The Book of True Desires

by Betina Krahn

  Hedda rubbed at the memory of cold steel that lingered in her fingers. “But there are other deep pockets, Cordie. Some in this very hotel…on that very veranda…”

  “It has to be his pockets,” Cordelia declared with a fierce expression that wrenched a sigh from her aunt. “Did you send the menu to the dining room?”

  Hedda nodded. “And the order to the wine steward. And I’ve made sure your gown was pressed and laid out your best silk petticoats.”

  Cordelia strolled over to the table set before a pair of long windows flanked by plantation shutters. On it lay a large granite slab inscribed with exotic carvings. Anticipating the lighting conditions after the sun went down, she moved a triple candelabra from the sideboard to stand beside the large, flat stone. Candlelight would make the viewing more dramatic. She ran her fingers over the carved figures of hieroglyphics that would soon cast a spell over Samuel P. Blackburn as they had over her.

  “After we eat, I’ll bring him to see it. Then we’ll talk.”

  Two

  “Good evening.” Cordelia extended a graceful hand, drawing Samuel P. “Hardacre” Blackburn across the grand dining room to her side.

  The large, ornately appointed dining room was full to capacity, in part because of the popularity of the Tampa Bay Hotel with well-to-do northerners escaping winter, but also because of what had happened on the veranda earlier. Word had spread among the guests, and all wanted to see what would happen between Hardacre and the beauty.

  She had positioned herself in front of their table, knowing the candles behind her would frame her hair and green watered silk in flattering light. Her mother had taught her long ago that her appearance was an asset, not an identity. And assets were meant to be used.

  “Miss O’Keefe.” One of Samuel P.’s woolly eyebrows rose to acknowledge Hedda’s presence as he leaned heavily on his cane.

  “May I present my aunt, Hedda O’Keefe.” As he took in the name, she watched again for any spark of recognition. There was none. “Mr. Blackburn gave me a spirited game of chess this afternoon.”

  “She trounced me,” he said, taking Hedda’s offered hand.

  “She trounces everyone,” Hedda said with a smile and gracious nod.

  As soon as they were seated, Cordelia nodded to the waiter to begin serving the aperitifs and appetizers she had already selected. He settled back in his chair, surveying the hand-printed menu lying across his plate, then turned to her with a frown.

  “You’ve got me here. And you’re about to feed me wine and red meat that will settle on my foot like a ball-peen hammer. You’d best spell it out for me, missy.”

  She studied him a moment, determined to proceed at her own pace, and waved to the white-coated server to continue.

  “I’m an explorer, Mr. Blackburn. I’ve traveled considerably and published accounts of my adventures in various journals and magazines.”

  “Boston. O’Keefe.” He shifted back in his chair with a frown. “Irish.”

  “Half,” she said with an arch look, which caused him to glance between her and her aunt and think better of whatever comment he was about to make.

  “And just where have you been that’s worth payin’ hard-earned money to read about?” He curled his nose at the salad—citrus laced greenery—on his plate.

  “I’ve concentrated on exploring places few others— male or female—have gone. I’ve rafted down the Colorado River just after the spring thaw, when the river’s still running full and wild. I’ve packed and canoed the length of the Grand Canyon, climbed a volcano in Hawaii, and trekked across the Moroccan desert on a camel. I’ve dined with sultans and Hawaiian princesses and Indian chiefs. I’ve wagered with riverboat card sharps, Kentucky horse breeders, and Barbary pirates…and won.” She studied his half-narrowed gaze and answered the question she sensed would be coming next. “And I’ve said ‘no’ to five marriage proposals.”

  “Only five?” He barked a laugh that surprised even him. “Damned young bucks. Got no guts at all, these days.”

  “In all fairness”—she gave him a wry smile—“I did those intrepid gentlemen a favor by refusing. I’ve yet to meet a man who would put up for very long with a wife who has a head full of ideas, a penchant for digging up secrets, and a yen to see what’s over the next mountain. I know I’m something of a handful.” She glanced apologetically at her aunt, who wryly shook her head, and waited until she had Samuel P.’s full attention to add, “Not unlike yourself, sir.”

  “Heh.” The old boy huffed what passed for a laugh, then sipped his wine. “It’s a rare woman who knows her own faults.”

  “And a rarer man,” she responded, savoring the flash of surprise in his face as he looked up. Mindful of the many pairs of eyes watching them, she gave him her most lavish smile. “Care for more wine, Mr. Blackburn?”

  Through dinner courses the conversation centered politely on the questions about her background, her education, and which magazines had published her accounts of her travels. He had apparently heard of Harper’s Bazaar, McCall’s, and Vanity Fair. An expectant silence descended as the dessert and coffee were served, and none did more than touch the strawberry consort the chef had labored long to produce. With an irritable glance at the nearby tables, where people were prolonging already fashionably late dinners to watch them, Samuel P. laid his napkin aside and leaned toward her.

  “So. Tell me how much you want and what you want it for.” He seemed pleased to have surprised her with his bluntness. “You didn’t think I knew it was about money? Missy”—he leaned back in his chair and tucked his thumbs into the exposed armholes of his vest—“with a man like me, it’s always about money. That’s the only language I speak.”

  Cordelia took a breath and boldly met his searching stare.

  “Fine. Some months ago, I was in Charleston for a while and won a wager of sorts. The loser, it happened, was short of funds.”

  “Aren’t they always,” Samuel P. muttered.

  “Being an enterprising fellow, my debtor offered to settle his obligation to me with something he claimed to be worth many times what he owed.”

  “You had more sense than to take it, of course,” Samuel P. declared.

  “I didn’t take it without examining it first. The contents of the crate that settled his debt to me are right now on a table in my suite.”

  “What is it?”

  She leaned forward and lowered her voice, drawing him to match both.

  “A stone slab archaeologists call a stela, engraved with hieroglyphics.”

  “Scratching on a rock.” He sat back, looking disappointed.

  “I’ve spent considerable time and energy trying to determine what the engravings say. I’ve consulted two of the country’s leading Egyptologists, who were very excited to see the rubbing I made of the stone.”

  “Rubbing?” He scowled, searching her visually.

  “It’s a transfer process used to make an exact copy of the relief on a stone carving. You take thin paper, like onion skin, and place it over the carvings, then lightly rub the surface of the paper with charcoal. The blacking outlines the ridges and misses the valleys, giving an exact rendering of the carved figures.”

  “And you made one of these ‘rubbings’?” He squinted harder at her.

  She nodded, unable to tell if he was truly interested or merely waiting to deliver another skewering remark.

  “Keeping the stone safely stored, I shared the rubbings with Everett Bitters at Harvard, and with Thomas Stephenson, curator of the Egyptian collection of the Metropolitan Museum. They were unified in the opinion that the origin was Egypt and that one of the figures on the stela— strangely—refers to a king who was not an Egyptian at all.”

  “Yeah? Who was he?” His hand tightened on the edge of the table as he battled a rising interest in her story.

  She leaned closer, both eager for and dreading his response.

  “King Solomon.”

  He gave a harsh hoot of laughter that caused heads to tu
rn their way.

  “The one from the Bible? You don’t really believe that?”

  “I do. And so will you when you’ve seen it with your own two eyes. Come with me.”

  Minutes later, they stood in Cordelia’s suite, looking down at the candlelit stone slab that bore a message in hieroglyphs carved by long-dead scribes. She watched his face as he studied the stone, felt the edges, and gradually extended his examination to the carvings themselves. She could almost see wheels turning in his mind as he explored the worn figures with time-gnarled fingers.

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” She probed for a reaction as she came to stand by him. “According to Dr. Bitters, these particular bird images are generally associated with royalty. These other symbols around it delineate which king or pharaoh is meant. But what is even more remarkable is that reference to this king is always accompanied by another group of symbols.” She waited for him to look up before going on. “Symbols that represent wealth—specifically, riches from the earth.” She braced and took a deep breath. “My experts tell me this stone is very likely the key to the location of the source of the riches that once belonged to King Solomon himself.”

  He apparently understood more than she realized.

  “King Solomon’s Mines,” he concluded. His eyes moved over a mental tally sheet, adding one and one and coming up with: “And you want to go search for this lost treasure, these King Solomon’s Mines.”

  “I do,” she said earnestly. “And I want you to sponsor the expedition.”

  It didn’t take long for her to get an answer.

  “You expect me to lay out thousands—hell, tens of thousands of dollars—so you can go gallivanting all over the world—”

  “Just Africa, actually,” she inserted.

  “Fine, all over Africa”—he amended his complaint with a sardonic tone—“looking for treasure from a fairy tale.”

  “I am proposing a scientific expedition to uncover a legendary source of treasure. And I’m giving you a chance to sponsor a history-making venture.”

  “Well, I’m saying no. You’re beautiful. You’re smart. And you put on about as good a hustle as any I’ve seen… poppin’ the old boys’ eyes out… beatin’ me at chess… invitin’ me to dinner. But the answer’s no.” He drew himself up straight, a glint of satisfaction in his eye. “I didn’t get to where I am by throwin’ money after every damned fool idea some huckster threw at me.”

  “I’m no more a huckster than you are, Mr. Blackburn,” she said, clamping down on her rising anger, using it to energize instead of undermine her response. The stubborn old goat was forcing her to put all of her cards on the table before she was ready, and she couldn’t help resenting him for it. “I might even be tempted to say that we’re cut from the same cloth,” she continued, honing the edge in her voice. “But it would be more accurate to say that I’m cut from your cloth, Mr. Blackburn. Flesh of your flesh. Bone of your bone. Because I happen to be your granddaughter.”

  She had actually managed to surprise him. He scowled, then glared, then grew agitated, a little apoplectic, and finally angry.

  “Now you’ve gone too damned far!” he roared, jabbing his cane at her.

  “Or not far enough.” She shoved the walking stick aside and stalked closer, pushing her face toward his. “I hadn’t intended to tell you—at least not this way—but my birth name is Cordelia O’Keefe Blackburn. My father was Thomas Blackburn, whom you disowned upon his marriage to my mother, Maureen O’Keefe.” She looked him up and down, letting her assessment of him show in her eyes. “Those names must mean something to you even if mine doesn’t.”

  The old man backed away and stood gasping like a fish out of water, his face reddening and his arms twitching at his sides. Then suddenly he stopped dead, holding his breath, staring at her face… scrutinizing, measuring every feature, examining every nuance of texture, shape, and color. He closed his eyes for a minute, gathering himself. When he opened them, they were filled with tangled memories and emotions.

  “Boston born and raised,” she said. “My mother helped to develop the Boston Public Library. For all practical purposes, I grew up there, among the books and the people who used and valued them. It was her connections at Harvard and Vassar that helped me get into college when we had no funds for it. And it was her access to the country’s top scholars and researchers that inspired my curiosity and love of adventure.”

  “H–how do I know you’re telling the truth?” he asked, a tremor in his voice betraying a suspicion that she was doing just that.

  She went to the writing desk for a leather folio and handed it to him.

  “It’s here. Read it for yourself. My birth certificate. Letters my father wrote to you that you returned to him unopened. Copies of the magazines containing my articles. If you need more than that, I’m sure you have the means and resources to find it for yourself.”

  He squeezed the folio as if he could make it cry the truth and glared at her, the tumult in his soul visible in his eyes.

  “I’ll investigate every detail…go through it with a fine-toothed comb. And if I find you’re lying—”

  “You’ll do what? Disinherit me?” Her eyes heated. “I believe you’ve already done that. I’m not asking for a fortune, Mr. Blackburn. I’m asking for backing in a venture that, while risky, could yield you a thousand percent return. I doubt you’ve had an offer like this in years.”

  He fell back one step, and then another. After a moment, he whirled and thumped out the door, slamming it behind him.

  The sound echoed in the breathless silence of the parlor. Hedda came to put her arms around Cordelia’s still-braced shoulders.

  “Well. That went well,” Cordelia said with the half of her voice that wasn’t being squeezed by emotion.

  “Are you all right?” Hedda rubbed Cordelia’s shoulder as she watched her struggle with her emotions. When there was no response, she answered the question for herself and moved on. “What do you think he’ll do?”

  Cordelia felt a prickle at the corners of her eyes. She’d seen in the old man’s face that he’d been truly shaken by her revelations. There was a weakness, after all, in the steel-plate armor around the old boy’s soul. Family. He’d thought he freed himself from all connections, purged himself from the demands of family and feeling years ago. And now, in his twilight years, she’d barged into his life… demanding that he reckon with her… claiming him and challenging him to claim her…if he dared.

  Yes, it was about the money. And exploration. And establishing herself as an explorer to be reckoned with. But it was also about a great deal more.

  “He took the papers with him,” she said, patting Hedda’s hand on her upper arm. “My guess is, he’ll read them.” She took a deep breath. “And he’ll be back.”

  Three

  Hartford Goodnight heard his employer blow through the main door of the Presidential Suite like a typhoon run aground and inserted a bookmark into his page and closed the book. As a stream of invective burst through the bedroom door, he rolled off the old boy’s bed and hastily smoothed the bedclothes behind him.

  When he entered the parlor, Blackburn was stalking furiously back and forth, staring at a leather folio lying on the floor as if it had fangs and rattles. Goodnight frowned. Anything that could rouse such trepidation in Samuel P. Blackburn had to be potent indeed.

  “Get me a bourbon,” the old man ordered without looking up.

  “Well, well. In the mood for a little pain, are we?” Goodnight headed for the liquor cabinet that Blackburn insisted on carrying everywhere with him even though he was strictly prohibited from imbibing. “I take it dinner with your ‘beauty’ didn’t quite live up to your expectations.”

  “I don’t pay you to give me lip,” the old man snarled.

  “No you don’t. I throw that in for free,” Goodnight said, refraining from mentioning the fact that the old man didn’t pay him at all. That it was he, in fact, who was paying the old man. With his presence and serv
ice.

  He came to stand beside his employer, holding a tray containing half a glass of bourbon, and staring down at the folio on the floor.

  “Dare I hope it’s venomous?”

  The old man looked up at him and the glass of certain pain he was holding. There was something unsettling in those aged eyes, something unprecedented, something that almost made him regret his jibe.

  The old man snatched the glass from the tray and barreled over to a stuffed chair, where he sat holding the liquor and gazing into it. After a long moment, he aimed a curt hand at the door, indicating he wanted to be alone.

  Goodnight stood for a moment, watching the old man, torn between an intrinsic concern for the pain of others and righteous pleasure at the old devil’s discomfort. Still…

  With a soft huff, he shoved the leather ottoman over to the old man and bent to lift the gouty foot onto the stool without touching the extra-sensitive toes. Then, caught hard in the grip of conflicting urges, he retrieved the folio and placed it on the table at the old man’s elbow.

  There was no thanks—there never was—but there was also no sneer or cutting reminder of his servile status. There was nothing in the old man’s stare. Nothing at all.

  With a frown, Goodnight backed to the door and exited for his own room in the economy section of the hotel. The sight of the old man slumped in the chair, gripping a bourbon he dared not drink and looking grimly at that leather folio, stayed with him as he stretched out, diagonally, on his too-short bed. He’d give another full year on his cursed “indenture” to find out what was in that folder.

  The banging on the door the next morning was loud enough to rattle the teacups on the room service tray between Cordelia and Aunt Hedda. They sat at the parlor table in their dressing gowns, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper and the day’s schedule of events at the hotel.