by Liz Johnson
A line from Ruth’s diary jumped to her mind, and she shook her head. “Ruth’s mama used to tell her that feelings were just feelings. Maybe it doesn’t matter what I feel. Especially if he doesn’t feel the same.”
Grandma Joy clucked like an old hen. “You’ve piled those excuses higher than cow patties. And that’s all they’re worth—a load of manure.”
“But—”
“You’re sure quick to give up on love for someone who reads so many romance novels. Don’t you believe in what you’re reading? Don’t you think that true love is patient and kind and it doesn’t hold a grudge? What kind of drivel is in those books you read if they’re not showing that kind of love? Real love isn’t love because it’s easy or always feels good. It’s love because you choose not to be self-serving.”
“But . . .” Her mouth flapped like a fish out of water.
“But what? You know I’m right, and you’ll never know what he’s thinking if you don’t return his phone calls.”
She glanced at her purse, which had vibrated at least three times since she arrived. “How do you know he’s been calling?”
“Because he’s followed you on a hunt with no promise of riches, except your time. Because I saw the way he looked at you on that first visit. Because he’s a good man who won’t let you run off without trying to win you back.” She pushed her rocker, setting off the squeaks. “He cares for you the way that George cared for Ruth. And I’d wager a week’s worth of pudding that you care for him too. And that you’d like to kiss him again.”
Millie dropped her gaze and pressed a hand to her neck, trying to cover the flames that were already rising toward her ears. How did her grandma know her so well?
“I’ll take that as a confirmation. Was it nice?”
Nice? A glass of milk was nice. A warm shower was nice. Finding a new pair of shoes at the thrift store was nice.
Ben’s kiss had been like fire and ice in one. It had been a choir of angels singing. It had been forget-everything-but-his-lips-on-hers fantastic.
And if she didn’t do something about it, she would never have another kiss from him. Ever.
There were things she could live without. Financial security. A two-bedroom home. A purse that had never been owned by someone else.
Ben was not one of those things.
Grandma Joy leaned over and cupped Millie’s face with her hands, her skin as smooth as butter. “He’s so much more than the mistakes he’s made. He knows he was wrong, and he’s a history professor.”
Millie’s eyebrows bunched together.
“Studying history is all about learning from our past so we don’t repeat mistakes in the future.” Grandma Joy leaned in until their foreheads nearly touched. “Ruth may have missed out on the love of her life because she didn’t tell him how she felt. Don’t make her mistake.”
Millie let out a dry chuckle devoid of any humor. It was true. If she didn’t learn from Ruth’s mistakes, she was bound to repeat them. And Ruth may have chosen love over money, but if she never told George, what good was it?
Millie might never know how it all ended.
Grandma Joy leaned back in her chair, picking up the old diary once again. She flipped through the pages, landing on the final letter to George. “Imagine missing out on true love by half a page. That’s all that connects this letter to the journal.”
Millie cringed. Imagine missing out on love because she held on to a grudge.
The thought made her stomach ache, and she doubled over as Grandma Joy studied the back cover of the diary.
“Well, I’ll be.”
Millie didn’t have the wherewithal to ask what had caught her grandma’s attention.
Suddenly Grandma Joy howled with delight. “Will you look at that?”
twenty-one
Millie clutched the folded pieces of paper in her hands, trying not to wrinkle them, but shaking so much she thought she might drop them if she wasn’t careful. She wasn’t sure if it was what she was holding that had her shaking or the man she hoped to find.
Well, actually, there was a good chunk of her hoping not to find him, even though she really needed to. If anyone could help her make sense of the diary’s biggest secret, it was Ben Thornton.
She was fully capable of asking for his help without throwing herself into his arms and begging him to kiss her again. Although that had worked well for Gennie and Sir Robert. Just when it had seemed that all hope was lost and her father would never allow them to find happiness together after Sir Robert swam across the moat, Gennie had climbed out of her bedroom window on a rope of bedsheets and run to the stables, where he was preparing his horse for a midnight ride. She’d flung her arms around him, buried her face in his chest, and whispered the words she’d been holding back for so long. “I love you, Robert. I always have.”
Not that Millie would say that to Ben. She wouldn’t. Not even anything remotely related to that. She would remain professional and poised. She’d ignore every moment that they’d shared and forget the gentle rasping of his whiskers against her skin or how he’d refused to leave her behind at the gazebo. Or the way he’d forgiven her when she’d been a little less than honest with him about her interest in the Devereaux family. Or the way he’d been so incredible with Grandma Joy.
Or the way his face had melted with heartbreak when he realized that Grandma Joy had suffered at his mother’s hand.
Tears began to pool at the corners of her eyes as she marched across the crisp green grass, and she rolled her eyes to keep them at bay. As she walked through the library’s sliding glass door, she took a deep breath. It didn’t help. Everything inside her was wound as tight as a spool of thread.
The librarian behind the front desk greeted her by name, but Millie could only wave in response. A lump was growing in the base of her throat, and it took everything inside her not to turn around and run. Because she didn’t know what she’d say to him. Because she wasn’t sure she could be in the same room with him. Because she was a big old chicken.
Only one thing kept her weaving through the stacks of books and refraining from disappearing between the rows of fiction titles. The name on the paper in her hand.
George Whitman.
She paused in front of the closed door at the back corner. Maybe Ben wouldn’t be here. Maybe he’d be teaching a class. But that wasn’t probable unless he’d changed his schedule in the last three days.
Or unless he was avoiding anywhere she might be looking for him.
It was possible but not likely, given the myriad of messages he’d left on her voicemail. Not that she’d listened to them. But the calls had come more frequently in the last day and a half, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d left a void in his chest half the size of the one he’d left in hers.
Raising a trembling hand, she formed a fist and knocked twice. The door swung open before she could strike it a third time.
Suddenly face-to-face with Ben, she took an unsteady step back. His eyes lit with something she couldn’t name, and a tentative smile spread across his lips. Oh, those lips. Full and pink and as firm as she remembered.
“Hi.” His voice sounded like it had gone through a meat grinder. “Did you get my message?”
“You mean, all seventeen of them?”
If he’d had any proclivity toward it, she was certain he would have blushed in that moment. But her cheeks burned instead.
“I got them.”
His entire face transformed from uncertainty to pure joy. “So you know!”
“Know what? I got them . . . but I didn’t listen to them.”
His eyebrows dipped low again, his voice holding her at bay as much as his arm that kept the door from fully opening. “Then why are you here?”
She shouldn’t have come. This was a terrible idea.
Oh, shut up.
No. She would not shut up. She’d let Grandma Joy talk her into coming to see him after her shift at the diner, still smelling of grease and syrup. She’d t
old herself some story about how they could go back to how it was before she’d known the truth.
But she wasn’t sure she could. Because when she saw him, she saw his mom. She saw the face of the woman with no heart and less conscience.
But that’s not Ben. You know it’s not.
As if he could hear her internal dialogue, his features softened again. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m so glad.” He swung the door open into the archivist room. “Carl’s at lunch. But we found something.”
She shouldn’t do it. This couldn’t end well.
You can trust him.
She took a step in, then leaned away. Finally she held up the paper in her hand, waving it at him. “I really only came to ask if you could help with this.”
Ben held out his hand. “I’ll try. What do you have?”
She lowered it onto his palm, keeping her hold on it for a long second.
Let go!
She released it with a sudden jerk, and he opened it up, his eyes scanning the page. With no choice but to follow him inside, she slipped in before the door could close her out.
“This is a property deed. And it belongs to George Whitman.”
“I know.” She stopped at that, but the silent I’m not an idiot was more than implied.
He looked up with a smile. “Of course. Where did you find it?”
“It was hidden in the back cover of Ruth’s diary. The second one.”
Ben snorted. “Why am I not surprised?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Millie wrapped her arms around her stomach. It was more of a settling hug than a barrier between them.
“I’ll tell you in a minute.” Ben plopped down in the chair in front of his computer. “Do you know where this plot is located?”
“That’s what I was hoping you could help me with. Do you have access to the county records that far back?”
He nodded, already clacking away at the keys. Suddenly a map appeared on his screen, the land divider a clean white line across a sea of green trees. It was a relatively small plot of land, especially compared to its northern neighbor. But Millie gasped all the same.
“Is that . . .” She pointed at a pale blue line that wiggled its way toward the clearly defined beach. “Is that the creek? The one by where we found the treasure? And that’s the . . .” Well, there was no use pointing it out, really. The giant white structure in the adjoining piece of land could only be the Chateau.
“Yep.”
“So George owned the land. That land. Where we found the treasure.” Her words weren’t making a whole lot of sense even to herself, and she leaned over his shoulder to get closer to the truth.
“He owned the property, all right. And if this is still accurate”—he waved his hand toward the screen—“it still belongs to his family. The treasure, even though it was on his land, probably still belongs to the family of the original owner. The sheriff’s office will track down Dawkins’s heirs and return the certificates and probably the jewelry too.”
Millie sagged against his desk, her heart thundering. She’d known that would be the case for the treasure, but it still didn’t explain one thing. “Then why did Ruth have it? She never told him how she felt, so why would he have given her the deed to a plot of land worth thousands?”
“Well, that’s not exactly right.”
Millie’s gaze snapped toward him, but she couldn’t find the words to formulate a complete question.
Ben pushed back his chair, and with a quick tilt of his head he invited her to follow him to the adjacent table. “I found something. I mean, really Carl did. But he thought it might help.”
“Help what?” As soon as they were out there, she wished she could reel her words back in. She knew what. But for a split second she’d forgotten. She’d forgotten that she had to remember that he was more than the worst thing he’d done.
He just was. He was more than the boy who hadn’t known how to turn in his mother. He was more than the son of the woman who had conned Grandma Joy. He was more than she’d given him credit for.
He was a child of God, created in his image. Infinitely lovable. And she did love him.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The words flew out of her mouth of their own accord, but she meant them from the very depths of her soul. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I shouldn’t have thrown the box at you and run away. I was shocked. I was hurt. It just all hit me at once, and I couldn’t see past my own past.”
Her breaths came in short gasps, and her cheeks were suddenly wet with tears. “I was heartbroken and I was scared—I am scared. I don’t know how I’m going to take care of my grandma, and I’ve blamed your mom for so long. Suddenly I had someone else to blame, and I hated it. Because—because—” She tossed her hands up in the air, fighting for the words she wanted to say and the ones she knew she couldn’t.
Just say it, you chicken.
Yes, she was a big chicken. So what?
So, are you going to make the same mistake Ruth made?
“Because I think I’m falling in love with you, and I don’t know how to do that and blame you too. I just want—”
She didn’t have time to tell him what she wanted because suddenly his hands cupped her cheeks and he pressed his lips to hers. Her stomach tanked, swooping low and fast, and she grabbed at his forearms to stay on her feet.
An electrical current raced down her spine, sweeter than syrup.
And then she was too far away from him. Grabbing his sides, she pulled him against her and wrapped her arms around his waist. He was trembling. Or maybe that was her. It was hard to tell this close, but somehow it didn’t matter.
His thumb brushed a tear off her cheek, its path warm and tender. “Sweet Millie. I’d do anything to make it right.” His words were little more than warm breath against her skin, his thumb dragging across the bottom of her lip. It built something inside her that she couldn’t name, something that burned and churned and begged for more. His gaze followed the same path, and it was more tangible than even his touch, setting her entire being on fire.
“I didn’t know how much I needed someone in my life until I met you.” He cleared his throat. “I was so used to doing it on my own, and then you showed up in my life, a means to an end. I thought the money might . . . I thought it would help me make up for my regrets. But then, all of a sudden, I couldn’t imagine my life without you. I didn’t realize just how empty it had been until I lost you. And now I have nothing to offer. Nothing to give. I can only beg for your mercy.”
Her lips trembled until she thought she’d never be able to respond, and even as she began, the words were uneven and stuttered. “Grandma Joy always said that those who have been shown mercy give mercy.”
His breath hitched, and suddenly his whole face swam before her.
“I forgive you, Ben Thornton. Will you forgive me?”
He tugged on her hand, pulling her into his side and wrapping one arm around her waist. “I’ll do you one better.”
“Always trying to one-up me, huh?”
He chuckled. “You’re going to like this one.”
“Better than that last kiss? Doubtful.”
He gave her a full belly laugh at that. “Okay, maybe it’s not that good. But it’s close.”
“I might need another example just to make sure.”
Leaning over, he obliged her. This one wasn’t quite as urgent, not quite as fierce. It was gentle and sweet and as tender as any touch she’d ever known. She could stay in his embrace for the rest of her life.
And she might have if Carl hadn’t barged in on them.
Millie jumped back, but Ben didn’t let her go completely, even though he couldn’t miss the flames licking up her neck.
“Ah, I see you told her then.”
Ben shook his head. “I was just about to get to it.”
“Get to what?”
Ben’s grin made her knees tremble. “We found a picture of your grandma.”
“Grandma Joy
?” She squinted at him, then at the newspaper clippings printed out and scattered across the worktable. “What do you mean?” She felt like an idiot but she couldn’t put any of these pieces together.
“Well, actually, we found a picture of Ruth—clearly pregnant—in The Herald.” Ben looked at Carl as though waiting for approval to continue, but Millie could only push at his chest.
“Was there an article? What did it say?”
“Her loving parents were enjoying a church picnic and eagerly awaiting the arrival of their baby.”
She gasped, searching for a full breath and knowing it wouldn’t come until he confirmed what she already knew somewhere deep within.
Ben rubbed his hand up and down the full length of her bare arm. “Her loving parents, George and Ruth Whitman.”
The tears didn’t bother with an introduction. They just poured out of her eyes, down her cheeks, and rolled off her chin. “They—” She hiccupped loudly, slapping a hand over her mouth. “They were married?”
“Carl was the one who found their wedding announcement. It was a small one in their local paper, but as soon as he had George’s last name, he was like a hound on a scent.”
She turned to the grizzled archivist and reached out to him with both hands. “Thank you. Thank you for finding my heritage.”
Carl tried to pull away, but she wouldn’t be denied a full hug.
“And he found a building permit request in the county archives,” Ben said. “George was going to build her a home on their property, a gift from Howard Dawkins.”
“The property.” She squeezed Carl again.
Ben swallowed audibly. “There was an obituary only a few weeks after the picnic. George died in a farming accident before he could build her that house, and Ruth remarried.”
“They were hard times,” Carl said. “It wasn’t unusual for a man and woman to marry because they simply needed a partner.”
“Henry.” She whispered the name, sending up a quick prayer of gratitude that he’d loved Ruth well and Joy as his own all those years. He might not have been the love of Ruth’s life, but at least she’d had a short time with George and a constant reminder of him in Joy’s smile.
