by Liz Johnson
“Hey, I’ve got a stake in this now too.” He winked, and she laughed. “You can’t be the only one coming up with ideas.”
“Fair enough.” She glanced back down at the diary. If—and that was still a big if—there was a treasure map in these pages, it was hidden in the words, somewhere in Ruth’s memories. And someone was going to have to ferret it out.
Before she suggested that she take the diary home, Ben scooted across his bench seat and glanced at his watch with a shake of his head. “It’s late. I have to be up for work in five hours.”
“You work the day shift too?” The question popped out even before she fully formed the reason behind it. If he was at the Chateau during the day, maybe he could uncover information that she didn’t have access to during her night shifts.
But he didn’t give an affirmative reply. “No. I teach a couple classes at the Georgia Coast College in Brunswick on Tuesdays and Thursdays while I’m working on my PhD.”
“Oh. That sounds nice.” She sounded lame. And it sounded like he had to work two jobs and go to school. No wonder he was interested in the money.
With a shrug and a hand covering his yawn, he said, “It’s not bad. Except the eight a.m. class is filled with a bunch of sleepers.” The corner of his mouth ticked up a notch. “But that might not be a bad thing tomorrow. They won’t mind if I cut class a little short.”
“So what are we going to do?”
“I’m going to go home and get some sleep. And then we’re going to find that treasure.”
“You really think it’s there?” Again her tongue got ahead of her, and she hated the uncertainty she’d just displayed. She wanted—maybe even needed—his help.
He lifted a shoulder. “I think your grandma knows something, like you said. That diary was just where she said it would be. So you better start reading.”
“You’re going to let me take it home?”
“Well, we can’t read it at the same time, so one of us is going to have to go first. I figured since it’s your family history, you should do it.”
June 15, 1929
Dear Diary,
The Chateau is beyond anything I could have dreamed. I had heard of the opulence and luxury, of course. The stories reached clear to Madison and certainly into the heart of Atlanta. They likely go much farther. How could they not?
Mr. Dawkins’s gilded roof must be visible from a mile out to sea. Three stories tall and more than enough lighted windows to guide a ship to safety. Now that I am here, I can hardly believe my good fortune.
Our party is quite diverse. Jane and I are first-time visitors, of course, but Mr. Dawkins has made us feel especially welcome as guests of his particular friend, Miss Lucille Globe. We met her at the bank and were too eager to hear her stories about being on the radio. Can you imagine? Her life is ever so glamorous. She spends her days on the studio stage and her evenings on the arm of one of the richest men in America. We could hardly believe that she would invite us to spend the summer with her on St. Simons Island. How could we decline?
The rest of our party is nearly as glamorous as Lucille. Angelique, a singer who nightly entertains us in the parlor, has been here often, accompanying her brother, Mr. Claude Devereaux. He is the most dashing radio producer, and I was seated next to him at dinner last evening. He spoke endlessly of his travels through Europe, visiting family in France and London.
I confess that I could not follow all of Mr. Devereaux’s conversation for his most distracting mustache. It is sleek and trimmed and ever so handsome. I could not look away. His eyes are rich like warm chocolate before bed, and they seemed to look right into me.
He invited me to go swimming this morning, and I accepted, perhaps faster than Mama would think proper. But what is the purpose of being at such a place without having some fun this summer?
I must prepare. We’re to meet shortly.
June 16, 1929
Oh my! I can hardly breathe for recalling yesterday’s ordeal.
I had planned to meet Mr. Devereaux at the agreed-upon time, and Jane had promised to accompany me. However, she awoke late and was still at breakfast when I went down to the pool.
There wasn’t a soul around, but Mr. Devereaux had assured me he would meet me. So when I found the deck empty, I peeked around the Grecian columns to be sure he wasn’t hiding. But they are too narrow to conceal a man of Mr. Devereaux’s stature. His shoulders are so broad, and when he and his sister played lawn tennis, he rolled up his shirt sleeves enough to reveal rather sculpted forearms. He puts the statues in Mr. Dawkins’s gallery to shame. He must do more than sit behind a desk at the radio network, or he could not possibly look as he does. And Mama would approve of a man who works hard, like the farmhands back home.
After several minutes, I decided to slip into the water. The sun was so warm, and I looked up as I stepped in. My foot landed on something slick on the top step. Perhaps it was one of the gold tiles Mr. Dawkins had installed along the bottom of the pool. I flung my arms about and screamed as I splashed into the water, but I hit my head on the edge of the deck, and then all went black.
I remember nothing until I woke up coughing and choking. It felt like my throat was on fire as my stomach writhed to release all I had swallowed. And then a face appeared right above me, the unforgiving deck to my back. The face was familiar, but I could not quite place it.
“Miss Holiday? Miss Holiday, are you well?” His voice was gentle and kind, his eyes even more so. They were so soft, like pasture grass warmed beneath the summer sun, but worry and concern filled them too. His skin held the deep tan of a man who worked outdoors.
Only after assessing all of that did I realize that his dark brown hair was dripping down his face. His pale blue shirt clung to his chest and around his arms as though he’d gone swimming in it.
“Miss Holiday, I’m going to go for help. Will you be all right here?”
His words did not immediately make any sense to me. Perhaps he read my confusion on my face, for he brushed a wet strand of hair off my forehead. His fingers were infinitely gentle, but my head suddenly felt like a melon crushed by a hammer. Mama would have been so embarrassed, but I could not help it. I began to cry.
He did not seem to mind, merely scooping me into his arms and carrying me like a child. He moved quickly but never jarred my still throbbing head, and quickly we arrived in the dining room.
Jane gasped and Lucille scrambled toward us, demanding to know what on earth had happened. Her high-pitched squeal only made the pounding at my temple increase, but her hands quickly guided the man to the sofa. As he laid me down, he told them what had happened, then stepped away. I could only see him from the corner of my eye, his hands in front of him as though holding a hat.
Lucille asked if he had gone in after me, her gaze darting between us as though pursuing another story. As though there could possibly be any explanation other than the one he gave.
He looked up, and our gazes met. His was so warm that I nearly forgot to shiver in the cool house, my skin still damp and my hair soaked through. He gave her a “yes, ma’am” that was as sweet as peach preserves.
And then suddenly Jane was there, wrapping a blanket around me and holding me close. She apologized profusely for letting me go alone and begged to know if I was terribly hurt.
I tried to give her a small smile. But then Mr. Devereaux descended on the room, his apologies overflowing and rattling around my head.
Finally it was Mr. Dawkins who arrived, stilling the room with his quiet words. Shaking hands with the man who rescued me, he called him George and thanked him for his service before sending him to go clean up.
George looked at me again and gave a small nod, and I tried to thank him with my eyes. I would have surely drowned if not for his quick action. And I don’t even know his last name.
Mr. Devereaux stayed nearby me for the rest of the day, ever watchful until he saw me to my room. I decided to eat upstairs, as I could not manage to dress myself for dinner.
When we first arrived, Jane and I were assigned one of the cottages near the pool. However, after the ordeal, Lucille insisted we be in a room in the house, near her and Angelique and the two actresses from Mr. Devereaux’s latest soap opera. It was quite kind of her, and I slept very well.
I am ashamed to admit it even here, but I dreamed about a blue cotton shirt stretched across a broad chest last night.
four
Millie looked over her shoulder down the empty corridor, expecting someone to tell her to go back where she belonged. But the hall was empty, the only noise trickling from behind closed classroom doors. Well, that and the squeaking of the rubber soles of her shoes on the tile floor. No one peeked around the sterile corner at the end of the hall and told her to leave, so she took several more steps, swallowing the strange sensation that made the back of her throat itch.
Checking the scrap of paper in her hand, she confirmed the room number: 122. Ben had scratched it onto the back of her receipt from the coffee shop, along with directions to the history building at the college, before leaving the night before. She’d thanked him, mostly grateful that she didn’t have to pay for another cup of coffee when they met up again. Such frivolities weren’t in her budget.
The second-to-last door in the hallway was marked with a tan plaque identifying it. But this one was closed too.
That bothersome itch returned to her throat, and she scratched at her neck. Maybe this was an indicator that she shouldn’t be here. She’d never even been on a college campus before.
But it wasn’t her fault that she’d landed herself a partner. Or that he happened to be something of a smarty-pants.
She pressed her ear to the door just as a chorus of laughter broke out.
Was it possible he was funny too? There was only one way to find out. She turned the latch as silently as possible and opened the door a crack.
“Not quite, Mr. Thurber. The American Revolution wasn’t started by a bunch of farmers with muskets looking for free tea.” It was definitely Ben’s voice, but there was a lightness to it, a bit of humor woven into every phrase, and she stepped toward it. “These men—Revere, Adams, Jefferson, Washington—they were facing the greatest military of the time, so they’d better believe in more than their right to drink tea.”
Suddenly Ben looked directly at Millie, and his voice trailed off. She froze. Oh dear. She’d stepped all the way inside the room behind a dozen rows of desks. A push at the door behind her proved that it had shut all the way, and she tried for an apologetic smile. It felt more like a grimace.
But Ben didn’t seem to mind. The corner of his mouth quirked up, and he raised his eyebrows as he nodded to an empty seat three rows down.
Sit. Right. That would be less conspicuous.
She slid into the chair, and the girl in the next seat glanced at her questioningly. But before Millie could respond, the other girl grinned. “I’d sneak into this class to see him too.”
Millie almost swallowed her tongue.
At least she didn’t have to respond. The girl turned back toward the front of the room, propping her chin in her hand, a dreamy look settling across her features.
Millie tried to follow the exact path of her stare, which seemed to land on Ben as he paced before a large whiteboard. The student was clearly enamored. But Millie couldn’t tell exactly why.
Tracing his movements, she stared hard. He wasn’t particularly striking—certainly not the hero type in the books she loved to read. He couldn’t serve as a stand-in for Sir Robert, the medieval knight in her current read. Tall and a little lanky, Ben wore a corduroy jacket that was a bit too big across his shoulders. The leather patches on the elbows made him look like a man lost in time, one who belonged two or three generations before.
A student in the second row raised her hand, and Ben pointed at her. “So what is it they believed in?” she asked.
Ben ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling his dark waves, and a broad smile broke free. “That’s what I want to know.” He turned his back to the room and picked up a black marker. “Three pages answering the question, Which of the Founding Fathers’ beliefs would have prompted you to join them in the war with England?”
“All of them?”
He glanced over his shoulder at the boy who had interrupted. “Well, who’d you have in mind?” There was a long pause before Ben gave him a knowing smile. “Sam Adams, I suppose.”
A wave of red crept up the boy’s neck until his cheeks flamed.
“Yes, he brewed his own beer. No, you may not write an essay on his belief in good alcohol.”
The whole class giggled as Ben finished outlining the assignment on the whiteboard. “Might I suggest choosing one or two key topics and unpacking why those who supported them did so and why you agree? Don’t try to cram all of them into one paper. I’m looking for a thoughtful consideration rather than a regurgitation of the Declaration of Independence. That’s why I’m giving you a week.” His eyebrows went up again. “Questions?”
When there were none, he dismissed the class.
Millie was glued to her seat. Her first college class. She’d just survived her first—and only. Okay, so it was more like the last seven minutes of the class. But still. It had been fun.
She frowned. Classes had never included laughter and teasing during her school years. They’d been focused and demanding and utterly boring. Somehow her teachers had even managed to make literature a yawn.
Could a good teacher make that much of a difference? Given the smiles and chatter of the students filing down the aisle and out of the classroom, apparently so.
She was so wrapped up in watching the interaction of the young students that she didn’t notice she had an audience until his shadow fell across her desk. Glancing way up, she met Ben’s deep blue gaze as he crossed his arms.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were going to be in the middle of class. I’d have waited outside.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up. “No problem.” There was an unspoken question in the squint of his eyes, but she couldn’t quite make it out.
“I . . .” Searching for a response, she dropped her gaze to the line at the corner of his mouth.
Lips pinched together, he seemed to lean forward, waiting. On her.
“Um . . . I’ve never seen such a fun class.” His grin returned, so she spit out another compliment. “I really enjoyed it.”
Ben nodded, dropped his arms to his sides, and tilted his head toward the desk at the front of the room. “I’m glad. I had fun teaching it.”
There was nothing to do but follow him, so she ambled a few paces behind him. “Is this . . . what class is it?”
“History 120—A Survey of American History.”
“Summer school?”
He glanced up from where he straightened a stack of papers, his lips pursed to the side.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Of course it was summer school. It was the middle of June. But the only thing she knew about school at this time of year was related to making up a geometry class that she’d bombed during the regular semester. Worst summer of her life.
“I mean, are they making up a class that they failed?” He probably thought she was an idiot.
His gaze darted to the closed door as a snort escaped the back of his throat. “Um, no.”
“Oh.” Perfect. Now he knew she was an idiot.
“Most of them are trying to get ahead so they can graduate early. Some of them are nontraditional students.” He must have read the confusion on her face, and he quickly defined the unfamiliar term. “They have full-time jobs or families and can’t take a full course load, so they take whatever classes they can squeeze into their schedules.”
She pressed her hands together and frowned. That was an option—fitting in the classes you could manage? It hadn’t been when she’d been in high school, which was why she’d ended up in summer school in the first place.
But there wasn’t anything to do about it now. That summ
er was gone. And this one promised so much more. An extra job. A treasure hunt. Riches beyond anything even in her favorite novels.
And maybe even a new family name. Claude Devereaux might be her great-grandfather. Or he might not be. But it was clear even in the first few pages of Ruth’s diary that she was smitten. And if the summer of 1929 played out as Millie hoped, she could be part of a family that had never had to pinch pennies. She closed her eyes and sighed, lost in the possibilities of that what-if until Ben cleared his throat, a question seeming to punctuate the sound.
Shaking off her daydream, Millie snapped her gaze to meet his. “Sorry. I must have . . .” Spaced out. Like the idiot he already knew she was. “You’re pretty good at this.” She waved at the whiteboard still covered in his neat block letters. “Why not do it full-time?”
Something close to a scowl flickered across his features. It was there only a moment and then vanished, but his eyes remained narrowed for a long second, and she was beyond thankful that the weight of his gaze fell on the loose pages in his hands.
“You know. Between working on my PhD and life. I guess there are extenuating circumstances.”
“Like what?”
His eyes flashed in her direction, and she immediately looked around for a place to hide. No such luck, unless she crawled under one of the desks. “Never mind.”
He stabbed his fingers through his hair, sending his hair into even more disarray. “It’s been . . . these last few years have been tough.”
Like Ramen noodles seven days a week, tough? Like splurging on a bike only because it meant not having to pay for gas? Like running the air-conditioning once a week as a special treat? He didn’t confirm as much, but she knew a thing or two about those. Maybe that’s why he didn’t have to spell it all the way out. Sometimes she could just tell with people who shared the same struggles. It wasn’t quite a secret handshake, but it might as well be. Theirs was a club no one wanted to join.
But if he was really a member, how had he reached this point? Not only a graduate of college but teaching at one.