But then Niks had called her friend, and Aubrie had cleared the bar out for the night - meaning only Cam and Sebastian, Remi and Hart, and Niks, David, and Aubrie were left.
She’d told them she was tired, then snuck into Aubrie’s office through the back door. She knew they’d never tell her the truth. But she was sick and tired of being protected. She loved them as much as they loved her, she should be able to know the truth.
Whatever it was.
She’d been standing there, behind the open door, watching them through the crack like she used to spy on Remi when they were little.
Niks’ friend was supposed to be a psychic. She introduced him to everyone as Lucas. He’d been quiet too, but not like she was—this was more—ethereal. He said he sometimes knew things that he didn’t have any other way of knowing. Then he’d gone around the room, said something to each person there. In each case their faces made clear that he was right, he knew things he couldn’t have known.
Then he’d looked at the photo of the dagger and told them that the inscription carved into the blade was in some kind of magic language. One they’d need a witch to read. A witch! How crazy was that?
Jami had snuck out the back, waited for everyone to leave, for Aubrie to settle down on the sofa in the office. She’d crept back in the front door, her German shepherd Ghost not making a sound when she entered. She’d gone through the papers on the table and found the section of notes she was looking for, then kissed Ghost on the nose and slipped back out.
“Miss?”
Jami looked up, startled. “Yes?”
“Did you want a beverage before the meal is served? Champagne, coffee, something else?”
She started to shake her head no, then firmed her lips. She pried her fingers apart and smoothed the blanket over her lap. She would never make any progress if she didn’t start changing the way she made decisions. “Wait. Um, actually, yes. I…I’d like a glass of champagne please.”
“Celebrating something wonderful, I hope?” The older woman selected a glass and set it on the tray that Jami flipped out from the arm of the chair.
“A new beginning. I hope.”
She smiled at Jami before she moved on to the next row, and Jami took a sip of champagne as the plane’s engines revved for take-off.
JAMI WOKE at the sound of an announcement over the intercom and stretched. She’d paid for a first-class seat, something she’d never done before. Since she had booked the flight at the last minute, it was the last seat available, but also she’d wanted to push it, do something new - so she’d booked it anyway.
She sat up, adjusted her seat to the upright position and went to the lavatory to freshen up. On her way back to her seat, a man sitting near the front of the first-class section smiled at her as she passed by. She knew a normal woman would have smiled back, but she wasn’t ready for that yet. Baby steps.
She averted her gaze and continued to her seat, spending a few minutes tidying up her space. She handed the last of her trash over as the flight attendant made one last check on her before landing and did her best not to think about the call she would have to make on the layover in London.
An hour later, she was seated in the lounge, a plate of pasta getting cold in front of her while she stared at her cell phone. It taunted her from the glossy surface of the table, a tiny red circle with the number three sitting inside it, balancing on the corner of her voicemail icon. A matching number four in the next icon over indicated she also had plenty of text messages.
A man startled her by leaning over the other side of the table, gesturing to the chair opposite her. “May I?”
Jami’s throat tightened. “Um, no, sorry, I—”
“No problem, there are a few seats on the other side. But hey, let me give you some advice…” He tipped his head to the phone she was staring at. “That thing won’t bite, but whatever you’re avoiding won’t go away either. Best to deal with it.”
With a friendly smile he moved on, and Jami picked up her phone. Flipping through the texts she shook her head, Remi was worried, as she knew she would be, and she also had a text from Aubrie.
Call your sister before she has a heart attack. Hope you’re OK, lil’ sis.
Jami bit her lip and read the transcripts of the voicemails. Yes, Remi was pissed. And worried. Ugh.
OK.
She tapped the speed dial icon for her sister’s cell and hit send.
“Jami? Hello?”
“Hey, Rem. I—”
She was interrupted by her sister’s frantic diatribe, and she let her go on for a few minutes, she knew she’d have to get it out of her system.
When she trailed off, Jami started again, “Look, I’m fine. I’m not going to tell you where I am.”
“What? What the hell, Jami? What’s the big deal, tell me where you are, so I don’t worry?”
“No.” She hated how shaky her voice sounded and she stopped, started again. “No. I said I’m fine. I’m twenty-seven years old. I have something I want to do. I’m going to do it.”
The silence told her Remi was shocked, she could understand that, she was still a little shocked herself.
“I’m good, really. I have plenty of money. The art I’ve been selling is doing well, and I never spend any money, anyway. I never do anything or go anywhere. So, now I am.”
“Honey, you know I’m not trying to keep you from doing things, right? I want to be sure you’re safe.”
“I know, and I love you for it. You’ve always been there, ever since—” She sat up, shook her head. “Anyway, I’m good, and I want to have a little break. I’ll call you every day, OK?”
“OK. But you won’t tell me where you are?”
“Nope. Not yet.”
“OK. I love you. Keep some of your money tucked away somewhere, separate from your purse, just in case. And make sure you leave an itinerary in your hotel room, just in case. And—”
“Remi, I’ve got to go. I love you too.”
“Oh…OK. Talk to you tomorrow.”
Jami hung up and exhaled, for what felt like the first time in forever. That hadn’t been too bad, actually. She wasn’t angry with Remi for being so protective. She realized that she couldn’t be mad at her for something she’d needed for a long time.
She was the youngest, by three years. She’d been six to Remi’s nine when their whole world had stopping turning for three days.
Three days in a cold, damp basement.
Drugs in their food.
He hadn’t hurt them, at least. Not really, not until he’d found out that Remi had managed to get hold of his cell, make a call. Then he’d flown into a rage, used the butt of his shotgun to smash Remi in the head.
God, she’d been so scared that he’d killed her sister, she felt the fine hairs on her arms raise at the memory. A memory that she’d only told her therapist that she had. For a long time she couldn’t remember—it was called traumatic memory loss. Remi had had it as well but had handled it so much better. So while most older sisters were yelling at their younger siblings to get out of their rooms, or stop following them around, or not to touch their things…Remi had been gentle, understanding, and protective. Jami’s memories had started to return a couple of years ago but hadn’t been able to talk to Remi about it. Another thing she’d have to bite the bullet about, she supposed.
Jami glanced at her cell phone. She was a list maker, an organizer. Helped her feel more in control. She opened her ‘to-do’ app and added an item to a list she’d started three days ago titled ‘Goals’. Talk to Remi about everything. She didn’t need the reminder, but this way it was on the list, she could check it off, and that would help.
She found her appetite and managed to enjoy the pasta even though it was cold. She checked her watch, realizing it was time to board her connecting flight. She gathered up her things, and when she passed the guy who’d stopped to chat earlier, she managed to shoot him a small smile on her way out of the lounge. Baby steps.
3
The hotel was modern, steel and chrome and marble mixed together in what was probably termed something like ‘modern Mediterranean’. Large vases of flowers where placed on almost every surface, and the windows were designed to take full advantage of the amazing view of the ocean visible from almost every side of the building. He stared the water longingly, wishing he had the time to focus on some serious day drinking at the beach. But that’s not what he was here for. He only had a week to get a story in and save his job, and he had an idea. Just an idea, for now.
Val signed the hotel agreement and accepted the key card, declined help with his bags, and headed for the elevator. A pretty woman in a long while floaty dress was standing near a man in linen slacks and a polo shirt, and she gave him an apprising glance as he approached. The man noticed and slipped his arm around her shoulder.
Val didn’t return her interest and even stepped aside to check his phone and let them take the next elevator alone. He was used to looks like that, and to that reaction from males as well, but he wasn’t here to cause trouble. He’d made a promise to himself, and to his mother, yesterday at the edge of her freshly filled in grave. He’d finish what she’d started and find out once and for all what had happened to his great-grandparents all those years ago.
Staring at the ocean twenty minutes later from the balcony off his hotel room, had him breathing in the salt air with renewed vigor. Moving inside, he set his camera bag on the small dining table in front of the sliding glass doors and sorted through it, removing the lenses he knew he wouldn’t need today.
He flipped open his small suitcase and pulled out a thick accordion folder wrapped with a string. He opened it up, and separated the contents into stacks, like his mother had had them on her desk. One slim pile of copies of newspaper articles that mentioned a pendant, some of them his mother had made notes on. This one is a bit of a stretch, and This could be something, need to track down author. Another stack for her notes on Greece, reports of the plane crash, of the searches that turned up nothing, of the storm that wound back up and cut rescue operations short.
He grabbed a couple of the photocopies of articles and, slipping the slim file folder into a side pocket of his camera bag, he headed out to find answers. Time to get to work.
HE WANDERED down the narrow streets randomly, aiming for the ocean and knowing he’d get there eventually—this was an island, after all. His flight to the much smaller island of Kefalonia wasn’t scheduled until early tomorrow morning, so he had time. According to his mother’s research, the hotel that his grandparents were due to stay at back in 1936 wasn’t even around anymore. Not that the hotel would have any answers for him, after all, they’d never arrived.
He stopped at a café and sat at the outside bar, ordered a beer and used the salt and pepper shakers and the napkin dispenser to hold down the loose papers against the breeze as he opened his folder. He fingered the worn edges, his mother had been researching for years and had discovered that her grandparents, history professors, had been vacationing in Spain when they toured an old monastery. Alan and Sarah recognized a pendant Sarah’s mother had given her, which she wore every day, in a painting of a Spanish princess. Shocked at the possibility that she was in possession of a piece of jewelry belonging to the Spanish royal family, they stayed in Spain a few extra days to research the piece.
Hitting a dead end with their investigation, they continued on their planned itinerary and flew to Greece. Their plane crashed near the island of Kefalonia, with no survivors. The wreck was never recovered. Their daughter Claire, Val’s grandmother, was raised by his great aunt and had a daughter herself, named Paige. Paige would grow up to be a stunning beauty, acting for a few years before turning to writing screenplays and novels. She fell prey to the charms of a handsome rake, and after having Val, she left him to his beloved drink, taking her son to raise him on her own.
He’d buried his mother less than a week ago. This folder had been on her desk at the house, all by itself, as if she’d been meaning to get right back to it after that last trip to the store. Val had asked his boss at the LA Times for a break, some time to mourn, and Leslie was willing to let him go but had to warn him.
“Look, Val, I hate to pry…”
“Then don’t,” he’d responded shortly.
“Look, I’m trying to help.” The petite woman with close cropped black hair got to the point, as she usually did, in short order. “Jackson’s had it with you screwing around with Anna. Now you’ve finally finished with her, or whatever—” she dismissed the break-up with the owners' daughter, “—he’s made it clear that you need to bring us a great story. Something really good, Val—or he’s going to get rid of you. He’s not going to take one more excuse for your behavior, not after this. He’s a practical guy—I assume that’s why he hasn’t come after you with a gun—but this was the last straw.” She stood and paused at the entrance to his cubicle.
“So…take a couple of weeks but start thinking about your next story. Or your next job.”
Val had been pissed, had driven home too fast—and found himself at his mother’s condo instead of his place. Wandering around, drifting fingertips over pictures of his beautiful mother laughing, holding him as a child…then he’d found this folder on her desk. His mother had been more and more convinced as she progressed through her research that the pendant had been cursed, whatever that meant, and that it had brought her grandparents to their death. As crazy as that sounded, Val was determined to find answers. For her.
So here he was. First step—finding the crash site. Technology these days was so much more advanced, he was sure he could do it. And, as a certified scuba diver he’d arranged for a boat with all the necessary equipment so he could hunt for the wreck himself. If he could find the plane, he would finally know for sure where his great-grandparents had ended up—hell, maybe he could even find the necklace.c
Val asked the bartender if he spoke English, and the twenty-something grinned at him and came back with an almost perfect British accent, “Yes, of course. What can I get you?”
“Well, I’m just here for a day, flying out for Kefalonia tomorrow, and I was hoping to speak to some of the locals about the hurricane in February 1936. Do you know of anyone still around who might agree to speak to me?”
The young man’s brows drew together as he thought for a moment. “I don’t know, that was a long time ago.” He excused himself to help a couple on the other side of the bar, then came back. “Why do you need to know about the storm? I’ve heard stories about how bad it was, fourteen people were killed here on the mainland, from what I recall. Massive flooding, it was a mess.”
“Well, my great-grandparents were flying in from Spain and met that storm head-on. The plane crashed, near Kefalonia, as far as I can tell. I’ll be out there tomorrow, as I said, but if you know of anyone that might be able to talk to me, I’d really appreciate it.”
Kostas’s dark eyes ran over Val for a moment, seeming to assess him, trying to figure him out. “Well, my grandfather used to talk about that storm. He passed away last year, but he was eleven or twelve at the time. I’m sorry I don’t remember much of what he said, but … you know…”
Val straightened; this was sounding promising…
“I’m pretty sure I remember my mother talking about packing up his things and finding journals he used to write in as a kid. He was an artist, you see, and when he was younger, he’d make notes and draw little sketches…I remember once he told me a whole bedtime story by drawing it for me, it was amazing.” He shook his head as if to clear it of the bittersweet memory. “Anyway, I can a
sk my mother to look for them, if you like? She’s working early tomorrow so it won’t be fast.” He wouldn’t have them in time for the story, but he wanted them anyway. He knew she would have wanted them.
“Hey, I’d appreciate anything you could do. If you ship them to me, I’ll have them translated and scanned, and the originals boxed up and archived so they won’t deteriorate. I’ll have them shipped back to you, as well as the scanned versions.” He dug in his pocket.
“Here’s my card. You can have them shipped to this address, at my office.”
Kostas took the card and agreed that as long as it was OK with his mother, he’d do it.
Val spent another hour at the bar before he packed up his notes, tipped generously, and took out his camera. Slinging the bag over his shoulder he nodded to Kostas and began wandering, letting his feet take him wherever. This had always been how he’d found his best shots, his best leads. It was a unique combo in this day and age, a photographer and a writer. Not really a reporter, he was more of a features guy, op ed’s, in-depth profiles, that kind of thing. He was leaning more and more towards shooting though, lately. He realized that the deeper he dug, the more he didn’t like what he was finding in people these days. But a photo, that was another story. You could get a great shot without ever speaking to someone, if you were lucky. Could make up anything you wanted about them afterwards. No way to get disappointed if you didn’t go past the surface.
He ended up on a quiet residential street with white-washed wall and roofs the color of a peachy rosé. Window boxes dripped with lavender and rosemary, and cats lazed on balconies, their tails melting over the edges, languid in the heat. Heading back toward the water, he managed to get a few great shots of an older woman pushing a tiny cart with groceries towards an apartment building. She smiled at him, nodding as she crossed the street. He snapped a few more shots then raced to catch up with her. He spoke absolutely no Greek but managed to make his offer to help her clear. She spoke rapidly the entire time he hauled the little cart into the building and up the stairs for her, and by the time he left her at her door—on the sixth floor—she was beaming. Leaving under a shower of what he assumed were thank you’s, he smiled as he made his way back down.
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