by Liz Johnson
“We have the money for a nicer place. Why not let me move in there?”
Giving her soup another stir, Millie shook her head. “We don’t have the money.”
“Sure we do. What about the money from the sale of the house? It sold for better than we asked.” Grandma sounded so certain that it stabbed Millie through the chest. She leaned against the counter just to keep herself upright.
Taking a deep breath, she reiterated her personal decision. If she was willing to lie to Grandma Joy, she’d lie to anyone. So she wasn’t going to start here. It wasn’t an option even to stretch the truth. So she took a deep breath and said the most honest thing she could. “That money’s gone.”
“Well, what happened to it? We just had it.”
Millie nearly choked on the lump in her throat. It had all happened before the diagnosis. Before they knew why her memory failed so often. Before Millie had been the responsible one.
She should have stepped in sooner. She should have stopped her. She should have stopped it all. But she hadn’t.
“You invested it.”
Grandma Joy rubbed her head, as though trying to conjure the memory gave her a raging migraine. “Invested it? Of course not. I would never put my money in the stock market. My mama taught me better than that.”
Tears pricked at the corners of Millie’s eyes, and she had to keep her back to Grandma Joy. She made a couple listless motions with the wooden spoon in the pan, but even the bright orange carrots bobbing in the broth faded from view. “I’m sorry, Grandma, but you did. You gave it all to Aspire Investments.”
As her grandmother muttered that it couldn’t be true, Millie could still see the computer screen in her mind, her grandma’s savings account showing a giant zero. She could imagine the face of the person willing to target the older generations. He looked a whole lot like Captain Hook from Peter Pan, all sinister, twirly mustache. Or that really terrible child catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Or Honest John from Pinocchio.
Probably the latter. Grandma Joy would have taken note of twirling mustaches. She never would have trusted someone like that. But someone came to her, promising to be her friend. Promising to help her double the money from the sale of her house. Promising that Millie would be taken care of for a very long time.
And Grandma Joy had written a check and handed it over.
This wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation, rehashed the past. It probably wouldn’t be the last. But somehow this hurt more than it should. For Grandma Joy the truth was new information. For Millie it was a frequent and searing reminder that she’d failed to protect the person she owed everything to. It was a push that she needed to find that treasure. It was a confirmation that she needed to find evidence of exactly who her great-grandfather really was.
Please, Lord, let it be Claude Devereaux. The prayer popped to mind before she could even form it.
Truthfully, those were the only prayers happening these days. Between two jobs, Grandma Joy, a treasure, and a man who kept coming to mind even when he shouldn’t, it wasn’t easy to think about praying. It was even harder to go to church.
If Grandma Joy knew that, she’d threaten to take a switch to her. Of course, such words had only ever been threats. Millie knew the heart behind them had always been love. Even now—especially now—Grandma Joy wanted her to be safe and loved and to know God loved her. And Millie did.
She did.
Mostly.
But when that piercing pain through her middle reminded her that God had allowed all of it—the dementia, the huckster, the barely making it from paycheck to paycheck—it wasn’t always easy to feel that she was loved. Feeling and knowing were two different things.
Great-Grandma Ruth’s mama had said that feelings were foolishness. But sometimes they felt like more. Sometimes they felt like a stone sitting on her chest, crushing the air from her lungs and making her wish . . . well, she wasn’t sure exactly. What did one wish for when she longed for a different life but the same family? She didn’t want her parents back or to be someone else’s kid. She didn’t want to grow up with a silver spoon in her mouth. She didn’t want an easy life.
She just wanted to be able to say that all was well with her soul. She just wanted to have her grandma—the wise, witty, wonderful woman who raised her—back.
But that was never going to happen.
fifteen
Millie read the last four pages of the hardback in her hands one more time. She’d long since had to crack the door of her car open or suffocate in the direct line of the sun. But she needed this. Just a moment with her book. Just a moment with Genevieve and Sir Robert, who had overcome everything to be together. There had been a war and an evil stepfather, and Sir Robert, who was terrified of the water, even swam across a moat to rescue his beloved Gennie.
Sappy? Terribly.
Did she care? Not even a little bit.
This escape was what she had. And she’d cling to it for as long as it made butterflies swoop in her stomach and love feel like it was within arm’s reach. Maybe she’d have to stretch, but all was not lost.
As Sir Robert pulled Gennie into his arms for one final kiss, the image of him in her mind morphed. She had never pictured him as a Fabio knockoff—more like that NFL quarterback who was way too good-looking for his own good, the one in all of those commercials. That was the face of Sir Robert when she’d read this book the first and second time.
But this time he looked different. His hair was shorter, cropped close over his ears but longer in front, a few curls just evident. His eyes were so blue that they rivaled Georgia’s summer sky. His chin wasn’t square but pointed. And his grin—it was both wry and crooked.
She knew that face. And Ben had absolutely no business showing up in her mind when she was reading about a medieval knight. The two had nothing in common.
Except for brilliant smiles, expressive eyes, and a forgiving heart. There was that.
She tried to keep reading, but suddenly Gennie didn’t look a bit like the fierce maiden on the cover. She looked a whole lot like the image Millie saw when she looked in the mirror. And when Sir Robert swept Gennie into his arms . . . well, suddenly Millie was the one being swept away. By Ben. Her Ben.
Nope. Not hers. Not at all. Not even a little bit.
Be quiet.
She much preferred to be the one telling the voice in her head to pipe down. And she wasn’t comfortable with this shift at all. Not when she was being practical, logical even.
Except there had been that moment, the night of the jumper at the Chateau. It had felt like maybe there was a little something between them. It didn’t have a name. It wasn’t defined. But it was definitely something.
Told you.
She slammed the book in her lap closed and swiped the back of her hand across her forehead. She needed to drop these books off inside, and with them any reminder that Ben might have played the role of the hero.
Sliding out from behind the steering wheel, she gathered her books to her chest. There were eleven of them in all, and she was halfway across the library parking lot before she began to question the wisdom of this idea.
A gust of wind picked up the front flap of a paperback. It teetered precariously, so she tried to balance her chin on it but only managed to wrinkle the title page.
The hardbacks on the bottom began to slip in her damp palms, and every step bumped them further and further from a secure grasp. She was still at least twenty yards from the library’s sliding glass doors, and a quick glance over her shoulder showed that she’d come just as far. There was nothing to do but press on, even as the wind picked up.
Stumbling up a curb, she nearly lost all the books and wondered if she should have just let them go. Then she took another step, and pain shot through her ankle, stabbing like a fire poker fresh from the coals. Her leg buckled and she began to go down. Trying to aim for the grass, she braced herself for the fall.
Suddenly two arms scooped her up from behin
d. Wrapping big hands under her elbows and around the books clutched to her, he pulled her back against his chest.
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Millie Sullivan, falling all over herself to see me outside of work.”
That voice. It was Sir Robert’s. Or rather Ben’s. How quickly they’d become interchangeable.
“I was not.” She tried to straighten away from him to hold herself erect, but the second she put an ounce of weight on her foot, her ankle screamed at her, and she sank back against him. So solid. So firm.
His arms squeezed tight with no indication he was going to let her go again. “You okay?”
“I guess I twisted my ankle. I’ll be fine.” She rotated it to show that she was all right, but he gave her a doubtful look when she grimaced halfway through.
“Let me give you a hand.”
Like Sir Robert gave Gennie, which led to her falling into his arms and being thoroughly kissed?
Yes, please.
Oh, shut up.
“I’m good. Really.”
He didn’t say a thing. Instead he scooped her books from her hands and stuck out his elbow. Giving her a pointed look and a nod toward his extended arm, he waited.
Grandma Joy would say it was rude not to take a gentleman’s arm when it was offered. Sliding her hand into the crook, she leaned on him with every step, each one like fire in her shoe.
“I think Carl has an ice pack in the freezer in the office.”
“I’ll be fine. Really.” She cringed again, and he shook his head.
“You going to run around the Chateau in high heels tomorrow?”
She opened her mouth to argue with him, but the thought of having to walk in even her costume’s kitten heels made her consider lobbing off her whole leg. “All right. Some ice might be good.”
“Good. Now, how did you know I was working here today?”
“I didn’t. I came to return those.” As soon as she pointed out the stack of books in his arms, her insides gave a wild lurch. Which was entirely ridiculous. It wasn’t like he’d have any clue that she’d been picturing him in the pages of one of those sweet romance novels. Or worse, that she’d been picturing herself with him.
He nodded. “Anything good here?”
“No.” Maybe she’d said it too quickly. The rise of his eyebrows suggested that might be the case. She hurried on. “Just filling time until we find Ruth’s other diary.”
He didn’t say much as they entered the library. He simply deposited her books into the return slot and then led her through the library toward a back room. Brightly colored books filled every shelf, and the main room smelled of paper and ink and glue, the sweetest scents in the world.
The back wall contained a row of glass doors, which led to individual study rooms. Millie had never been this far inside. The fiction titles were housed up front, and she’d never needed to dig deeper. But Ben knew where he was going, and he didn’t seem to mind that she leaned heavily on him across the patchwork carpet.
Past three rows of tables—all packed with kids at their laptops, earbuds firmly embedded—a single door said Archivist. Ben pushed it open, then helped her through. “Carl, this is my friend Millie.”
“Friend?” He waggled his bushy eyebrows and patted the top of his balding head, smoothing what little hair remained.
What was with people of a certain age trying to set them up? First Grandma Joy and now Carl.
Ben was quick to the correction. “Just a friend. She’s the one I told you about. We found her great-grandmother’s diary.”
“Oh, that Millie.” Carl rushed forward, reaching out both of his hands to shake hers. “It’s quite nice to meet you. Sit. Sit.”
Ben quickly explained about her twisted ankle, and Carl shuffled off to a back room with promises of comfort to come.
“So, you’ve been talking about me?” She raised her eyebrows as she lowered herself into the rolling chair Ben pulled from a desk. It wasn’t until she fell onto the cushion that she realized there were actually two desks in the room—smallish metal ones. When she’d entered she’d focused mostly on the two large wooden worktables. Carl had been standing at one, yellowish papers scattered before him.
“Absolutely not. I mean, except for that time I asked if he knew anything about a treasure at the Chateau.”
Maybe it was the speed with which he’d offered his rebuttal, but something in his response suggested he might not be telling the whole truth. And butterflies doing a little dance in her stomach suggested that she quite liked the idea that he’d been speaking of her to his . . . well, Carl was sort of a friend.
Just as she was trying to formulate something to say in return, Carl bustled back into the room, his button-up shirt and gray sweater vest as rumpled as ever. As promised, he carried something wrapped in a towel. Rolling over another chair, he patted the seat. “Put your foot on up here, young lady.”
She nearly snorted. “Young lady?”
He tsked as she stretched her leg out, and then he set the cool compress on her ankle, which made her suddenly shiver all over. “Well now, you’re certainly younger than me, and I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt for that other descriptor.”
Laughter rolled out of her, clear and full and filled with pure joy. A deeper laugh joined hers, and she glanced at Ben just in time to catch him wiping his eyes as he bent low to catch his breath.
Between giggles, she managed to shoot back, “Do you always come to such rash conclusions, Carl?”
“’Course I do. When y’all get to be my age, you’ll see you don’t have time to waste on second-guessing.”
Ben crossed his arms as he perched on the edge of the nearby desk. “Carl’s a smart guy. He rarely gets it wrong.”
“Rarely?” she asked.
“Well, I wasn’t so sure about this guy when he first started.” Carl flippantly waved his hand in Ben’s general direction. “Had my doubts he’d be much use, what with his nose in a book nonstop.”
“I was working on my thesis.” Ben cleared his throat and shifted positions. “And I had a few things on my mind.”
There was a strange timbre to Ben’s voice. It wasn’t entirely different than usual, but there was a gravel to it, a coarseness. It made her sit up and take notice.
He’d said he’d been working at the library a couple of years. What had been going on in his life then? Something with his mother? She used her propped-up ankle to push herself higher, which of course sent fireworks up her leg and forced her to bite her lip in order to keep from squeaking in pain.
“Careful there,” Carl said, readjusting the ice pack on her leg.
She nodded, but her gaze held firm on Ben. She thought she’d been the one with all the secrets, but he hadn’t told her everything yet either. What exactly was he not telling her?
Carl kept her from asking. Her questions felt too personal to ask in front of someone she’d met exactly six minutes before. So she tucked them into her mind for later. Later she’d ask why he’d held back, even after she’d told him about Devereaux and the connection she hoped to find.
And after that—much later—she’d be honest with herself about why it mattered at all. Because one thing was certain. It did matter—maybe too much.
“So you’re the one with the diary.” Carl didn’t really ask it as a question, but Millie took the opportunity to confirm.
“It was my great-grandmother’s. She was a guest at the Chateau.”
“Mm-hmm.” Carl nodded and folded his hands in front of him. He took a couple sideways steps and then back again, but always he kept his eyes on her. “How’d she wrangle an invitation? It was supposed to be the best party in Georgia in those days. Wine and liquor, even though it was the height of Prohibition. Fancy dinners and fancy people. She ran in that set?”
“Not at all.” Millie glanced toward the ceiling, trying to remember the details she’d read from Ruth’s own pen. “She worked in a bank in Atlanta. She’d grown up on a farm, a small one. But h
er aunt was rich, and she paid for Ruth to go to school. She’s a beautiful writer. She must have learned that at the finishing school. Anyway, she met Ms. Lucille Globe at the bank.”
Carl whistled long and low, and she knew she didn’t need to explain who Lucille was.
“She invited Ruth and her friend Jane to spend the summer at the Chateau. So of course they went. I don’t think many people said no to Howard Dawkins. Or Lucille, for that matter.”
Carl chuckled and scratched his chin. “Could you imagine? That big white house lit up at night, filled with music and dancing. It must have been somethin’ else.”
“It still is.”
Carl jerked his head toward her, his eyes wide with surprise.
She shrugged. “I play the part six nights a week.”
“Of course you do.” He patted her shoulder and ambled back to his table, his gaze lost somewhere between the past and the present. “I almost forgot.” After pulling on white cotton gloves, he picked up the pages before him, alone in his world yet again.
Millie shot Ben a look, and he shrugged. Maybe this was normal behavior. But she couldn’t help but hope that a man who knew the Chateau and the area’s history better than anyone else might be able to help them find Ruth’s other journal. Although, why would he know more than Grandma Joy or even Millie? After all, she’d read the diary. She knew Ruth’s experiences. Well, she knew a couple months of them.
“Did you . . .” Millie wasn’t quite sure what she was asking and lost track of it when he didn’t look up. Stumbling to find the right words, she tried again. “Did you ever read about a Ruth Holiday at the Chateau?”
Carl didn’t look up. “No. Just the usuals.”
Ben grunted. “Usuals? The Chateau was only open for two summers.”
“Yes, but there was a crowd. A conglomerate of wealthy families—young men and women who ran around together. Dawkins was a bit of an outsider. He was a little older and never quite as well-known as the Rockefellers and the Vanderbilts. His was new money and therefore frowned upon by some of the old-money families. And his Lucille wasn’t like the other women in that circle. She was a stage actress who caught his eye, his heart, and apparently his wallet.”
