”
“Alzheimer’s?”
Her head wiggled against his chest in a decidedly negative motion. “The doctors say it’s only dementia. She doesn’t have the other symptoms associated with Alzheimer’s.” Her breath was audible, and she cleared her throat again. “But she can’t take care of herself anymore. She forgets things she’s known her whole life.”
Millie held her breath for a quick second before letting it out in a quick rush. “But she was lucid when she told me about the treasure. I promise. Otherwise she wouldn’t have known about—”
“The journal,” he finished for her.
She nodded but didn’t pull back just yet. She probably didn’t want to watch him process this particular kick in the pants. He didn’t blame her. But he was surprised at how little it actually affected him. They were right where they had been ten minutes before. Nothing had changed, and at least some of Grandma Joy’s story had been true.
He wouldn’t back out now.
Maybe he should pat Millie’s back and promise that it would all be okay. But that was a lie. It was probably going to get worse. A whole lot worse.
At least now he knew what secrets she’d been keeping and why she was after the money. Caring for Grandma Joy would cost a pirate’s treasure. Whatever gold the Chateau held might only make a dent. But at least it was a dent.
“Does she live with you?”
“No. I had to . . . I just couldn’t watch out for her like she needed. I had to move her into a care facility.” She looked away, finally dropping her arms and trying to pull away.
But he kept her close for another moment, rubbing a gentle circle on her back. It was awkward but the only thing he could think to do in the face of her regrets.
When she pulled fully free, her hands folded in front of her and her chin hanging low, she looked about fifteen years old, buckled by the weight of decisions she wasn’t ready to make and responsibility that shouldn’t have been hers. He wanted to ask about her parents. He wanted to know why she’d had to be the one to decide to put Grandma Joy into a home.
There were so many questions, but only one thing he knew to say. “Let’s go see her.”
She looked up, a furrow already worming its way between her eyebrows.
“Together.”
ten
Millie cringed as Ben pulled his rattling coupe into the long drive. A faded blue sign at the beginning of the lane claimed this was the Golden Isles Assisted Living Home, but there wasn’t anything golden about it as far as she could see. At first glance the row of oaks adorned in Spanish moss seemed a regal welcome, an invitation to visit one of the South’s most luxurious plantation homes. And maybe once upon a time it had been. Before the war. Before Reconstruction.
Now it just looked like no one had bothered to bring a hammer to it since. White paint flaked off the two-story columns before twin oak doors that hung at wrong angles, and the red bricks of the front wall had been bleached by years in the hot summer sun.
But Ben didn’t seem to notice. He continued to drive in silence, taking the rutted gravel road with its due reverence. That gave her plenty of time to second-guess this plan. It was a terrible one.
Grandma Joy didn’t do well with new people. When a new nurse was assigned to her wing, Grandma Joy had screamed through half the night, calling for Grandpa Zeke. But he had been gone for nearly ten years.
Millie shuddered now with the same trepidation she’d had when her phone had rung at two that morning, insistent and nearly as loud as her thundering heart as she raced for the home. It had taken an hour of sitting with Grandma Joy, squeezing her hand and whispering in her ear, to calm the frightened woman down. Nothing worked until she sang Grandma Joy’s favorite hymn. No instruments and barely a tune. But the words seeped through a consciousness clouded by time and disease.
When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll,
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.
Millie had spent the night with her, sleeping in the recliner by her bed, always an arm’s reach away. But while the words two generations older than Grandma Joy had held a comfort for her, Millie couldn’t muster much hope in them.
Whatever my lot . . .
She didn’t know what kind of lot the guy who wrote that song had had. Maybe he did have sorrows. Shoot, maybe he was on a ship in the middle of a storm and praying he didn’t fall out. Maybe he was in full-on Job mode.
But one thing was for sure. He hadn’t had to send his grandmother to a care facility. He hadn’t counted every nickel of every tip, simultaneously hoping it would be enough to pay for another month and feeling shame over having to send her there at all. He hadn’t driven down this road, his insides a knot because seeing Grandma Joy was both the best thing in his life and a reminder of his worst failing. He’d never lain awake at night wondering where his grandma would go when Virginia Baker kicked her out. He’d never felt the days ticking by like the clock on a bomb and known that whatever he did probably wouldn’t be enough to care for the person he loved most in the world.
Maybe he’d learned to be happy with whatever his lot was. But he hadn’t been the granddaughter of the most wonderful grandmother in the world.
Ben kept his gaze straight ahead as he pulled into one of seven empty spots in the ten-car parking area. When he spoke, it was clear he
’d noticed something was going on.
“Have you changed your mind?”
Yes.
No.
“I’m not sure.” She pinched her lips together, crossed her arms over her stomach, and then uncrossed them just as fast.
“What’s worrying you?”
Her laugh was more of a huff of disbelief. “What’s not?”
He cracked a smile, turning toward her. His knees banged against the steering wheel, his legs too long for the little car. Readjusting his position, he pressed his hand to her forearm. “We’re on the same team, right? We agreed from the beginning. We’d do this together.”
She nodded slowly, knowing where he was going with this and at the same time needing him to spell it out.
“We’re looking for something that could change both of our lives, and maybe your grandma can help us find it. But we would never do anything to hurt her. Right?”
She nodded, the rope around her chest loosening its hold.
“If today’s not a good day, then we’ll wait until there is one.”
That rope slipped a little lower. If Grandma Joy wasn’t up for meeting someone new today, they could wait until tomorrow or the next day, but time was running out. She had to move in six weeks.
She gazed at him for several long seconds, staring into his eyes, reading his face, searching for the truth. And it was in there. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes told her what she needed to know. She could trust him. Even with this.
Then why can’t you trust him with the truth?
The question barreled through her, and she had to look down for fear that he’d see it scribbled across her features.
With a quick nod, she opened the car door. “We can only try.”
As they walked up the front stone steps, Ben put his hand on the rail and it wobbled wildly. “Guess this old home could use a few new nails.”
He’d clearly tried to make a joke, but Millie cringed. “I mean, it wasn’t the best, but it was the one . . .”
She could afford.
