Where Treasure Hides

by Johnnie Alexander Donley

  “Yes, I suppose it is a bit of a roundabout way.” She avoided his gaze and the awkward moment pressed between them.

  “It’s really none of my business.”

  “Perhaps not. But there’s a simple explanation.” Her voice sounded too bright, and Ian sensed the nervousness she failed to hide. “I had a . . . a commission. A portrait.”

  Her expressive eyes begged him to believe the lie they both knew she had just told. With the slightest nod, Ian agreed, though he was curious to know her secrets. He suddenly pictured the two of them wandering the fields and woods on his family estate, talking about everything and nothing, Ian capturing her every word and safeguarding it deep within himself. But he doubted a woman who traveled alone across northern Europe, especially in these unsettled times, would enjoy the quiet boredom of country life.

  He had tired of the unchanging rhythms of village traditions himself in his teen years. But after several months of combat drills and facing an uncertain future, he had been looking forward to a few days of idleness and local gossip.

  Until now.

  “I feel somewhat responsible,” he said.

  “That I missed my train?” She shrugged. “A small inconvenience. I’ll leave early in the morning and be home in time for supper.”

  “What about supper tonight?”

  Alison chuckled. “It’s too early for supper.”

  Ian glanced at his watch. “Though not too early for tea. A British tradition, you know.”

  Conflict flitted across her features. She wanted to say yes, but something held her back.

  “I’m not exactly a damsel in distress.”

  “It’s only tea.”

  “May I ask you something?”

  “Please do.”

  “Would you have taken Josef to, what was it? Kenniston Hall? If he hadn’t had an uncle waiting for him?”

  Ian hesitated, not wanting to tell this beautiful woman how his father would have reacted if he had arrived home with the young Jewish boy. True, he could have made up some story to explain the boy’s need for a place to stay. Even if his father suspected the truth, he’d have the story to tell those neighbors whose thinly veiled anti-Semitism skewed their view of what was happening in Germany. As he so often did, Ian wondered how long the blindness would last. What would Hitler have to do before his insatiable thirst for power was clear for all to see? “I don’t know.”

  “He played that piece so magnificently. No one who heard it will ever forget this day.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Randall Hargrove was too happy about it. But at least Josef got to keep his violin.”

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Hargrove wanted to confiscate it. He insinuated Josef had stolen it, that it was ‘too fine an instrument’ for a child like him to have in his possession.”

  “So you stood up for him.”

  Ian flushed with sudden embarrassment, but smiled at the memory. “I asked the lad if he could play. And he did.”

  “You are a chivalrous knight, Lieutenant Devlin. I will never forget you.”

  “That sounds too much like a good-bye.”

  “Just because I missed my train doesn’t mean you should miss yours.”

  “My train doesn’t leave till late this evening.”

  “But I thought—”

  “I only arrived in time to see Hargrove making a ninny of himself.”

  “Surely there’s a train you could take without waiting till this evening.”

  Ian glanced around as if to be sure no one was paying attention to them and leaned forward. “True,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “But my commanding officer entrusted me with a secret commission. I’m to deliver an important message to a lovely young woman who lives in the West End.” With a flourish, he pulled a pale-blue envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Alison.

  * * *

  The thick envelope, made from high-quality paper, had been sealed with gold wax and embossed with two Ms entwined in a scripted design. Alison guessed that the stationery inside would be of similar color and quality. The commanding officer was evidently a man of good breeding and taste. She turned the envelope over and read the broad black strokes written on its face: To My Darling Trish.

  “His girlfriend?”

  “His wife,” Ian whispered with a furtive glance around them.

  Alison played along. “Your commanding officer must think quite highly of you to trust you with such an important mission.”

  He slipped the envelope back into his pocket with a slight shrug of his shoulders. “He knows I wouldn’t pass through London without seeing Trish.”

  “Oh?” A slight tremor in the simple syllable betrayed her interest.

  “I loved her first, you see.”

  A thousand questions raced through her mind. But it didn’t matter. After today, she would never see him again. His past didn’t matter. Whom he loved didn’t matter.

  Except that it did.

  Aware that the man who had unwittingly, almost negligently, captured her heart couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her, Alison found one safe response. “But she chose him instead.”

  Realizing her failure to achieve just the right amount of nonchalance and pity, she tried again and found herself asking the very question she wanted to avoid. “Did she break your heart?”

  Again, Ian leaned forward as if divulging a great secret, and Alison bent her head toward his so as not to miss a word. “Something so personal shouldn’t be discussed in the midst of Waterloo Station. But there’s a little place near the Westminster Bridge that serves the most delicious cherry scones you’ll ever eat.”

  “You mean Minivers?”

  “You know it?”

  “My father took me there for my sixteenth birthday. He ordered a cherry scone for each of us and stuck a pink candle in mine. Then he sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to me.” She remembered closing her eyes before she blew out the candle and wishing that every birthday, every holiday, could be spent with her father. That he and her grandfather would make up their quarrels so that she no longer had to choose between them. But she had hugged the futile wish to herself, telling it to no one, and laughed at her father’s clumsiness with the dainty teacups and miniature pastries. The cheerful memory felt as perfect, yet fragile, as the pristine white linens and delicate china that graced Minivers’ cozy tables.

  “He felt awkward there, I think. It’s not exactly a gentleman’s place of choice, is it?”

  “The scones are worth a bit of discomfort.”

  “What about your secret mission?”

  His eyes twinkled. “Trish isn’t expecting me, so she won’t know if I’m late.”

  The corners of Alison’s mouth twitched and she turned from Ian’s hopeful smile toward the entrance of the station. She couldn’t see the telegram office from where she stood, but it was there, looming before her like a scolding parent. Missing the train had been foolish, but spending the rest of the afternoon with Ian was sheer stupidity. He was a soldier on the eve of war. That was reason enough to guard against any romantic entanglements.

  But worse, she was a Schuyler. He couldn’t know how his warm hazel eyes affected her, how drawn she was to his confident demeanor and gallant charm. Or the sting of jealous curiosity she endured when he spoke of this other woman. Though she felt his mutual attraction, it was better that he never know that he already held her heart in his hands. The Van Schuyler fate may have destined him to linger forever within her, but she could still make her own decisions.

  She squared her shoulders and faced him.

  His smile charmed her as he offered his arm in a boyish gesture. “Shall we?”

  Alison hesitated, then tucked her hand within the crook of his elbow. “I should exchange my ticket first.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The hostess at Minivers seated Alison and Ian near a wall decorated with a huge tapestry depicting a scenic garden and a distant woods. “I believe this is the same table where I sat with my
father,” Alison said as she looked around the room to get her bearings. “I remember being intrigued by the needlework on this tapestry. Papa said it was Flemish. Seventeenth century.”

  Ian glanced at the wall covering as he held Alison’s chair for her. “I’ll take his word for it.”

  “You’re not an art connoisseur?”

  “I know the difference between a Rembrandt and a Van Gogh. And I know enough to be more than impressed by the sketch you did for our young violinist.”

  Alison twisted toward the tapestry and absentmindedly scanned the intricate stitching that gave vibrancy and life to the static scene, memorializing an artist’s vision of a single instant. She felt a kinship with the embroiderer, the mysterious need to preserve a slice of time before it flowed into the mists of memory.

  “I had to capture the moment.”

  “It’s a moment I’ll never forget.”

  “Neither will I.” Alison faced Ian’s steady gaze, knowing that this was another moment that would exist with photographic clarity for the rest of her days. Though he wasn’t movie-star handsome, his straight nose and strong chin revealed his Anglo-Saxon heritage. She ached with the sudden desire to see his face in a myriad of moods, to be near him as age added its own idiosyncratic lines. His would always be an interesting face, touched with contradictions for those who had the eyes to see. A face to challenge her artistic skill, should she ever have the opportunity to attempt more than a quick sketch. His expression, so open and direct, invited trust. She felt she could tell him anything without fear of betrayal. Yet she had already lied to him.

  The approaching waitress shattered the spell with a teapot and menus. After Ian ordered sandwiches and the famous scones, Alison poured hot tea into the delicate cups and felt an odd jolt, as if she were sixteen again and pouring tea for Papa. How strange to sit in the same chair, to go through the same motions, all these years later for another man. A man she barely knew.

  She carefully set the teapot on its matching tray and rested her hands in her lap. “How did we get here?”

  “We took a taxi across Westminster Bridge.” Ian plopped two sugar cubes into his tea and stirred it with a tiny silver spoon. She feigned annoyance, and he chuckled. “Okay, how about this? We’re here because neither of us wanted to say good-bye.”

  “I meant to.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  She was glad too, but frightened at the same time. The feeling of déjà vu struck again. A similar nervousness clutched at her stomach and her heightened emotions felt as taut as the strings on young Josef’s violin. Perhaps the strange jolt intended to warn her of her folly. Even when all was right with the world, anything more than a casual friendship with a foreigner could be difficult. These days were anything but normal. And she knew with deep assurance that Ian, foreigner or no, could never be just a casual friend.

  “It’s not the best of times, is it?” Ian asked.

  Alison narrowed her eyes without shying from the warmth of his gaze. Were her thoughts, usually inscrutable to others, so transparent to him?

  “The time for good-byes will come soon enough,” he continued. “But until it does, we shouldn’t think about it.” He raised his teacup as if delivering a toast. “Agreed?”

  He was right, of course. The brief time they spent together should be filled with cheer, not regret, so that the memory could be bright. It had been the same on her birthday. Her father couldn’t—or wouldn’t—stay in London more than the one day. Alison had purposefully ignored his imminent departure rather than allow it to dull their precious time together. She needed that same intention now, to enjoy Ian’s company for as long as possible.

  Shaking away the lingering memories of her last visit to this place, she exhaled softly and relaxed her shoulders. “Agreed.”

  They tapped their cups together and sipped the steaming tea to seal their toast.

  “Of course,” Alison said with a mischievous smile, “we’re also here so you can tell me about your commanding officer’s wife. What was her name? Trish?” She gazed at Ian as innocently as possible, though her stomach churned with the hope that he no longer pined for the woman.

  His sheepish grin and twinkling eyes calmed her nerves, and she instinctively expected him to deliver a punch line.

  “I’ve loved Trish for as long as I can remember. Though I was only three when she was born.”

  “Your families are close?”

  “Family. One family.” Ian leaned back in his chair and held Alison’s gaze. It took less than a second for her to understand his meaning.

  “Trish is your sister.” She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “You are such a . . . a . . .”

  He chuckled. “A cad?”

  “Worse.” Alison sniffed. “I was worried she had broken your heart.”

  “Worried? Then my ploy worked.”

  “Are you always such a tease?”

  “Only when I don’t want to say good-bye to a lovely and talented woman.”

  The warmth of his words settled within Alison and she dropped her eyes in unexpected shyness, unsure what to say. She enjoyed his teasing, but her own feelings frightened her.

  Enjoy this moment. Chances are you’ll never see him after today.

  Ian shifted in his seat. “You aren’t angry, are you?”

  Alison nodded toward their approaching waitress and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Miniver scones atone for a multitude of sins.”

  Ian let out a short chuckle, and Alison responded to his relaxed smile with one of her own as the waitress placed their selections on the table. The finger sandwiches, tiny slivers of dark bread layered with slices of cucumber and watercress, were delicately arranged on a silver tray. The warm scones nestled in a cloth-covered basket.

  As Ian devoured one of the dainty sandwiches in two bites, Alison stifled a giggle.

  “Papa said he could leave here hungrier than when he came in. If not for the scones.”

  Ian nodded in agreement as another petite sandwich disappeared. “Is your father an artist too?”

  “He is. Was.” Alison twirled her finger around the rim of her teacup. “The Van Schuyler Fine Arts Gallery has been a renowned Rotterdam institution for almost three hundred years.”

  “What happened to your ‘Van’?”

  “Papa emigrated to America and dropped it somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. At least, that’s the story he used to tell me when I was young. I was born in Chicago.”

  “But now you live in Rotterdam.”

  “With my grandfather, yes. He owns the family gallery.”

  “And your parents? Are they still in Chicago?”

  “Papa . . . travels.”

  “For the gallery?”

  “Mostly for himself.” Alison felt Ian’s gaze upon her as she added more tea to her cup. “You’re wondering about my mother.”

  “You haven’t mentioned her.”

  Alison stared at her cup for a moment. The words were never easy, but she had learned over the years to keep them few and simple. “She died shortly after my fifth birthday.”

  Not unexpectedly, sympathy appeared in Ian’s eyes. That was how most people responded when hearing her forlorn explanation. But unlike most people, Ian didn’t look embarrassed or awkward. “That’s a difficult wound to heal,” he said gently.

  “Papa never painted again.” The words slipped out without warning, and Alison coughed with surprise. She had buried that truth deep inside, had felt churning anger when her grandfather condemned his son for throwing away his talent. But she used them as an excuse for him, her personal consolation to explain Pieter Schuyler’s paternal lapses. Unfortunately, the excuse, a double-edged sword, only compounded her loneliness. Eventually she had lost her father, too.

  “We were fine for a while.” Alison held her cup with both hands, staring into its depths as if to find some explanation for the odd willingness to share her family history with a stranger. But she wanted Ian to know. Somehow it felt
right to tell him. “Our gallery was small but reputable. The clientele was growing and Papa seemed to be coping with his grief. Then the stock market plummeted. Taking our gallery with it.”

  The Great Crash. October 1929. It hadn’t meant much to Alison, caught up in her little-girl world of school lessons and china dolls. But only a few short months later, that innocent childhood had grown frighteningly dark.

  “Our clients couldn’t pay their accounts; no one could afford our paintings.” She shrugged, trying to lessen her embarrassment at the family’s financial failure. Of course, men with more savvy than Papa had suffered just as much, perhaps even more. A few had killed themselves rather than face the shame of bankruptcy.

  She shuddered, remembering the grown-up whispers she had overheard, Papa’s crying moans when he thought she was asleep. “There was an auction. We lost everything.”

  Ian reached across the table and covered her fingers. His hand felt cool and strong against her skin, giving her the courage to face the long-buried memories. She didn’t pull away.

  “Everything but The Girl in the Garden.” Her voice softened almost to a whisper as she imagined the painting. “My mother’s portrait.”

  “She was his muse?”

  “And his life. He painted it shortly after they met at Wrigley Field.”

  “They were baseball fans?”

  “No, that’s what was so strange. Neither of them particularly cared for sports. But it was love at first sight.”

  * * *

  Love at first sight. Like us? The unbidden thought caught Ian off guard. Before today, he would have scoffed at such nonsense, dismissing it as the romantic fancy of schoolgirls and spinsters. But sitting across from Alison, he wasn’t so sure. There was something different about her, and something different about him when he stood next to her, walked beside her. Looked into her unusual gray-blue eyes.

  He realized he was staring when she blushed and withdrew her hand to pour more tea in his cup. Lifting back the linen cloth from the pastry basket, he gestured for Alison to take one of the scones. The fragrance of warm cherries and walnuts drifted between them. She broke hers in half and bit into the flaky tartness.