five
Your mother tells me that you picked up the key to the old house today.”
Tucker took a deep breath and tried not to dwell on his dad’s curt tone. He dived in without preamble or pause, per usual. Doctors didn’t have time to dawdle. At least that’s what he’d always said while Tucker was growing up.
“Are you looking in on her place while she’s gone?”
“Umm . . .” He was tempted to stretch the truth. What was the harm in agreeing with his dad? Except he’d find out. When Aunt Shirley returned, his dad would certainly ask her why she’d called on her nephew instead of her brother to care for the old place. And Tucker didn’t need to give his father one more reason for disapproval.
“Not exactly. I was hoping to find out a little more about the Westbrook family history. I thought she might have something in the attic.”
They were both silent for a very long moment. Then his dad spoke like his lip had curled. “Is this about that ridiculous letter in the paper?”
Maybe. Probably. None of your business.
He bit back each of those responses and tried for something a little more diplomatic. Wasn’t that what politicians were supposed to do?
“I’m going to have to address it at some point. Might as well have the truth on my side.”
His dad grunted. For a man with multiple advanced degrees, who had lectured eloquently for more than a dozen years, he should have been able to come up with something more. But where Tucker was concerned, he rarely had.
“I don’t suppose you have any information about our family’s history.”
Another grunt. This one mostly disbelief. “Your aunt is the unofficial genealogist in the family. She has time to track that stuff down.”
Tucker pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes closed, trying not to let his old man’s words get to him. Beneath the subtle comment about Aunt Shirley having time to track history down was a belief in a hierarchy of employment. And doctors were at the very top. Security experts, not so much.
“Thanks anyway. I’ll talk with her as soon as she gets back.”
His dad sighed, as though this conversation was almost more than he could bear. “Be careful with all that, with uncovering something we’d rather forget. If you don’t leave well enough alone, you could affect more than your election.”
What did the family wish would remain lost to history? He’d never heard his dad talk about anything like that, and something inside him latched on to the question. What would they rather keep hidden?
“Not that it’s going to affect your election.”
And there it was. The punch that always came. The left hook that always reminded him what his dad really thought.
“You don’t really believe you can beat Buddy Jepson, do you?”
Oh, that was a twofer. First, he couldn’t possibly win the election. Second, he was foolish for ever thinking he might.
The pressure behind his eyes slid to his temples, and he rubbed them in slow circles instead of looking for a response. There wasn’t one when his dad got like this. But maybe that would change if his dad could see him as more than the scholastic failure he’d once been.
“I have a campaign dinner in a couple weeks.” Tucker paused, hoping his dad would jump in. He didn’t. “It’s really more of a fundraising meet and greet, but PJ is planning it, so you know the food is going to be great and there’ll be a local band. You and Mom should come.”
“I’ll talk with your mother.”
Well, that went well. Shaking his head and glancing over his shoulder toward the partially open half door, he said, “I’ve got to go. PJ is waiting for me.”
His dad made a noise, and Tucker was pretty sure it was because he thought Tucker wasn’t good enough for her.
It wasn’t true. And he’d cling to that like a life raft in the middle of the ocean.
He’d also wonder if there might be a shred of truth in his dad’s implication, whether he wanted to or not.
Hanging up after a quick goodbye, Tucker reached for the door but paused before stooping to enter. His dad was worried there was something in the Westbrook past that should remain hidden, and only one person would know if it was connected to the letter Jepson had unearthed.
Pressing a button, he called his aunt. Again. Third try in as many days and third time he’d been sent straight to voicemail.
“Aunt Shirley, hey. It’s Tucker. Listen, I had a strange conversation with my dad. He made it seem like there were some things in our family’s past that he’d rather remain hidden. But I’m looking for some proof that the Civil War Westbrooks weren’t Southern traitors. Or at least something to point us to a lost treasure. This all came out in a letter that Buddy Jepson found. Anyway, I know it’s random, but if you know anything that might help . . . well, would you call me?”
He hung up and ducked back into the attic, the heat immediately making sweat break out across his neck and back. PJ stood on the far side of the room, reading something she was holding in one hand and wiping her forehead with the back of her other hand.
“How’s your dad?” She didn’t even look over at him.
“Same as always.”
She nodded, her long ponytail bobbing in the light she’d leaned on a desk. “I’m sorry he’s like that.”
Tucker offered a half smile, even though she was still focused on the paper in her hand. Sometimes she knew him so well, it felt like she could read his mind. And that was usually a comforting thing, like in this moment.
It wasn’t quite as comforting when his gaze dipped to her long legs. He could only pray she didn’t read that part of his mind.
Shaking his head, he returned to the suitcases he’d been inspecting before the call. “So, my dad thinks there’s something in our family past worth keeping hidden.”
“Excuse me?” Her voice was sharp, and he could see her snap to attention out of the corner of his eye. “And you didn’t lead with that?”
He shrugged.
“What kind of something?”
He frowned. “I have no idea. Maybe it’s connected with the treasure. Maybe not.”
“But it was something you’d want to keep hidden? Something . . .” She paused, her face working as she fought to find the word. “Something disgraceful?”
“I would imagine.”
She whirled, pouncing on a hatbox, and pulled out a folded sheet of yellow paper. The frayed corners and wrinkled edges were a dead giveaway that it had been in this box for decades.
“This letter. I didn’t—I wasn’t sure what it was about. It has no date or mention of a treasure, so I just glanced at it.”
Sliding between a stack of boxes and one of the dress forms, he made his way toward her. “What’s it say?”
She held it out to him in a gentle grip. But he shook his head, so she read it aloud.
Dear Papa,
I am so sorry. I never meant to go against your wishes. You must be furious with me. How could you not? Mama says you may never speak with me again. I know you believe I’ve disgraced you and our family name. I pray that someday you might forgive me for the shame I’ve caused you. I have no explanation for my choices, only the sure knowledge that I had no other option.
I pray that you may one day find it in your heart to forgive me. Until then, I remain ever your loving daughter,
Caroline
As she read it, his hands shook. Who was Caroline, and when had she written this? He tried to put together the family tree in his mind, but there were several missing branches and generations of missing names. He needed Aunt Shirley’s help.
“I’m going to call my aunt again.” He moved toward the door, and PJ followed him. He shot her a questioning glance.
“What? You’re not the only one who can escape. I found the letter. I think that earns me a few minutes of fresh air.”
True. She had found the only evidence so far. “Come on. I’ll even get you a glass of water.”
“Ooooh. Big spender.” She laughed and shoved his shoulder from behind as they traipsed down the stairwell. At the bottom level, she ducked into the powder room, as Aunt Shirley called it, to wash her hands while Tucker took advantage of the lemon-scented soap in the kitchen. It smelled like freshness and sunshine. The opposite of the attic.
By the time she arrived, he’d poured them both tall glasses of water and pressed the button to call his aunt again.
PJ took a swig of her water as the phone on the other end rang once. Thank you, she mouthed.
He nodded as it rang again, fully expecting it to go to voicemail at the end of the second ring. It didn’t. Instead, a cheery voice answered.
“Tucker? Is that you?”
He pressed the speaker button and laid his phone on the granite countertop between them. “Aunt Shirley! I didn’t think I’d reach you. I’ve left a few messages.”
“Oh, you know how spotty service is in Japan.”
Actually, no, he didn’t. He’d never been. His deployments had all been in the Middle East. “You’re in Japan?”
“Of course. I had a hankerin’ to see Mount Fuji.”
Tucker’s heart skipped a beat. “You’re not climbing Mount Fuji, are you?”
“Don’t be silly. I did that yesterday.”
He caught PJ’s eye, and they both stared in silent wonder. Shirley Westbrook was something else.
“So what can I do for you?”
“Well, PJ and I—”
“PJ’s there? Peej! How are you, doll?”
“Hi, Shirley. I’m good.”
Tucker smiled. Only Aunt Shirley had ever gotten away with calling PJ Peej. He’d tried it once or twice in their elementary school years and had gotten a few bruises for his trouble. That Penelope let him call her PJ was her concession to their friendship. No one else got to do that—not even Winston.
Not that he was comparing their relationships. Much.
“So, there’s this letter,” he said.
Aunt Shirley growled low in her throat. “Oh, I’ve heard about it. Anabelle Haywood couldn’t wait . . .” Her voice trailed off. Or maybe the reception cut out for a moment. When she returned, there was a distinct bounce in her voice. “I suppose you’re looking for something to help you find the treasure.”
“Well, at least the truth,” PJ said.
“Same. Same.” Aunt Shirley chirped a giggle. “And you’re at my house looking through the attic.”
Maybe she had some serious mind-reading skills. Or maybe she’d listened to her voicemails after all.
“We found a letter from someone named Caroline. She said she’d disgraced her family.”
“Uh-uh,” Aunt Shirley said, and he could almost picture her shaking her head. “She said her father believed she’d disgraced their family name. Not the same thing.”
It was semantics, but did it matter? He shot PJ a raised eyebrow, and she gave a silent shake of her head. He wasn’t sure where to go with that. Thankfully she wasn’t as tongue-tied.
“Is Caroline connected to the lost treasure?”
Aunt Shirley chuckled. “If you’re looking for her story, you should have just asked.”
“You can tell us more about her?” Tucker asked.
“Well, not right now. But I’ll tell you where you can read it yourself.”
PJ nearly glowed, eyes bright and smile spreading all the way across her face. He couldn’t help but match her grin. Count on Aunt Shirley to come through in a pinch.
“Her diary is in my desk in the study.” Aunt Shirley gave them a few more instructions before begging off for another travel adventure.
“Thank you,” they called in unison before hanging up the phone and racing for the study.
Penelope had never once been grateful for Tucker’s dyslexia. Except now. Just a little bit.
Watching him struggle through school had been nearly as hard on her as it had been on him. He was so smart, but he’d had to fight to read and understand every page, every line. In junior high, he’d gotten a special tutor who taught him some tools. But reading was never going to be a joy for him.
So he’d happily passed her Caroline’s journal the night before and asked her to read it. For them both. As if she had to be asked.
Penelope glanced at the tattered fabric cover of the journal in the top drawer of her desk. Still tucked in its clear plastic sleeve, it called to her. She hadn’t had time to look at it since the night before, but one more appointment and she was free and clear to spend her evening with a cool glass of sweet tea and a good chunk of Savannah’s past.
At the jangle of the bell on her door, she looked up. Her stomach sank beneath the floorboards. Winston. She stood quickly but immediately second-guessed her action.
He gave her a quick nod. “Emmaline asked me to drop off the deposit check.”
“Right.” She held out her hand as he shuffled across the room. She knew she was supposed to offer a thank-you, but her tongue refused to get on board with common courtesy.
Holding out the check a few inches shy of her reach, he paused. Face bunched up and eyes squinted toward a spot on the floor beside her shoe, he took a shallow breath. “I haven’t told Emmaline that I was engaged.”
His words struck her like a snowball, icy and unexpected. So clinical and completely devoid of any acknowledgment that she had been on the receiving end of his first proposal.
Tapping her shoe, she crossed her arms. “And?”
He looked up, one of his eyes closed. “Please don’t say anything to her.”
He was asking her for a favor? That took some gall. “I don’t see why I should care what you want me to do.”
“Please.” He tugged on the cuffs of his blue-plaid sleeves, his deep brown eyes a little too similar to her puppy’s. “Please, Penelope. I can’t lose her.”
He hadn’t been worried about that three years before.
She took a deep breath and let it out through her nose. She was over him. She had a checked-off list to prove it.
Just then her door squeaked as it opened a crack. “Hello?” The voice was soft and delicate, just like the young woman who followed it into her office. “I’m Jordan Park. With Stepping Stones.” Her gaze darted toward Winston. “Should I come back?”
Penelope quickly shook her head. “No. Come on in.” She turned back to Winston, holding out her hand one more time. He paused, the check between them. “I won’t tell her. But you should.”
He offered a brief nod, passed her the deposit, and quickly excused himself.
Penelope tried for a cleansing breath, plastering a smile into place before turning to the young woman fidgeting with the strap of her purse standing just inside the door.
“I’m sorry I’m early,” Jordan said.
The cadence of her voice was so inviting that Penelope walked across the room to shake her hand. “Welcome. Thank you for your call. Have a seat. How can I help?”
Jordan offered a shy smile and a loose handshake before tucking her long blonde hair behind her ears and sinking into one of the guest chairs. “I’m planning a fundraiser.”
“Wonderful. What kind of event do you have in mind?”
Jordan’s brown eyes—already large—nearly doubled in size, her hands twisting in her lap. Her right knee bobbed in time to a song no one else could hear, and she chewed on her bottom lip. “I’m not really sure.”
Penelope nearly slipped out of her chair. This was a new one. Most people who walked through her door had a clear vision of what they wanted and when they wanted it. She’d never had a blank slate before. How exciting.
Leaning her forearms on her desk, she smiled. “Why don’t you tell me a little about your organization and what you do?”
Jordan agreed with a quick nod but didn’t say anything for a long second. Tugging at shorts that covered a good bit of her pale legs, she narrowed her gaze onto the front of the desk. “My nonprofit is pretty new. Less than a year old. But we want to help.”
“Who are you helping?”
“Foster kids who are aging out of the system. We help them get job training, find a place to live. That kind of thing.”
Penelope looked closer at the girl’s porcelain skin and freckled cheeks. She herself couldn’t be much older than the kids aging out of the system. But her eyes were wise beyond their years, filled with stories to share—some she’d probably rather forget.
“Jordan, may I ask you a personal question?”
With a hesitant nod, she agreed.
Penelope searched her words for the right ones. “Do you have some personal experience with the foster care system?”
Jordan ducked her head, her hands curling into the hem of her shirt. “That obvious?”
“Not at all,” she rushed to reply. “I’ve just never met anyone so young doing something so big, so important.” At Jordan’s age, Penelope had probably still been in college, more worried about getting her next A than caring about anyone else. Not that getting good grades was bad. But they’d been such a focus that she wasn’t entirely sure she’d treated her roommates and friends as she should have, often blowing off their calls and invitations for one more hour in the library.
Tucker had been off at Marine boot camp by then, and she’d been faithful to write him. But she’d walked away from college with good grades and very little else to remember it by. And with very little to make others remember her.
And here was Jordan, looking nervous and uncertain and doing something that helped people in real need. Something that would leave a legacy.
“How can I help?” Penelope walked around to the other side of her desk and sat next to the young woman.
“Um . . . I’m not . . . I don’t even know where to start.”
Penelope couldn’t stop the smile that tugged across her face. “Oh, I do.” Reaching for her legal pad and pen, she began asking all the questions. “What are your goals for this event? How much do you want to raise? Who are you going to invite?”
Jordan simply stared back like the proverbial deer in the headlights.
Okay. They were going to have to take this a lot slower.
After another hour and a half, Penelope had coaxed a bud of an idea out of Jordan. A special night specifically for local business owners—people of means who might donate to the cause or hire the young people looking to start their careers. They’d fleshed out ways for kids in the program to meet with business owners—a pre-interview of sorts. They’d identified a local band that might provide the music—they were playing at Tucker’s upcoming event, and they owed her for getting them the gig.
All in all it was shaping up to be a great event. Just one more thing to consider.
“What’s your budget?” Penelope asked.
Jordan cringed as though she knew it was going to hurt to say it. “Pretty small.”
Penelope motioned for her to go on. Better to get it out in the open so they could figure out how much they could do.
“Twenty-five.”
“Thousand?” Penelope couldn’t hold in the sigh of relief. “We can work with that. We might have to cut back on a few things, but we can definitely put together a great event.”
Jordan shook her head. “Hundred.”
Twenty-five hundred. Two thousand, five hundred dollars.
She said the words over and over in her mind, but they never stopped feeling like a bad punch line.
Maybe Jordan didn’t understand. “You know we’re going to ask the attendees to donate, right? And they have deep pockets. So you’ll make back everything you put into this event. And then some.”
“I’d give you more if I had more. That’s all I have in my account.”
Why did it sound like she was prepared to spend every penny of her own money to make this work? “In your account or in the organization’s account?”
Jordan shrugged. “Both.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Penelope pressed her palm to the girl’s skinny knee and hung her head. “I don’t think we can do—”
“Please. It doesn’t have to be big. Could you give us a discount on the Hall? Or maybe let us pay after the event? I know the Ladies’ League is going to hold their fundraiser here at the end of the summer. This is where all the nonprofits say you have to be to be seen. Please.”
Penelope wanted to help. Everything inside her screamed to let Jordan use the Hall at no fee, at a steep discount, on a payment plan. But that wasn’t something she was free to offer.
“I’m so sorry. Maybe I can help you find . . .” But her voice trailed off because she knew the truth. Jordan was never going to be able to throw the kind of event she needed to earn back her investment on twenty-five hundred dollars. She needed more capital, and that wasn’t Penelope’s expertise.
Jordan pushed herself out of her chair and clutched the little cross-body strap purse that had been by her side like a shield. “It’s okay. I understand.” Her lip quivered like she definitely did not understand. “Thanks for your time.” And then she was out the door.
Resting her arm on the desk and her forehead against her wrist, Penelope fought the burning sensation at the back of her eyes. She’d broken rule number one of event planning. She’d made a plan without knowing the budget. That was amateur. And she’d pulled that stunt on a young woman who couldn’t afford to have hope ripped out from under her.
She couldn’t ask herself what she’d been thinking. Because she hadn’t been.
“Who was that?” The question arrived at the same time as the unmistakable staccato clip of heels.
Penelope righted herself, running knuckles under her eyes to make sure she hadn’t loosened her mascara, and turned to look into the unforgiving gaze of Madeline Baxton. “A potential client. My last appointment of the day.”
Madeline looked over her shoulder as though trying to imagine how a sprite of a girl like Jordan could afford to book the Savannah River Hall. Glancing at her watch, she said, “It’s almost six.”
Penelope knew the implication. Why had she wasted time on a client who was never going to rent the Hall?
Because Jordan needed her help. Because Penelope needed to help.
But Madeline would never understand that. She understood dollars and cents and bottom lines and red ink and black ink. She did not understand giving more than she got.
Penelope shrugged weary shoulders and said, “I thought we could make it work. I was wrong.”
Madeline’s gaze narrowed, her big blonde updo swaying as she surveyed the scene before her. Finally she brushed her hands together, careful not to clip her long pink nails against one another. “Well, you have more important things to worry about. Anabelle Haywood called me today.”
Oh, Lord. It was her favorite two-word prayer, and at that moment it was on repeat deep in her soul. Her stomach sank, and she squeezed her hands into fists at her sides.
“She’s concerned about this situation with your friend Tucker Westbrook.”
She didn’t need to spell out his name. Penelope knew about the concern and the problem. She just wasn’t very close to solving it.
“We can’t afford to lose the income from the Ladies’ League event in August.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She sounded about ten years old, but there wasn’t anything to be done except act contrite and be respectful.
Madeline smoothed her hands over her flowy floral skirt and nodded appreciatively. “Good. I thought it wise for us to offer a show of goodwill toward the Ladies’ League. I’ve volunteered you to serve at the Fort Pulaski Picnic next week. You can pick up your costume tomorrow.”
Biting her tongue so hard she could taste blood, she nodded, but in her mind she was already plotting revenge on the one and only Tucker Westbrook. She was going to have to don a hoop skirt and petticoats and cotton gloves. And it was almost entirely his fault.
Papa has left again. ’Tis well after dark, and the streets below my room are silent, save for the occasional horse. I usually sleep through the sharp clap of horseshoes against the stone streets, but I have not slept these last several nights.
So I sit at my desk, a single candle burned nearly to a nub. The light is enough for me to see this page, but the rest of my room is only shadow.
I asked Papa to let me go with him, but he says it is far too dangerous. He thinks I do not know what he and the others are doing. He thinks I am unaware of the terrible cost they would face if discovered.
But I know. How could I not? The missives that arrive bear his name—Daniel W.—and Bradford is not as circumspect about the contents inside as he believes himself to be. I heard him speaking to Papa of the ship soon to arrive. I have no idea what they plan to do with the treasure they seem certain it will carry.
Of one thing I am sure. Papa knows. And he is involved. Bradford would not dare to defy Papa’s wishes. Though nearly four and twenty, my brother has always done as our father asks. When he tried to enlist, Father took a hard look at his leg and told him he must not. Some call his limp an excuse, but it has saved his life. Papa nearly put down the ornery horse that threw him, but I am ever grateful for a broken leg that did not set right. Else I might be grieving my brother lost on a battlefield in the North rather than eavesdropping on his conversations.
I heard the kitchen door open and close nearly an hour ago, but through my window I could see only Papa’s form sneak around the side of the building. Bradford was not with him, nor any of our people.
Surely he is not going to meet the ship alone. Yet I cannot help but wonder where he has gone alone so late at night.
Tuesday, November 8, 1864
I followed Papa last night. I knew I should not, but I had to be abreast of his comings and goings. Bradford watches me with a wary eye now, and I fear Father has warned him that I am not to be trusted with their secrets.
But I am. I need only to know the secrets to keep them safe.
Alas, I learned nothing of import. Dressed in the mourning clothes I wore when Grandmama was buried, I waited in the shadows outside the kitchen door. I did not have to wait long. With the moon covered by well-placed clouds, I heard the old hinges turn rather than saw the door open.
Two figures slipped through the door, silent and dressed to match the night. Papa’s form was broad, his shoulders stretching his coat as always. Bradford was smaller but no less recognizable, his gait agitated, his walking stick abandoned for the night.
I waited until they turned at the back corner of our house before slipping after them. Only when they reached the stone street did they speak, but they were much too far away for me to hear their conversation. I only understood the intensity in their voices, the urgency. They picked up their pace, Bradford struggling to keep up yet somehow urging Papa on.
I was forced to run, and the heels of my boots clacked against the ground. I feared they might hear me. But what if they were in trouble? What terrible fate might befall them? There is naught worse than living amid the unknown.
I have known little else for these past four years, since Josiah has been gone. He promised to write, but neither his mother nor I have received even a scrap of news. They say that his regiment fought bravely and suffered heavy losses. Whatever hope I have left has worn thin.
But I need to know that I will not lose more dear men. I could not sustain it.
So I struggled on after them, picking up my petticoats as I ran. They wove through the shadows, hiding from me as from the rest of the world. They must not have seen me. At least, they did not know who I was, or they would have demanded I return home, return to safety. Why do they not demand the same of themselves?
I was several seconds behind them as they turned from Price Street onto Bay Street, but as I tiptoed around the tree at the corner, I realized I was too far behind. They had vanished.
Bawdy music from a nearby tavern twirled around me, but my brother and father were nowhere to be seen. I glanced into a few windows, all covered with lace curtains, candles long since extinguished. Hurrying down the street, I hoped to see that they’d turned up another alley. They had not.
But the alleys were not deserted, and I suddenly realized my vulnerability. Alone on a dark night, the streets still alive with men reeling from liquor. The type of women on the streets at such an hour would make my mother blush.
Racing faster than Father’s prized mare, I set out for home and arrived to a house as asleep as it had been when I’d left not an hour earlier. I removed my dress and stays, slipped into my cotton nightgown, and slid between the sheets of my bed. Then I waited.
Hours later Papa and Bradford returned home as quiet as mice. Only then did I let myself close my eyes and fall asleep.
Thursday, November 17, 1864
General Sherman heads this way. The newspaper need not tout it, as it seems to be the only news anyone can speak of. In the churchyard even young Henry Billings pulled his slingshot from his pocket and promised to defend this land.
But how can anyone? How can we remain safe and free when General Sherman overwhelmed Atlanta so soundly? They say he is burning the state in his march toward the Atlantic. All who oppose him lose everything. Will he do the same here? I know not how Savannah can survive such an onslaught.
The air has begun to chill, autumn making way for winter, but still Papa and Bradford disappear more nights than not. I still lose them in the night when I attempt to follow them. Papa’s shoulders have begun to slump, and he is weary and heavyhearted.
Something is nearly here. I know not what it is, but I know that I must be vigilant. For when the Union army arrives, ’twill be too late.