by Karen White
When he pulled back, I smiled. “Well, I guess that proves it then.” “Proves what?”
“That you’re not gay.”
He coughed. “What?”
I shrugged. “It’s just that we’ve been out so many times, and I thought you were enjoying our time together as much as I was. But you never even tried to kiss me.”
His face was serious, almost somber. “I’m not the kind of man who dabbles with women or who enjoys mixing business with pleasure. You’ve just been, well, an unexpected surprise.”
Before I could respond, he pulled me toward him again and kissed me so thoroughly and long that I almost expected the dawn sky to show behind the city’s steeples. I kept my eyes open a little so I wouldn’t keep seeing Jack’s face.
When Marc pulled back, he said, “I should probably take you home now.”
My fingers and toes tingled from his kiss, and I felt a stab of disappointment. Unbidden, I remembered Amelia’s voice as she’d showed me the picture of Jack and Emily. Emily was the other half of his soul. When she left, it broke something inside of him. I’m not sure if he’ll ever be able to open his heart again.
I shook my head. “Don’t,” I said.
He raised his eyebrows in a question, and I didn’t hesitate to answer.
“I have a roommate,” I said, afraid to break the spell by saying Jack’s name out loud. “I’m assuming you don’t.”
Marc hesitated for before offering his hand to me. “Come on, then. It’s getting cold.”
I hesitated just for a moment before taking his hand. We walked quickly back to the car, his arm around my shoulder and my face pressed against him, my eyes closed tightly as I tried hard not to remember the photo Amelia had showed me or the bright blue of Jack’s eyes.
CHAPTER 17
It was nearly seven o’clock the following morning before I made it back to the house on Tradd Street. Marc was apparently an early riser, too, and had awakened me to French toast in bed. He was quiet and introspective, watching me closely with hooded eyes, and I wondered if it was regret I saw in them before he quickly looked away. His quiet watchfulness would have made me self-conscious if I had thought that any recriminations were directed at me.
His attentiveness dispelled any doubt as he leaned over and kissed me, licking syrup off my lips. “What would you like to do today?”
I had to think for a minute before I remembered it was Saturday. “I’m scheduled to begin scraping the paint from the door cornices in the front hallway with Jack.”
“With Jack?”
“Yes. In return for access to anything he can find regarding Louisa’s disappearance, he’s promised to help with the restoration. He’s had some experience restoring his own home so I’ve put him to work.”
A corner of his mouth quirked upward. “And you have a schedule for this?”
I washed down a bite full of French toast with coffee and waved a dismissive hand. “Long story. But I have a houseful of people working on the house today, and it would be conspicuous—if not downright embarrassing—if I didn’t show.”
“Because your name’s on the schedule.” He didn’t hide the amusement in his voice.
“Exactly.” I leaned forward to kiss him, pleased that he’d wanted to spend the day with me. “How about tomorrow? Maybe dinner and a movie?”
He winced a little. “Can’t. I have to go out of town for a few days. But I’ll call you when I get back, all right?” He kissed my nose as I took another bite of my breakfast.
I chewed slowly, disappointed but also a little relieved. I needed time to sort out my thoughts before I saw Marc again. Most of all, I needed to figure out why I kept seeing Jack’s face every time Marc kissed me. It was stupid, really. Jack wasn’t my type at all. He was way too self-assured, too cocky, too mocking. And emotionally unavailable. The biggest mistake I could ever make would be to let Jack know that I was attracted to him on any level. Even if that level was base and stupid and had nothing to do with real affection. I figured if I kept telling myself that, I would eventually come to believe it. I’d had years of practice at deceiving myself, after all.
When Marc pulled onto Tradd Street, I cringed when I saw not only the plumber’s truck, but also my dad’s car parked at the curb. I assumed Jack’s Porsche was in its usual place, safely ensconced in the detached garage at the back of the property. It was a single-car garage, remodeled from the former carriage house, and it had been my one concession to Jack to allow him to use it for his precious car.
Marc opened the car door for me and moved as if to escort me to my front door. I shook my head. “I think it’s better if I go in alone. My dad’s here.”
“I understand,” said Marc, kissing me lightly on the lips. “No matter how old a woman is, she’s always her daddy’s little girl.”
I nodded, not willing to tell him that I had never considered myself “Daddy’s little girl” but that my hesitation stemmed more from the little bit of ick factor involved with walking into a house and facing Jack after having spent the night with another man.
Marc waited until I’d reached the front gate before opening his car door. “I’ll call you in a few days.”
I waved and watched as he drove down the street. Mentally girding my loins, I hunted through my clutch bag until I found my keys, and opened the front door of the house.
“Where in the hell have you been? We were about to call the police.”
This was from Jack and not from my father, who stood behind Jack with an equally disapproving look on his face. Rich the plumber stood by the stairs with a wrench in his hand, also managing to look less than pleased with me.
“I was out with Marc—you knew that, Jack.” I glared at him, more angry at him for invading my head than for berating me for staying out all night.
“That’s exactly why I was worried. Why weren’t you answering your phone?”
Trying to hide my embarrassment with belligerence, I stuck out my chin. “It didn’t fit in my purse, so I turned it off and left it in my room.”
Jack took a step toward me, his face a mottled dark red. “You left your phone at home because it didn’t fit in your little purse? That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Did it never occur to you that we might be worried when we couldn’t reach you?”
“We wouldn’t have been so worried if you’d had your phone, Miz Middleton.”
The three of us turned to face the plumber, who had placed both fists on his hips in an accusatory stance. He looked from me to Jack, then to my dad before turning his gaze back to me. None of us said a word. He dropped his hands from his hips. “Um, I’ll just get to work on that hall bath, Miz Middleton. Just let me know if you need me.”
“Thank you, Rich.” I waited until he had disappeared at the top of the stairs before facing Jack again. “Just because you’re living under the same roof as me does not give you the right to run my life. Now, let it go because you’re starting to piss me off.”
My dad laid a restraining hand on Jack’s arm. “We were worried sick, Melanie. We’re just relieved that you’re okay. But you should have called.”
I turned on him, not willing to concede that he was right. My embarrassment was acute, as was my annoyance that I was nearing forty and he and I had never had this conversation before. “Isn’t it a little bit late for you to be playing the concerned father?”
He flinched, showing that I’d hit my target. I raised my hand in a sign of a truce. “Look, I’m sorry. But I’m tired and I feel as if I’ve just been attacked in my own home. I appreciate your concern, but I’m thirty-nine years old. I don’t need anybody watching out for me.” I paused for a moment. “And it’s not like I slept with him or anything.” I didn’t stop to think why I’d felt the need to lie, only that I did it more for Jack’s opinion than my dad’s. I watched as a glance passed between Jack and my father. Alarmed, I looked from one to the other. “What’s wrong?”
They looked at each other again as if to decide who’d drawn
the shortest straw and had to be the one to tell me the news.
Jack took a step toward me. “Come into the drawing room. I think you should sit down.”
I brushed his hand off. “For what? For you to tell me that Marc is up to something again? No, thanks. I’ve already heard it. So, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to go upstairs and change before getting to work.”
I made a move toward the stairs when my dad called me back. “No, Melanie. I think you need to hear what Jack has to say first.”
Slowly, I faced my father, recognizing the military voice he had perfected over years of giving orders. It was a voice I’d once admired and tried to emulate but one I hadn’t heard in a very long time. I was torn between admiration and reluctance, and in the end I followed Jack into the drawing room, if only because I’d recognized the voice of the father I used to know.
I sat on one of the folding chairs that had been brought into the emptied drawing room as a place to sit while the walls were being re-plastered and painted. I crossed my arms across my chest. “Hurry up with whatever you have to tell me. You and I are scheduled to start painting at eight o’clock.”
My dad remained standing by the grandfather clock while Jack pulled up a chair in front of me. I avoided looking directly at him, afraid that I’d see again that face in his mother’s photograph. If I’d been honest with myself, I would say that it had affected me a lot more than I cared to admit. And might even have been the reason I had kissed Marc while standing on the corner of Archdale and Market.
“This isn’t going to be easy, and I wish you didn’t have to hear it from me, but you’ve got to know.”
“Know what?” My crossed leg bounced furiously and I recrossed my legs to still it.
Jack glanced up at my father before returning to study his hands. “As you know, I’ve been doing a lot of research on the Vanderhorst family. Nothing new there—I’ve already told you that all accounts point to a happy family.” He glanced up at me with a bare hint of his deadly smile, then sat back to look me in the face, his smile gone. “As you also know, I’ve been investigating the Longo family, to see where the two families might have intersected. So far, I’ve found nothing—although I’m convinced there’s something there. I think it might have something to do with the fact that neither family really seemed to suffer any financial setbacks after the stock market crash of nineteen twenty-nine.”
“This is all fascinating, Jack, but what has any of that got to do with me?”
“I’m getting to that.” He stood and began walking around the drawing room, touching the mantel and walls, then pausing to absently pat the Plexiglas that had been installed over Nevin’s growth chart before facing me again. “While investigating Longo’s business dealings, I got ahold of more current documents reflecting the current Longo family’s financial affairs.”
I slammed both feet on the ground. “That’s none of your business, Jack. And I’m pretty sure you shouldn’t be privy to that information to begin with.”
He held up his hand to stop me from saying anything more. “I didn’t do anything illegal, if that’s what you’re insinuating. I’m essentially a reporter, remember? I know what questions to ask and I know who to ask—it’s as simple as that. And that’s how I found out about your Marc Longo.”
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping the floor as I pushed it with the back of my legs. “Oh, I see. This is about Marc—not about Louisa or Joseph or the house.” I turned and started to walk away. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve got walls to paint.”
“Marc’s in debt up to his eyeballs. His winery is sucking money faster than water down the drain. And he’s got some pretty impressive gambling debts. As a matter of fact, he’s scheduled to play in a high-stakes poker game in Las Vegas tomorrow. Did he mention that he had to go away on business?”
I stopped, keeping my back to him.
Jack continued. “He’s in dire need of a hefty cash infusion. I think that’s where you come in.”
Slowly, I turned. “Do you mean this house?” I indicated the tarps and the half-finished restoration work that seemed to have erupted onto every wall in the house like a bad case of chicken pox. “In case you haven’t noticed, except for the new roof—which cost more than some new houses—this house is in worse shape than when I inherited it. Anybody looking for easy cash would not look here.”
I made to leave again but my father stopped me. “There’s more, Melanie. And you need to hear it.”
Jack was motioning toward my vacated chair. “I really think you should be sitting down before I tell you this.”
“I prefer to stand, thank you. And please hurry. Sophie and Chad will be here soon.”
He took a deep breath. “Fine. Suit yourself. I’m not sure where to begin, so I guess I’ll start at the beginning. In eighteen sixty-two, the sultan of Brunei, Abdul Momin, gave to the Confederacy six ten-carat flawless diamonds to support the Southern cause.”
Jack paused, his blue eyes piercing, and I had to remind myself that I had spent the night with another man—the same man Jack was in the process of trying to discredit. I met his gaze without flinching.
He continued. “No records exist to confirm the transaction and there are only two eyewitness reports, handed down over several generations, of the diamonds actually being in this country and stored in the Confederate capital of Richmond with the fabled Confederate gold.”
I glanced impatiently at the clock that had just struck the quarter hour. “Look, I’m sure you find this history fascinating, but I don’t and I have no idea why you think I need a history lesson right now. So why don’t you just pretend I’m here and continue talking while I go upstairs?”
I was almost out of the room when he spoke again. “I think the diamonds are in this house and I think Marc Longo thinks so, too.”
I marched back in, noticing that my father was watching me closely. “What? What are you talking about? I’ve never heard of secret diamonds, and they sure as hell aren’t here—we would have found them by now. And if this is your way of getting me to stop seeing Marc, forget it. Maybe if you told me he was the king of England you’d have a better chance of me believing you.”
Jack stalked across the room toward me. “Dammit, Mellie—would you just listen for five minutes? There is enough of a paper trail that shows that when President Jefferson Davis escaped from Richmond with the Confederate treasury, the diamonds were with him. They made it as far south as Washington, Georgia, before Jefferson ordered the treasure be divided and sent separate ways.”
“So what?” I answered but even I could hear the uncertainty in my voice.
Jack continued, looking steadily at me as if to gauge my reaction. “A large portion of the gold was hidden in the false bottom of a wagon and given to a trusted cavalry officer, who would take the gold to his hometown, Charleston. The cavalry officer, John Nevin Vanderhorst, arrived in Charleston without the gold or the wagon, saying he’d been attacked by thieves who had stolen the wagon. Nothing was ever mentioned about the rumored diamonds, and Vanderhorst was killed in battle shortly afterward.”
Jack passed his hands through his hair, and when he looked at me, his face was ragged and I was glad, because I had begun to feel that the worst part of what he wanted to tell me was yet to come.
“I really think you need to sit down for this, Mellie.”
My dad approached and moved the chair closer to me, his presence jarring because I’d forgotten he was there. His absence from my life was expected, and his being there was oddly comforting until I realized that he was somehow privy to what Jack was about to say.
“No,” I said combatively. I had stopped crying at the age of seven and wasn’t about to start now. I figured being belligerent, stubborn, and combative just might help me mask the tears I felt vying for my attention somewhere in the back of my throat.
Jack slid his chair closer to where I stood. “Then you’ll have to forgive me for sitting in a lady’s presence, but I need t
o.”
I didn’t say anything else, so he continued. “The legend holds that Vanderhorst hid the diamonds either at his plantation, Magnolia Ridge, or in his Charleston town house. Despite numerous searches for the rumored diamonds, one hundred forty-two years later, they have never been found, and most historians refuse to recognize their very existence.”
The silence in the room was punctuated by the ticking of the large clock, as if reminding us of its presence. I kept my voice calm, surprising myself. “But you know differently.”
“Yes, I do.”
I stared at him expectantly.
He coughed. “I discovered I had a gift with breaking codes when I was in the military. It became kind of a hobby for me to hunt for ciphers and see if I could solve them. I accompanied my parents to an estate auction in Washington, Georgia, and while I was there, I visited the museum where the trunk that supposedly held a portion of the Confederate gold was kept. And right there, carved around the bottom of the trunk so that it looked like part of the design, and in front of anybody actually paying attention, was an old Atbash substitution cipher. It was supposedly used by the Knights Templar and replaces the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet for the last and so on. Not very difficult if you know what you’re looking at. Otherwise, it looks like a fancy border used to decorate a trunk. Which is why I think it had gone undetected for all of these years.”
“And what did the cipher say?” My voice cracked and I coughed to hide it.
He watched me closely as he answered. “I don’t remember it verbatim, but translated loosely it said something like ‘A fortune in gold for our hero’s souls; their widows shed tears of glittering ice.’ ”
“ ‘Glittering ice,’ ” I repeated, my voice mocking. “No such thing as coincidences, right?”