by Deeanne Gist
“You don’t know?”
She pulled back. “Would I be asking if I already knew?”
“We don’t have to talk about this now.”
“I want to talk about it.”
He rubbed her arms. “Tomorrow, okay?”
“Are you keeping something from me, Logan?” She finger-combed her damp hair. “You can’t. Don’t you see? If I’m going to trust you—and I need to trust you—then you have to trust me, too. You’ve been acting . . . differently. Ever since . . .” Her lips trembled. “Ever since I was arrested.”
He pushed his palms against his eyebrows, willing the conversation away.
“You have to tell me.”
He sighed. “All right. Wait here and I’ll be right back.”
Before she could say anything, he was on his feet, jogging for the door. She heard his footsteps on the walkway, then a distant pounding on the stairs. A car door opened, then closed. More pounding.
A moment later, he was back at the door. In his hand was a maroon leather photo album.
It was one of Nonie’s. He sat down next to her, flipping through the pages, then handed the book over, marking a spot with his finger.
It was a snapshot of her great-grandfather reading a book.
“I don’t understand.”
He flipped to another page, pointing out a picture of her great-uncle as a boy during one of his music lessons.
She grabbed the album away. “What are you even doing with this?”
“Just look. Are you telling me you’ve never seen them before?”
“Of course I have.” A sick feeling came over her. “Logan, did you take this from Nonie’s room? I thought you went there to tell her I was okay.”
His face reddened. “I did.”
“She would never have let this leave the room.”
“Well . . . she was sleeping. I didn’t want to disturb her.” He wouldn’t look her in the eye.
She swallowed. “I don’t believe you. This is for your story, isn’t it? That’s been it all along. The lunch at North of Broad. The visit to Nonie. The beach.”
“No, Rylee, I can—”
“Stop.” She touched her hand to his mouth. “Just stop talking, all right? You’re going to keep lying and it’s going to break my heart, so just . . . just shut up. And go.” She withdrew her hand. “I’m too tired for this. I’ll say things I don’t want to say. Just get out.”
He didn’t budge.
“I’m serious.” She clutched the album. “You took this.”
“I had to, Rylee. You didn’t give me much of a choice, did you?”
She stared at him. Same chocolate eyes. Same unruly hair. Same square jaw. But it was as if she didn’t know him at all.
“Just go,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have done it. But that’s not the point. I—”
“It is the point. It’s the only point. You stole this from her. You did it behind my back. When I was in jail, no less. So don’t sit there and tell me what the point is. You betrayed me. You and everybody else.”
He tried to loop his arm around her.
She recoiled.
Her vehemence seemed to shock him into awareness. Did he think he could talk his way out? Not hardly.
He stood. “I am sorry. Just look at the album, okay? Everything’s in there.”
“Good night, Logan,” she said.
At the door, he tried to say something more, the words dying on his lips. He threw it open. She followed, holding the album tight to her breast, making a promise to herself not to cry.
Liz crossed Logan on the walkway, fast food dangling from her hands. She did a half-turn, saying something as they passed. But Logan just sulked his way to the stairs.
“He’s leaving?” Liz asked. “I got enough for everybody.”
Rylee shut the door. “I’m not hungry.”
“Are you sure?”
Without answering, she crossed to Liz’s room. “I’m gonna lie down for a few minutes.”
Liz frowned. “Okay, honey.”
She gently closed the door behind her, then threw herself on the bed.
She buried her face in her arms and pictured her junk pile of possessions next door. But that wreck was nothing compared to the condition of her heart.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lacey looked like a woman who’d made a decision and intended to stick to it. Her eyes followed Logan to the chair, and once he sat, she handed him an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Your invitation.”
He slid a card from the envelope. Some artist he’d never heard of was having a reception over the weekend, to be hosted in a swanky People’s Building penthouse. The invitation was inscribed with his name. Logan Woods and guest.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“Your new assignment. I’ve decided to take you off the Robin Hood story. It’s not like you’ve given me much of a choice.”
He stared at her, unable to believe she really meant it. But there was no mistaking the steel in her posture. The resolve in her eyes.
He waved the card in the air. “So this is my punishment?”
“It’s out of my hands, Logan. And to be honest, you’re lucky to still have a job. Getting you this wasn’t exactly easy.”
“So you went to bat for me?”
She smiled at his sarcasm. “You’re angry now, but give it some time and you’ll thank me. Now make yourself scarce. And be sure your piece on the reception is fit for print.”
Out in the hallway, he started to breathe again. So that was it.
He was off the story. Yesterday, he was the story. Now Rylee wasn’t returning his calls, and his paper thought he was better suited to writing society fluff.
Seth would be livid. But deep down, there was a part of Logan that felt relieved. He looked at the invitation again. Logan Woods and guest. He’d ask Rylee to join him. In spite of their strained relationship, in spite of the half-dozen unanswered messages, he wasn’t giving up.
Taking the album was wrong, he knew that. But if she looked at the photos, she’d understand. She would forgive him. He had to believe that.
He was certain she didn’t know the identity of the burglar.
Maybe she didn’t even know the stolen objects had been in her family. Didn’t know Grant Sebastian was living in her ancestral home. But no, she had to.
In time, she would trust him enough to talk. He’d been a fool to let her bring up the subject yesterday, after all she’d been through.
Bad move. Very bad move.
Lacey’s door opened. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
She glanced at his Abercrombie T-shirt and faded chinos.
“You’ve got to promise me you won’t show up at the reception dressed like that. Remember whom you’re representing.”
He tried not to smile but couldn’t help it. “I promise.”
Ever since Lacey had taken him under her stylish wing, Logan had treated the Ben Silver shop on King Street as his walk-in closet. Although he hadn’t embraced the look fully—no seersucker suits or regimental bow ties—he’d blown many a paycheck on wool sport coats, cotton shirts, and a pair or two of handmade English shoes.
The results hadn’t satisfied his mentor fully. Whenever she saw him wearing his tobacco suede boots and glen plaid linen jacket with a pair of frayed, distressed jeans, she would roll her eyes and mumble something about the impending apocalypse.
But with the new assignment, he wasted no time in making his way to Ben Silver. As soon as he passed through their door, one of the soigné shop girls took charge of him. In the space of ten minutes, she picked out a crisp white shirt, a black silk knit tie, and gray suit. Then she pulled a linen handkerchief from a display, folding it into the jacket pocket until just a thin white strip showed.
“Like Cary Grant in North by Northwest,” she said. “Perfect.”
Looking in the mirror, he hoped s
he was right.
She handed him a pair of black Wayfarer-style shades. “These too.”
He slipped them on, then made a point of not looking at the price tag. Whatever it took. Whatever it cost.
He changed back into his street clothes, then lowered his voice. “There’s something else I need help with, but it’s going to take a little guesswork.”
A half hour later, he emerged on the street, his purchases in a suit bag over his shoulder. Under his arm, he carried a large white box. .
“He keeps calling,” Liz said.
“And I’ll answer when I’m ready.”
Armed with trash bags, they steeled themselves for the inevitable clean-up. Sorting through what was left of her things, separating the whole and the maimed from the utterly destroyed.
“We should keep a list of everything,” Liz said. “For insurance.”
Rylee forced a laugh. “What insurance?”
They spent an hour on the living room. Liz held things up for inspection and Rylee declared them either “good” or “trash.” Mostly the latter.
At first, every splintered picture frame and broken appliance made her want to cry, but soon she developed a crust around her heart. Instead of thinking how much she’d miss, say, her television set, she’d resolutely declare how happy she was to be rid of the thing, how she’d meant to replace it long ago.
When it came to the things from her childhood, though, her optimism took a nosedive. She paused over the cotton guts and strips of fur left over from her junior-high teddy bear collection. Every birthday, Christmas, Easter, and Valentine’s Day, Nonie would gift her with a new bear. Not one was left intact.
She cradled the stuffings in her hands. “What kind of sicko destroys teddy bears?”
Liz came out of the bedroom, plastic gloves and Lysol in hand.
“I’m working the lunch shift, sweetie, so I need to change. You ready to take a break?”
Rylee took a deep breath, and pushed the teddy bears’ remains into the trash bag. “No, I think I’ll keep going for a while.”
Liz squatted down beside her. “No, Rylee. I really don’t want you here all by yourself. Not just because it’s dangerous, but because you need a break. Now, come on. There’s no need to do it all in a day. Okay?”
Rylee looked at her friend. Her long blond hair was twisted up on her head, the ends sticking out in every direction.
“You think I should grow my hair out?”
Liz blinked. “That would be a fresh start. But I like it short.”
Rylee ran a hand across the nape of her neck. “It’s definitely low maintenance.”
“Come on. Let’s call it quits for a while. Besides, I thought you were going job hunting.”
She cringed. But what choice was there? With so many holes in her schedule, the money would dry up quickly. Officially, she’d always required a cancellation period, but there was no way she’d call her ex-clients to read them the contracts they’d signed.
The Davidsons—the ones who’d suffered the most damage— were the only ones who hadn’t fired her. So there was still Toro to walk.
She pushed to her feet. “Yeah. Okay.”
“You could always work with me at Queen Anne’s Revenge. There’s always room for one more lusty wench, you know.”
She put a concerted effort behind her smile. “We’ll see.”
She went into six different shops, completed six applications. At least five of the six managers recognized her name from the news— the sixth, she figured, was probably just rude to everyone, whether they were suspected of robbing houses or not.
Nobody was hiring. At least, they weren’t hiring her.
Giving up for the time being, she retraced her steps to where she’d left Daisy, retrieving Nonie’s album from the backseat. She decided to take a walk, maybe clear her head a little.
She thought of her time in jail. That brief moment she’d climbed to the mountaintop and seen for the first time all that lay behind her. And the possibilities that lay before her.
Never, however, did she foresee the vandalism of her apartment. The swiftness with which her clients would sever all ties. The truth behind Logan’s interest in her.
Her clients, she could somewhat understand. But Logan.
She swallowed. The thought that everything he’d done or said or shared had been motivated by a desire to write some newspaper article kicked up all the emotional dust of her past.
And though she knew the Lord was with her, wouldn’t abandon her, was trustworthy, it still would have been nice if she had real live parents to go to. Much as she loved Nonie, it just wasn’t the same.
Thinking of her parents drew her inevitably to Marion Square. Most of her early childhood was lost to her. She’d close her eyes and concentrate, trying to summon up images of her early days, but her memory wouldn’t cooperate. Even the pictures in Nonie’s photo albums didn’t trigger much. Sometimes she thought the wiring in her brain was faulty, the essential coupling having fallen away.
But at Marion Square, her parents’ spirits abided, prompting her to treat it a little bit like sacred ground. As an adult, she never went there for mere recreation. She only entered when loneliness overcame her, and never left still feeling alone. She couldn’t venture within a block of the square without feeling her mom and dad there with her, the way they’d been at the picnic that one steamy dusk.
In time, had the relationship with Logan gone well, she would have taken him there, preparing him in advance to appreciate the significance.
But it now looked as if that would never happen.
When she reached the green, she slipped off her sandals, slowed her pace, and let the grass push through her toes.
“What kind of parents would you have been?” She let her voice carry off on the wind. As always, the square worked its calming magic. She avoided the crowd near the fountain and settled under the shade of an old oak, watching two young mothers wrestling their toddlers onto a blanket. The children squealed. They were a bit younger than Rylee had been when her parents brought her here, when the music played and her mother’s skirt swished through the air.
Jon and Stella. For all practical purposes, perfect strangers.
She let the album fall open in her lap, flipping listlessly through the pages. If Logan had to go stealing a photo album, he could at least have chosen a more recent one. She wanted to see her parents, but instead she got page after page of stiff, old-time Monroes in detachable collars and starchy lace. This had gotten him all worked up? She couldn’t see why.
She hesitated over the first picture he’d pointed out. Her great-grandfather reading in his library. Then her eyes widened.
There, peeking over the back of his chair, was that knowing bronze grin. The jockey with his hand on his hip.
The downy hair on her forearm stood on end. No wonder the statue had seemed so familiar to her. She’d noticed it at the Bosticks’ house and assumed that was it. But maybe the reason she’d noticed it was that she’d seen it before. Here in Nonie’s album, without even realizing. The image had gone straight into her subconscious mind.
But that couldn’t be. She’d never taken any notice of the picture until now. Had hardly even glanced at these older albums.
Had she seen it before . . . as a child?
She turned the page, scrutinizing each picture. Stopping on yet another one. On a sideboard in the hallway, an ornate box shaped like a tomb with painted panels and Roman figure finials. Could this be Karl’s jewelry casket?
She shook her head. He’d said it had been in his family for years. A few pages later, the other picture Logan had pointed out. Her little ancestor playing the violin. Mr. Ormsby’s violin?
This was what Logan meant. This was the connection between the Robin Hood burglaries and her.
And if she went to Bishop Gadsden and pulled out more of the albums, she felt a growing certainty the ormolu clock, the Charles Fraser painting, and the mourning brooch would be there, too.
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She looked up, squinting into the sun. No wonder he’d acted so strange. He had asked if she’d seen the albums and she’d said of course she had. So when he discovered the connection, he must have wondered if she already knew.
She snapped the album shut, rising to her feet. She’d wasted the day looking for a job. But now that was over. Now she wanted answers.
When he tried Rylee’s phone this time, she answered.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Everything’s fine.”
“Listen, Rylee, about yesterday. I’m sorry for springing all that on you. That was the last thing you needed—”
“Logan.”
“What?”
“I looked at that album.”
“About that,” he said. “I had a lapse of judgment. I knew it was wrong, and I did it anyway. I’m really sorry. I know I should have asked you—”
“I looked at it.”
He paused. “And?”
“I saw . . . I don’t know what to say.”
He shoved his chair back and stood, the phone cord keeping him tethered to his desk. “Listen, let’s not talk over the phone. Where are you? Let me come and see you. I have a favor to ask anyway.”
“What favor?”
“Not over the phone,” he said. “Can I pick you up?”
Silence. He listened acutely for background noise, trying to place where she was. There was nothing but the hum of dead air.
“Are you still there?”
She cleared her throat. “I’m with Nonie. She’s sleeping. There’s a picture of her as a teenager right here on my lap. She’s wearing a mourning brooch, Logan. A mourning brooch. I can’t be sure, but . . .”
“Sit tight. I’m on my way.”
“No.”
He slowly lowered himself back into his chair. “No?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so sharp. I’m just trying to absorb it all. I spent the morning cleaning my apartment and looking for jobs, the afternoon going through these pictures. And I . . .” She took a deep breath. “I still need to return all those keys to my clients.”
“Let me do that for you.”
“No. I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not going to cower in the corner with my tail between my legs.”