Treasure Me

by Christine Nolfi

  Something hard and defensive worked through the girl’s features. “The woman he ran around with while my mother was alive? I’ve never asked for the details. I didn’t have the stomach to hear them.” She pressed her hand on top of her father’s. “Dad, you didn’t actually think you saw her, did you?”

  “Well, I thought—”

  “What? That the woman who’d robbed you to the tune of six figures was back with open arms? She won’t dare come to Liberty! I’ll have her arrested, I’ll—”

  Theodora interrupted. “Girl, calm down! Lord above, didn’t I go into The Second Chance to check her out? Well, I did.”

  Clearly Meade’s patience was wearing thin. “And what did you find?” she asked.

  “She’s the new waitress Finney’s hired. Trust me, she isn’t the black-hearted witch who came between your parents.”

  “You’re sure she’s not that awful woman?”

  “Dang it, of course I am!”

  “Then why am I still worried? When my father was involved with… Theodora, did you know her?”

  “Can’t say I did. But she must be past fifty by now. The new waitress at The Second Chance, why, she’s young.”

  Meade’s lips tightened with distaste. “I’ve heard about her.”

  “She’s not half bad,” Theodora shot back, surprised by her ready defense.

  True, Birdie had the manners of a goat, strutting around in a waitress’s uniform so small it showed half her bosom and most of her butt. But she didn’t take much guff, which might explain why Theodora secretly admired her. Not to mention Birdie wasn’t the type to lure a man from his marriage bed. She wasn’t church-going folk, and the devil himself knew she enjoyed spitting hurtful words from her pretty mouth. Even so, Theodora could spot a decent soul from twenty paces.

  She didn’t like most people, but she was starting to like Birdie. The way the child listened to the stories of Justice Postell, with her eyes aglitter… why, if it wasn’t evidence of bone-deep goodness, what was?

  There was decency in the child even if she couldn’t recognize it in herself. No surprise there—people knew so little about themselves. Most people didn’t know themselves at all. And what to make of Birdie falling in love with the story of Justice, the story of a black woman who’d lived during awful times? Slave times, and the Civil War to boot.

  Theodora wasn’t sure what to make of the child at all.

  * * *

  For twenty minutes, Meade interrogated her father about his relationship with the Greyhart woman. Among other sordid facts, she was horrified to learn that by the time he’d reached forty-one—the age she was now—he’d already spent years living two parallel lives. In one life, he was the quiet and dignified investment banker. In the other, he was a man bewitched.

  By the time she’d finished her line of questioning, his pallid face wore a mask of tension. Mumbling about going upstairs to lie down, he left her standing before the bookshelves.

  When he’d gone, Theodora said, “Let him sleep for an hour, but no longer. It does no good for a man to hide beneath the covers with the new day risen.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Meade ran her fingers across the books on one of the shelves, the rippling touch of leather-covered spines a surprising comfort. Now that was a common interest her parents had enjoyed—rare books. They’d made a disaster of their marriage, but they had shared some pursuits.

  “Do you need a drink?” Theodora asked, moving to the bar.

  “I’m not sure.”

  With a harrumph, the old woman mixed a martini and grabbed a beer from the fridge.

  “I should thank you for intervening in all of this,” Meade said, taking the martini. “The night in the boathouse… it’s no wonder my father couldn’t explain. He dreaded my reaction.”

  “No man wants to discuss such matters with his daughter.”

  Meade returned to the couch. “You are sure she wasn’t the Greyhart woman?”

  “Of course!”

  “But you’ve never met Greyhart.” Meade knew she was fishing.

  “Never did.”

  The memory of her mother climbing into the skiff grew vivid. The argument they had on the pier was heated. Cat, always headstrong, climbed into the skiff to cut off the battle, but not before she’d handed over the packet of photos that altered Meade’s world forever.

  “I have some photographs of my father’s mistress that I managed not to burn or cut into pieces,” she said, willing a steadiness to her voice that didn’t sink into her bones. “You might want to look them over to be certain.”

  Theodora approached, her eyes narrowing. “Lordy! How did you come by pictures of the devil herself?”

  “On that day, right before Cat took the boat out on the lake, she handed me a large envelope. She was crying and slightly intoxicated, but she was determined to go. I was so upset, watching her steer toward the thunderclouds. I didn’t realize she’d given me an envelope of photographs.”

  “I’d like to see them someday.” The old battleaxe surprised Meade by sitting down beside her. Light snapped in Theodora’s dark eyes as she placed her glass of beer on the coffee table and cleared her throat. “Is there anything else you’re hankering to know?”

  Meade rubbed her thumb down the stem of her martini glass. Did Theodora know the specifics of the years-long affair? How peculiar that her father would share his secrets with anyone, much less Theodora. Maybe it was because they’d known each other for so long. Or perhaps compassion lurked beneath her crusty, short-tempered exterior.

  “I’m trying to understand why my father…” The words lodged in her throat. How to discuss something this awful? Perplexed, she took a sip of her drink.

  “Spit it out, missy.”

  A frisson of impatience leapt through Meade. She set her martini down. “Why did my father cheat on my mother for so many years? I can understand how a man stumbles into a one night stand. He’s out of town on business, he has too much to drink—Theodora, I can understand. What’s so difficult is why Dad continued. Didn’t he feel guilt? Remorse?”

  “He’s depressed, isn’t he?”

  “And my mother is dead.”

  “If your mother had taken better care of him, he would’ve ended the affair right quick.”

  “Now it’s her fault? My father was a liar and a cheat. He ran around on my mother for years. Given everything he’s done, he deserved to be brought low by a woman like the Greyhart bitch.”

  The outburst brought a low rumble from Theodora, a nearly imperceptible rasp. Her sparrow’s breast quivered with buckling fury. Age couldn’t diminish some people; frailty was a mere inconvenience to an overpowering personality. The lines carved into the sides of her mouth deepened and Meade drew back with alarm when their gazes locked.

  “You want the truth?” Theodora slapped her hand against her thigh. “Now, I don’t like speaking ill of the dead. Of course there was good in your mother—Cat drew rich folks to good causes like a buck drawing doe to the rut. Women’s shelters, the arts—I was proud to work on any foundation she chaired.”

  “You were involved with her philanthropy?”

  “Most of the time I was willing to oblige.”

  Cat’s association with Theodora made sense. Theodora struck a low profile in public, but she owned huge tracts of land in Jeffordsville County. The depths of her wealth went back generations. Any foundation would covet her as a benefactor.

  Meade looked at her squarely. “Are you saying you were friends with my mother?”

  Theodora drew a gnarled finger in lazy circles on the fabric of her dress. “I was your father’s friend. When he fell in love, I was happy for him. Cat was a young thing the first time we worked together—your parents were newlyweds. Not that anyone saw much of your father on the social circuit.”

  Unlike her mother, he hadn’t come from money. “The world she grew up in… he probably found it overwhelming.”

  “I’m sure he thought she was quit
e a catch. People loved Cat, loved the way she’d float down a staircase in her Tiffany jewels and sweet-smelling perfume.” Theodora frowned. “Your father, on the other hand, was a quiet man. He worked hard investing her inheritance and building a fortune in his own right while Cat, why, she had more than enough beaux to squire her around to the charity balls.”

  Beaux?

  A bitter taste bloomed in Meade’s throat. Had Cat also been unfaithful? So many secrets, and she didn’t have the stomach to hear the awful details. Yet she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “For the record, my mother was a great philanthropist. She did a lot of good in Ohio.”

  “Stop thinking with your heart! Those charities—do you think she cared a hoot about homeless women or the art museum? She worked the circuit for the men.”

  “Stop it.” Meade stumbled to her feet.

  “Cat, then the Greyhart woman—your father got himself bound up with two great performers. Each knew how to use him for her own gain.”

  “How dare you compare my mother to her! Greyhart’s a criminal. She took everything from my father. Everything.”

  “And your mother didn’t?” Theodora stared at her as placidly as a Sphinx. “Cat and Greyhart were both alley cats. Don’t you know they could’ve come from the same litter?”

  Chapter 12

  Praying the rubies were in the storeroom, Birdie hung up with Delia and slipped out of the apartment.

  Hurrying down the stairwell, she recalled the clue found in the bunting draped across the restaurant’s picture window. Brick by brick, my love. My life built alone without you. The building was built of bricks. For days, she’d tapped on bricks in the dining room searching for loose spots and chipped at mortar in the kitchen when Finney went on break. She’d thought she’d checked every blasted one.

  But she hadn’t checked the storeroom.

  Excitement quickened her stride, and she reached the first floor in record time. And to think she’d had to pick the lock the night she’d entered the restaurant on the sly. Who knew the key was hidden in plain sight? Giddy, she looked up.

  Just as Delia had described, the heavy molding around the door was loose. On tiptoes, Birdie removed the sliver of wood. The key tumbled into her palm.

  She opened the door to the kitchen and flicked on the lights. According to Delia, the second key, used to unlock the storeroom, was in a silverware drawer near the grill, where Finney usually stood cooking and barking orders. She wrenched open the drawer. A large, old-fashioned brass key clattered forward.

  It was pretty, really, with a heart-shaped head and large gleaming teeth.

  Drawing it close, she gasped.

  The clue, the one hidden in the bunting, spoke of building a life alone without the one you loved. And the head of the key was shaped like a heart.

  Would it lead directly to the rubies?

  Retracing her steps, she reentered the hallway. The storeroom lay at the end, past the stairwell. She unlocked the door and stepped inside.

  The musty scent of dust peppered the air. On an involuntary sneeze, she found the light switch.

  Spellbound, she blinked. The storeroom was huge.

  The place brimmed with a treasure trove of boxes and furniture and plastic-wrapped dishes. Aisles cut through the heirlooms in a sensible grid fashion that made perusing the antiques a simple task. Absently, she ran her fingers across the smooth mahogany of an antique sideboard. The furniture alone was worth thousands, and it was hard to imagine the wealth tucked away in the hundreds of boxes. Clearly nothing of worth had ever been thrown out in the restaurant’s history.

  She was itching to investigate all of it when the sound of footfalls on the stairwell brought her up short.

  “Birdie? Where are you?”

  Hugh appeared in the hallway with a dishtowel flung over his shoulder, his black hair mussed. Despite her irritation at the interruption, she laughed at the orange glop speckling his blue oxford shirt.

  “What did you get all over yourself?” she asked. He approached, and she instinctively blocked the door like a pirate protecting her booty. “You have some of it on your shoes, too.”

  “I do?” Bending, he swiped a finger through the orange muck on the toe of his loafer. She cringed when he stuck his finger in his mouth. Noticing her disgust, he added, “What? You got something against pumpkin pie? It’s Thanksgiving. Everyone has pie after they chow down on the bird.”

  “A man doesn’t have the skill set needed to bake a pie. It’s a multi-task event. Men aren’t multi-taskers.”

  “For the record, I baked two pies.”

  It was clearly the truth. Spots of flour dusted his all-too attractive features. “So we both get a pie? We don’t have to share?” The urge to push him from the doorway competed with her penchant for home-baked goods. “When do they come out of the oven?”

  “You have to eat dinner before you have dessert.” He angled his head to peer over her shoulder. “What are you doing down here, cupcake?”

  “Vegetable names, Hugh. If you want to call up sweeter memories from my childhood, stick to vegetables. Don’t forget to lay on the affection when you do.”

  “Whatever you say, Tomato.”

  “Shouldn’t you be upstairs basting the turkey?”

  “Probably.” He pushed her aside and strolled into the room. Pausing beside an oblong table draped in plastic, he added, “I heard you on the phone with Delia.”

  “You mean you were eavesdropping.”

  Shrugging, he lifted the edge of the plastic. He let go and it fluttered downward in a puff of dust. “Do you need help moving the Christmas decorations or not?”

  Covering her nose, Birdie shoved past him. “Don’t do that again. I hate dust.” She made a beeline through a clump of furniture and headed toward the nearest wall—which was, naturally, made of brick. “I can manage on my own.”

  “I’ll wager some of the boxes weigh fifty pounds. Think crystal and ceramics. Lots of the holiday decorations are from the 1800s. They aren’t made of plastic.”

  “Delia said there’s a dolly in here.” Birdie noticed the contraption beside a stack of boxes. She wheeled it toward the center of the room in a hasty, zig-zag route. If he didn’t leave, she wouldn’t be able to search for the gems. “See? I can manage. Now go away.”

  He stood fast, but there wasn’t time to argue. She caught something out of the corner of her eye and abruptly surveyed the walls. The bricks were different here. They weren’t all of the same fire red color used in the rest of the building. Some were a muddy brown. Others were a bright orange like the pumpkin Hugh had spattered all over himself. She remembered something Ethel Lynn had said: the storeroom was part of the original building, which had been added onto several times.

  Excitement tripped up her spine. Brick by brick, my love. My life built alone without you. Bricks of many colors… she must be close.

  “What are you up to?” Hugh joined her at the wall, his intelligent gaze traversing the bricks like a hound pursuing quarry. “You don’t care about getting the Christmas stuff out of storage. You agreed to do the dirty work for something else.”

  “Stop sweet-talking me. You know how it goes to my head.”

  “Then let me lay on more sugar. I’ll help if you’ll tell me what’s going on.”

  Dragging her attention from the wall was nearly impossible, but she managed to glare at him. Help her? Was he kidding? The rubies were her ticket to a better life. She wasn’t sharing them, least of all with a reporter who was as irritating as he was sexy. She had to find the boxes of holiday decorations, start moving them, and get him off her tail.

  “I mean it,” he said softly. “Let me help you.”

  The entreaty in his voice was sudden and sincere. His expression was infused with a gentleness she hadn’t thought him capable of. For a reckless moment, she wondered if maybe he wasn’t trying to horn in on the loot at all. He wanted her.

  Impulsively, she brushed the lock of hair falling across his brow. “I�
��m fine on my own,” she replied. He took her by the wrist to stop her from moving off, and her emotions cartwheeled. “Go back upstairs. I have work to do.”

  “And I shouldn’t watch you in the commission of a crime?”

  “Hugh—”

  “I’m only trying to help. Maybe it’ll give me a better understanding of the woman I’m sharing an apartment with since she’s also the woman who’s getting under my skin.”

  “Being under your skin doesn’t sound so bad,” she replied, lured by the soft lights in his eyes. She couldn’t look away.

  “Birdie, I’m not perfect, and I won’t judge you. We’ve both made mistakes.”

  His voice, like his expression, went fluid. “What kind of mistakes?” she asked, his sincerity pouring something new and wonderful into her heart. He did understand how much she’d messed up her life because he’d messed up his own. It wasn’t easy to pass judgment if you were able to call up the long, dreary list of your own errors, the people you’d hurt through anger or neglect, and the actions taken that were petty and self-serving. Hugh was better than most people—he possessed fortitude, enough to view himself with clarity and recognize his transgressions.

  Still, it was crazy to stand here and drink in the enticing scent of his cologne and the misgiving in his eyes. But her feet were glued to the spot even as her thoughts sped forward and became focused. He’d also made mistakes. Whoppers, probably. Had he made a few recently?

  Blossom.

  Why had he sat in the kid’s house pretending to interview her if he wasn’t writing an article?

  “Is Blossom one of your mistakes?” she asked. “You aren’t going to hurt her, are you?”

  “Probably.” He tried to smile but his expression collapsed. “Yes, I will hurt her. I don’t want to. I didn’t come back to make her famous all over again.”

  “Why are you here?”

  He scrubbed his palms across his face. “I’m investigating her father.”

  Anthony Perini owned the Gas & Go on the other side of the Square. He’d just wed Mary Chance, the doctor who owned the Second Chance Grill. The way Finney spoke of him, Anthony was nothing if not decent. Why would a hard-edged reporter like Hugh be interested in such a regular guy?