four
Dear Lord above. Penelope prayed that she could get the door closed with Tucker on the other side of it, and he looked almost stunned enough for her to succeed.
Until he didn’t.
His features turned sharp, resolute, in an instant. Putting his shoulder into the wooden frame around the glass window, he leaned against it, even as she pressed her back to the door. She could not very well face him now. Not after that. Not when she didn’t have a clue what she was supposed to say.
They talked about everything. But this was so ridiculous it didn’t fall into that category.
“Penelope Jean Hunter.” He growled her name, and she prayed the floor of her office would open up and swallow her whole. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about any of this. About Winston and Emmaline and not actually dating Tucker. About Mrs. Haywood and her not-so-veiled threats about moving her event. And about what that might mean for this job she loved.
Letting Emmaline believe she was dating Tucker didn’t fit into any plan she’d ever made. It was more like a bomb set to destroy every single one of her lists.
This was not good. Neither was the way her shoes slid across the wood floor. She scrambled for traction, but the slick bottom of her pumps could find none with Tucker trying to bulldoze his way through the door.
She leaned all of her weight against the frame. She supposed she was going to have to face him at some point. She couldn’t very well eliminate him from her life. Not after so many years.
She wouldn’t mind a little reprieve though. A moment to collect her thoughts and fully identify why she’d done what she’d done. Only, she’d already told him the truth.
She wanted Winston to know she’d moved on. Maybe she hadn’t romantically, but she had emotionally. She was certain of it. She had to be. After all, she’d made a plan to get over him, and she’d stuck to it.
- Eat all the wedding cake. (Not productive, but still worth it.)
- Remove every picture of him from her apartment.
- Talk through the anger.
- Stay busy. Join the women’s Tuesday night Bible study at church, find the perfect job, and start volunteering.
- Join a gym.
- Delete all of his shows from her DVR. She’d never liked those insipid nature documentaries anyway.
- Adopt a furry friend.
- Forgive Winston.
Okay, so she hadn’t so much talked through her anger toward Winston as she’d let Tucker strap unwieldy boxing gloves on her hands and punched a big blue bag until she couldn’t lift her arms. After that she’d had no interest in going to a gym, but the puppy she’d adopted from the shelter did require her to walk every morning and evening. So that kind of balanced out. And she’d refrained from calling the zoo to see if they’d name a cockroach after Winston.
She’d worked through the plan—most of it anyway. So it did not explain why she was at all concerned about what Winston thought. And thus, why she’d let Winston and Emmaline believe this particular lie. And why she didn’t want to talk with Tucker about it.
Easing off the door, she slid forward, and then Tucker was inside her office, the door slamming behind him.
Slowly she turned around. He wasn’t so much a thundercloud as those gray clouds that twisted and stretched to let a glimpse of sunshine through the rain, unsure of his next move.
She tried for a soothing smile. That failed to make any dent in his expression.
And why should it? She was the one who had stepped over the line—the always understood, never spoken line. They were friends. Never more. Never less.
“I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad.”
The lines at the corners of his eyes said he was still trying to decide how he felt.
“Okay, I’m gonna fix this. I promise.”
He let out a long sigh and ran a hand over his hair. It was too short to run his fingers through it, but it got his point across. “Didn’t you tell me last week that I needed to find a proper date for these election events? What’s Winston going to think when I’m photographed with someone else at the mayor’s banquet next week?”
“I know. I know. I’m sorry.” She gulped for a breath and tried for another smile, but something inside her clenched, stealing her breath. “Do you have one?”
“One what?”
“A date?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. I’ve been . . . distracted.”
By the election and the letter and some missing treasure and a missing aunt. “Right. I’m sorry. It wasn’t my idea, if that helps.”
He raised an eyebrow, the lines of his forehead easing a fraction.
“Emmaline suggested it. She asked how long we’d been together. And I tried to correct her. But . . .”
“Let me guess. Winston whisked her out of there before you could.”
She shrugged. It sounded terrible. But it was the truth. “Pretty much.”
Pacing the short distance to the wall and back to the door, Tucker crossed one arm over his chest and tugged on the short hairs at his chin with the other hand. “Do you think this is going to stay under wraps?”
“Do you mean, has Anabelle Haywood gotten ahold of it yet? I don’t know. I don’t imagine Winston would be eager to tell the whole world about it. But Emmaline is the unknown here.”
He nodded slowly, still strolling, still rubbing at his beard. He kept it trimmed—if a little patchy—and he still played with it most days. She’d thought about running her own fingers through it only a handful of times in the last few years. She would count that as a win.
“And you want Winston to think we’re dating?”
“No.” The word popped out before she could analyze it for its truth. When she paused for a single breath, she let it out on a sigh. “I don’t know.” She offered a shrug while trying to read the expression on his stone features. Nothing there. Nothing readable, anyway. “I just want him to know that I’m not pining after him, that he didn’t ruin my life. I’m fine. I’m great. Really.”
Tucker shot her a look like she was trying a little too hard, and she clamped her mouth shut. Crossing and uncrossing his arms a couple times, he finally nodded. “Well, then I think we should date.”
She nearly swallowed her tongue, which led to a coughing fit that shook her to her very core and made the skin of her upper arms sting with its violent force.
Tucker ran to her side, held her elbow, and gave her back three solid thumps.
“Excuse me.” She wheezed the words, not even sure if she was apologizing for the scene or asking him to clarify. Both, maybe.
“You okay?” He held her by the shoulders and looked into her face. At arm’s length, she could clearly see his eyes. They were gray and wild like the sky over the ocean before a storm, and she’d have given anything for them to be the serene blue they normally were.
“You want to date? Me?” She swept a hand down her front, not quite sure what she was trying to point out. Maybe it was the extra pounds that she’d always carried in her hips. It could have been her age—she was almost a year older than him. Or perhaps it was just that she had never been for him.
He’d never once suggested that he wanted anything more than friendship. So she’d never let her mind linger on such thoughts. Aside from a handful of notable exceptions, she’d kept her interest in him purely platonic. It was safe that way. Better. If she didn’t love him as more than a friend, he could never break her heart. He could never choose someone else and walk away. Like Winston. Like her dad.
And now this?
Before he responded to her last question, she tacked on another one. “What on earth is wrong with you? We can’t date!”
“Not for real. For now. For you to get through Winston’s wedding. And me . . .”
“To get through the election.”
He shrugged. “Would it be so bad?”
Two possible outcomes played out in her mind’s eye. One ended up with their friendship intact and their summer successful. The other ended up more like Chernobyl. Shaking her head quickly, she said, “Nope. No way. I’m not going to pretend to date you.”
“You already are.”
She grunted and stomped across the office to her desk, then perched on the edge and stared him down. He clearly hadn’t thought about what this might do to their relationship. It was safe, and it was the most stable one in her life—save her mom. But she only saw her mom for Sunday lunch and special occasions. Tucker was part of every single one of her days.
“I am not pretending to date you. There was just a little mix-up. I’ll get it straightened out. And then it’ll be like nothing happened.”
He slipped across the floor without a sound, not even drowning out the tick of his watch, and lowered himself beside her. “Hear me out?”
“Fine.”
He crossed his long legs at the ankles and stared somewhere near her red high heels. He smelled of biscuits and the river and the blue sky. He smelled of Savannah. “Here’s the thing. If the gossip mill has already heard, then correcting this misunderstanding is going to make everything worse—your job, my election, both of our lives.”
She could almost hear Mrs. Haywood’s scathing retort to the whole debacle. “What kind of nonsense is this? Is this how Penelope runs her events? The Ladies’ League will never stand for such an association with a traitor.”
Her stomach took a nosedive, and she wrapped her arms across her middle. Mrs. Haywood was more than half her problem, but solving that particular dilemma would require more time with Tucker—no matter what they called it. “I don’t want to lie.”
“Me neither.” He pulled on his beard a little longer. “What if we just don’t make a big deal out of it? We neither confirm nor deny the status of our relationship. We attend events together.”
“And you pick me up for lunches when Winston is here.”
He nodded. “And we try to find the treasure—or some proof that my ancestors weren’t Southern traitors. It won’t really be all that different from our real life. I mean, we already spend more time together than the average dating couple.”
She held up her hand to stop his rambling. “I absolutely will not lie to your parents.”
“And I’m not going to mislead your mom.”
“So we . . . what? Let them assume we’re together?”
He shook his head. “Or we tell them that nothing’s changed. That they shouldn’t believe everything they hear.”
She squinted at him, trying to read the thoughts behind his eyes. He couldn’t possibly be serious about this whole thing. Not when all she could see was how this could go so terribly wrong. And then what? Was their entire friendship at risk?
“And after?” she asked. “After Winston’s wedding? After the election? What then?”
His hand curled around the lip of the desk, his fingers drumming slowly. “We’ll be friends again.” He reached for her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. “This is a little outside our norm, huh? I’m sorry if I surprised you. But I trust you. Always. I know this is safe. With you.”
It was like he could read her mind. Like he’d been reading it for years.
Bowing her head, she stared at the enormous paw encasing her hand. “I’m not sure it’s safe.” Lifting her gaze with a tentative smile, she nodded. “But I trust you too.”
“I’m not sure it’s safe.”
Tucker had been trying to shake off PJ’s words for more than twenty-four hours, but even through the night he’d heard them in his dreams. He wasn’t quite sure what she’d meant by that, but they’d been interrupted by a call from her boss, and she’d sent him on his way, leaving him to wonder just how stupid he’d been.
He hadn’t given much forethought to the idea before blurting out that they should date each other. But it had come so naturally. It had seemed expected. There wasn’t another woman in Savannah he wanted by his side at these ridiculous election parties. Not that he’d been looking, exactly.
After his last deployment, he’d needed some time to readjust, to remember what normal was—who normal was. It had taken him all of three minutes back on American soil to realize it was Penelope Jean Hunter. She made everything recognizable. Putting together a business plan for Westbrook Security had been brand-new and seriously overwhelming, but laughing with her in a praline-induced sugar haze until two in the morning had made it seem like something he’d done a hundred times. Even the new things were familiar with her. Like the evening walks with her yappy little mutt, Ambrose, who was new since her failed wedding. Strolling the uneven sidewalks of historic Savannah with PJ made him feel like he’d never left her side.
Why should this election be any different? He and PJ. Taking on the world. Or at least Buddy Jepson.
Of course, that didn’t explain why his steps had been slower than usual, his concentration shot over the last twenty-four hours.
He tried to shake the strange weight on his shoulders and stop the endless questions running through his mind, but he couldn’t. So he trudged up the steps to the Westbrook family home, head bowed and heart in his throat. No matter what he and PJ had decided the day before, he still needed her help to find this treasure.
Lord, please let there be a treasure. And please let us find it.
When he reached the front door, he finally looked up to take in the expanse. Shuttered windows on each side of the door matched others on every floor, their white paint pristine and vibrant in the evening’s diminishing light. The three-story brick home had housed Westbrooks as far back as the turn of the twentieth century. Probably longer. He’d just failed to pay close attention to the home’s history when Aunt Shirley had told him about it. In his defense, he’d been only seven and much more interested in climbing trees and swimming in creeks at the time.
When he was fifteen, he’d had a particularly bad blowup with his dad, and Aunt Shirley had told him he was welcome here. “Whether I’m here or not, this door is always open for you.”
The house was also his best hope for some information about his Civil War–era ancestors. With a quick rap on the door, he inserted the key and turned the lock. As he pushed the door open, it creaked into the darkness, letting only a small patch of light in.
He didn’t need more. He’d been treading these threadbare carpets long enough to know the corner of the end table that had taken out more than one Westbrook kneecap and the upholstery nail in the arm of the sofa that had snagged his mother’s Christmas sweater the year before.
Dodging those and a few other potential land mines, he reached the far wall and flipped on the light. It was dim yellow, turning every knickknack and piece of furniture in the room sepia toned.
“Aunt Shirley? You home? It’s Tucker.” He expected his call to echo back to him. The house was full of belongings and packed with memories, but it felt empty. No one was home.
“I thought you said she was gone.”
His heart slammed against his rib cage, and he gulped a breath. Spinning, he eyed PJ at the open door. She was wearing faded green shorts and a gray T-shirt with the words “But first we plan.” Her standard high heels had been replaced by well-worn sneakers, which explained why she’d been able to sneak up on him.
When his heartbeat slowed, he finally responded to her. “She is gone—I think. I just wanted to make sure. I wouldn’t put it past her to claim to be out of town but really be hiding out at home to avoid Sunday family brunch.”
The corners of PJ’s eyes crinkled, and he wondered if she would start using Aunt Shirley’s tricks. A confirmed bachelorette, Aunt Shirley had bucked her generation’s convention—and the title of old maid—and lived a full life of verve and joy. PJ might do the same. If she never married.
But that was ridiculous. Of course she’d marry.
Why was he thinking about PJ getting married? Again. He’d been thinking about her matrimonial state far too much recently. And it was none of his business.
Except that he was “dating” her until the end of the summer.
Taking a step toward her, he gave her his most dazzling grin. “Glad you could make it tonight, hot stuff.”
She cringed. “What is wrong with you?”
Bumping her elbow with his, he gave her a sly wink. “You know. We’re dating. Together.”
Putting her hands on her hips, she looked him right in the eye and gave her head one solid shake. “Not if you keep talking like that. No boyfriend of mine is going to call me ‘hot stuff.’”
She shook her head.
“Honey?”
“No.”
“Schmoopsie?”
“That’s a hard pass.”
The corners of his lips twitched as she crossed her arms, tilted her chin down, and glared at him like a librarian. Fighting to keep his smile from revealing how much fun he was having, he asked, “Well, what should I call you?”
“PJ is just fine.” Her face was like stone, giving away nothing. But the tiniest flicker in her voice promised she wasn’t mad. Promised he could go a few more rounds. Just not tonight. Tonight they had work to do.
After closing the front door behind her, he led the way up the stairs to the third floor and ducked into the room that had once been his father’s. The walls were tight, almost hugging the sides of the full-size bed, and the sparse furnishings—a three-drawer dresser, small desk, and chair—were at least twice his dad’s age. But they were dust-free, and the pillows on the bed looked freshly fluffed.
On the far wall, partially hidden by the wrought-iron bed frame, a white half-door broke the strands of ivy in the pale green wallpaper. He strode across the room and bent to open it. Tired hinges let out a terrible cry as a wave of heat from behind the door threatened to bowl him over.
“Ack!” PJ cried, clapping a hand over her nose and mouth. The heat carried the distinctly moldy smell of a shut-up attic, and she jumped back.
He didn’t blame her. His mother would call the attic unpleasant. He called it an evening activity.
She shook her head. “Do we have to?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Having second thoughts?”
“And third and fourth.” She leaned to peer around him, her eyes focused on something deep in the darkness beyond, nose wrinkled and lips puckered. “Do you really think there’s something in there that is going to help us?”
“Excuse me.” He crossed his arms. “This was as much your idea as mine.”
“Fine.” She huffed out a breath of air and, if he wasn’t mistaken, followed that with a quick gasp. She held her breath as she bent over and crawled through the portal into the darkness.
Flipping on the flashlight on his phone, he followed her in and swung the beam of light around the room. The steep ceiling slope made the room feel smaller than a bread box, the center aisle the only place he could stand without hunching. It was also the only space not piled with something. And, oh, there were so many somethings. Couches and chairs, fabric faded. Antique steamer trunks stacked upon more trunks. Metal dress forms, naked—except for the one wearing a women’s suit with a rather well-endowed rear end. That must have been the style once upon a time. Now it just looked creepy.
The far back wall included several stacks of newspapers, but even in the dim light from his phone, the black-and-white pages looked frail, like a faint wind might sweep them away.
And over it all hung a thick layer of dust and strategically placed cobwebs.
PJ picked up a hatbox from the rolltop desk beside her, dislodging a cloud of dust. She immediately coughed, then gagged.
“It’s not so bad,” Tucker said, trying to find something hopeful in the mess.
“I think we have differing opinions.”
“Do you want to go?”
She rolled her eyes. “I want to complain.”
“Fair enough.” Sometimes a person just needed to grumble. PJ more than some. But it never lasted long. “Maybe if we hurry, we can make it to Leopold’s for a scoop of ice cream before it closes.”
She eyed him with a narrow gaze, then looked at her hands, which were already covered in dust. “You think they’d let us in without hosing us down first?”
“Only one way to find out.”
They dug in, taking opposite sides of the attic, opening every box and weathered suitcase. He wasn’t sure what they were looking for, only that he hoped they’d know it when they found it. It probably wouldn’t have a giant sign on it saying EVIDENCE THAT REFUTES JEPSON’S LETTER. But that wasn’t going to stop him from praying that it might be just as clear. God, if you could see clear to showing us the way, I’d be grateful.
A twist in his gut reminded him he hadn’t bothered to pray about much bigger life decisions. Like entering the election. And he should have. He should have done a lot of things before marching down to the county election commission and adding his name to the ballot. He should have asked God for some wisdom—a lot of wisdom. He should have asked PJ what she thought—after all, she’d talked him out of many a stupid decision. He should have taken a deep breath, counted to ten, and walked away.
But he hadn’t. Because he was impulsive and reckless. And now he had to win an election he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to.
Losing simply wasn’t an option. For one specific reason.
The light on his phone shivered over a stack of photo albums before his hand registered the vibration of the incoming call. He glanced at the screen.
Perfect. That one specific reason chose this moment to call.
Glancing toward PJ, he shrugged. “I’ve got to take this. I’ll be right back.”
“Oh, sure.” She mumbled something about how convenient it was, but she kept digging, her own flashlight illuminating her sorted piles.
The notable change in temperature and aroma in the bedroom didn’t relieve the tension in his shoulders as he accepted the call and put the phone to his ear. “Hey, Dad.”