seven

It was the perfect day for a picnic, but Tucker would rather be just about anywhere else in the world. He pulled at the neck of his costume, running a finger beneath the stiff collar, and jerked his shoulders beneath the unfamiliar wool jacket as PJ’s ride pulled up to the curb at the entrance to the fort.

He opened the back door, and a deluge of blue silk spilled out. Reaching for her, he helped her find her feet, then she shook out whatever wrinkles had dared to find a way onto her dress.

“Hurry up. We’re late,” PJ whispered as she slipped her white-gloved hand into the crook of his arm.

He glared down at her, but he could feel his lips twitching, refusing to hold the frown. Especially not when she swished her skirt like a bell ringing in the church steeple. “I’m not the one running behind.”

“Come on, you lug. Let’s go show off your uniform, my dress, and our relationship.” She took a step from the paved parking lot to the green lawn, but he didn’t move, so she paused. “Besides, there are some big-time potential donors about fifty yards that way.”

The tilt of her head indicated the section of grass filled with colorful dresses and gray uniforms against the ruined red walls of Fort Pulaski. The Union’s cannons had overtaken the fort early in the war—shortly after it had been completed—and what remained was a testament to the power of rifled cannon fire rather than a proud Southern bastion.

“Remind me again, why do they have this every year? I mean, we gave up the fort without much of a fight.”

She tugged on his arm, marching them across the grass. “Yes, but there were no casualties.”

“By that logic, Gettysburg would be the least important battle in the war, and that doesn’t sound accurate to me. Even if I did almost fail American history.”

She tripped, and he swung his arm around her waist to keep her upright. If she fell over in that skirt, they’d make some scene just getting her back on her feet. Not what he needed when he was about to ask donors to attend his fundraiser.

Plus keeping his arm around her gave him the added benefit of being able to smell the honeysuckle on her skin. And reminding Winston what he’d missed out on. Yes, that last one. There would be plenty of wagging tongues at the picnic all too eager to let Winston know PJ was just fine. That was the point here.

She swatted at his chest, but he noticed she didn’t pull away. “You did not almost fail American history.”

He shrugged. Almost was a loose term, and if she’d known how many times he had to read the assigned chapters and how he’d had to negotiate extra time to write the essays . . . well, it had been worth it in his favorite class.

He’d hated the way she looked at him with pity back then, and he wasn’t about to invite that look again. “Fort Pulaski wasn’t what I’d call a defining moment in the war.”

“Fair enough. But it could be a defining moment in your campaign.” Her smile was bright and wide as they approached the punch table. “That’s Mrs. Catherine Saunders over there. Old money.”

He risked a glance toward the regal woman, her pale purple dress shimmering in the sunlight. The whole city knew that she’d single-handedly financed the search for the Catherine—the ship that had been lost off the Georgia coast and found by Carter Hale and his now wife, Anne Norris.

There was no question about the depth of Mrs. Saunders’s pockets. But old money generally meant loyalty to Savannah—to the South—above all. He doubted she’d be eager to reach into those pockets for someone whose family was accused of being traitors.

When they reached the punch table, the young woman standing beside Anabelle Haywood looked PJ up and down, a frown firmly in place. “Penelope. I wasn’t sure you’d show.”

“Ginny.” PJ nodded her head in a warm greeting. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Ginny had a face like she’d sucked too many lemons, pinched and sour, and her blonde hair was pulled sternly from her face.

“Good of you to bring extra help,” Mrs. Haywood said, although her tone suggested otherwise. “You’ll be at the punch table with Ginny. And Mr. Westbrook can help deliver the baskets.”

PJ’s eyes went wide. “Oh, I was hoping to work with—”

“Right this way.” Mrs. Haywood escorted him away from the ornate punch bowl, and he let PJ go.

“I’ll see you later,” she said.

He nodded, allowing himself to be led away. More than two dozen round tables had been set up on the lawn, each covered in a red-and-white-checkered blanket. And, of course, the food was served family style. From a picnic basket.

Mrs. Haywood pointed him to a rack of wicker baskets, each with a handle and flaps covering the contents. “Each table gets one basket. You’ll unpack it for them, set the food on the lazy Susan, and offer to refill their punch cups. Any questions?”

Tucker picked up a basket. “Any particular table I should start with?”

Mrs. Haywood pointed to the nearest one. “You’ll take the even tables. Jethro will deliver to the odd ones. But wait until I give you the signal.”

As she sashayed away in her hoop skirt, he swung his gaze toward Jethro Coleman. According to Carter, Jethro was one of the best local historians. But the way he patted the silver flask at his hip did not make Tucker inclined to trust him with family secrets. His Confederate uniform, faded and pulling at the seams, had seen better days. The jacket barely buttoned around his middle, and his silver hair stood mostly on end. His overgrown whiskers made him look almost authentic. He looked the same as he had at a reenactment the year before—rough and ready for a rumble.

“Westbrook,” Jethro said, reaching out his hand.

Tucker shook it, giving a genuine smile. He was not going to use his political grin today. “Good to see you, Jethro. How are you and your family?” He couldn’t exactly remember the last time they’d spoken, but his mother would think she’d raised a barn animal if he didn’t show some social graces.

Jethro’s smile was missing a tooth but none of the joy he usually displayed. “Mama ’n’ them are good. You?”

“We’re doing just fine. Thank you.”

Jethro scooped up a basket but made no move to deliver it. “And the election?”

Tucker couldn’t keep his eyebrows from jumping. He hadn’t counted on Jethro being up on the local political landscape, but maybe he’d failed to consider who cared about the acting sheriff. With a nod and shrug, he said, “Fine. Still a little more than three weeks to go.”

“Buddy is buying up most of the TV and radio spots. You going to counter?”

He knew that Jepson was buying up advertising space—whereas the “Tucker Westbrook for Sheriff” campaign fund had only a couple nickels to rub together. The surprise was that Jethro Coleman knew too.

Then again, the special election brought about by the previous sheriff’s sudden passing had surprised everyone. Tucker had just had less time to put his campaign together since his accidental announcement. Buddy had been stirring up support for a run in the next regular election for almost a year. He was miles ahead.

After a long pause, Tucker said, “I’m working on a few things.”

He glanced over the lawn as couples decked out in their finest antebellum attire began to find their seats, and his gut twisted. Did they all know? Did they think he was a joke like his dad did?

Sweat broke out across the back of his neck, and his palms itched to wipe it away. Only mustering every bit of training that he’d acquired in the Marines kept him from squirming under the sudden realization.

He caught a vision in blue in his peripheral vision, and his gaze locked on PJ as she ladled punch into a dainty cup.

PJ didn’t think he was a joke or she wouldn’t be wasting her time working on his campaign events. She thought he could win. Which meant he could win. And when he did, he’d show her she hadn’t wasted her belief in him.

It also meant he should probably listen to her advice.

Surveying the tables, he found Mrs. Catherine Saunders, her fair skin protected by a frilly umbrella, which she twirled in a lazy fashion. She sat at table number three.

“Hey, would you mind swapping tables with me?” he asked Jethro. “I’ll do the odds and you can do the evens.”

Jethro shrugged. “Sure.”

Tucker smiled and patted him on the back. “Thanks, man.”

“Don’t thank me yet. You’re still looking for that treasure, ain’t you?”

Tucker couldn’t keep his jaw from dropping. Only a handful of people knew that he and PJ had started looking for a treasure. Carter, probably his wife, and Aunt Shirley. Besides, they’d barely started. “How’d you know?”

With a lazy wink, Jethro chuckled. “It’s what I’d be doing if it was me in your boots.”

“So . . .” Tucker had dismissed the idea of working with Jethro, but maybe he’d rushed judgment. “Do you know anything about it?”

Jethro shook his head. “Not much more than mosta the people who’ve looked fer it over the years.”

His stomach hit the grass just as Mrs. Haywood waved for them to begin delivering baskets. Jethro was gone like a shot, his grin on full display as he schmoozed the first table to their left. Tucker stumbled toward table number one, but one phrase echoed in his mind. People who’ve looked for it.

There were others. Maybe many others. And none of them had been successful. Would he be any different? Could he find the only thing that might give him a chance of beating Buddy Jepson?

No sooner had the name come to mind than the person appeared at his table. Tucker bit his tongue and lamented his brilliant idea to change assignments with Jethro as he set the basket on the edge of the table.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Tucker Westbrook.” Buddy sing-songed the greeting, and a generally uncomfortable titter rose from the ladies on either side of him. “You look good in service. Maybe you should stick to it.”

Tucker grimaced but forced that political smile he’d sworn not to use into place. “Thanks, Buddy.” He nodded a greeting. “I figure elected officials are public servants, so I thought I’d get a head start on serving my community.”

Buddy frowned, but Tucker pushed forward, refusing to give the other man a chance to insert himself. Pushing his political smile as far as it would go, he asked, “Is everyone having a good time?”

There were several nods and mumbled responses as he flipped open the basket lid. The scent of fried chicken and apple pie wafted out on a cloud of steam, and taking a deep breath of it replaced his tense smile with a genuine one.

“Looks like a good lunch today,” he announced, setting a bowl of potato salad next to the chicken on the lazy Susan. “Can I refresh anyone’s drink?”

A girl on the far side of the table, no older than junior high, held up her glass. “Yes, please.”

“My pleasure, miss.” His wink made her giggle, and his bow had her leaning on her dad’s shoulder. With a glance at her father, he asked, “Anything for you, sir?”

The man, not much older than Tucker himself, simply mouthed, Thank you.

His fake smile long gone, Tucker ambled across the grass toward the punch table. Ginny had abandoned PJ, who stood behind the crystal bowl with a sweet smile in place, her hands clasped in front of her.

“You sure like swishing that skirt,” he said.

She treated him to a smile. “Truthfully? It keeps the air moving.”

His laugh broke free, and he looked down at his own clothing devoid of any such cooling mechanisms. “Lucky.” He didn’t reveal that the wool was fairly cool, the loose weave allowing the summer breeze through to his damp skin.

“I saw you had a run-in with Buddy over there. Everything okay?” She took the glass he’d been carrying but didn’t move to fill it.

“I think so. He took a stab, but I blocked it.”

Dipping her ladle into the too-pink concoction, she said, “I can’t wait to hear all about it.”

“Well, that’s not the most interesting thing that’s happened so far.”

The tip of her nose wrinkled. “How is that possible? We’ve only been here for fifteen minutes.”

“I was talking to Jethro—turns out we’re definitely not the first to look for the treasure.”

“What?” She nearly dropped the cup he had to return. “I almost forgot. I have to—”

“I better get this punch back to its owner,” he said at the same time.

Her face pinched like she was going to argue, but then it relaxed. “I saw the way she was looking at you. A little hero worship for the dashing lieutenant. Should I be jealous?”

He knew she was only teasing, but something in his chest gave a pleasant squeeze at the thought of her being jealous. As he took the cup from her, he let his thumb brush the tips of her fingers. It lasted only a moment, but her sharp breath and wide eyes were all he needed.

“I’ll see you later, Penelope Jean.”

After returning the cup with another grin and wink, he picked up his next basket and moved toward table three. Mrs. Catherine Saunders waved him over to stand between her and her granddaughter Minnie. He smiled and offered the same bow he’d given his young friend at the first table.

“You look very sharp in that uniform, Mr. Westbrook. But I think I prefer your Marine dress blues.”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. His parents went to church with Mrs. Saunders. Had his mother been passing around his picture?

“Me too, ma’am.”

She patted his arm, her gloved hand a mere whisper. “Was that Buddy Jepson giving you a hard time?”

He reached into the basket and pulled out the plate of golden fried chicken, shaking his head. “No, ma’am.”

“Good. Now why have I not been invited to a fundraiser for you? Buddy has sent me three requests.”

He swallowed the question he wanted to ask—had she given to Buddy’s campaign? Instead he did what he apparently should have done all along. “Now that you mention it, ma’am, I was hoping you’d join us for dinner on Friday night. It’s at the VFW.” As soon as he said it, he heard it. Mrs. Saunders, who lived in a three-million-dollar home and dined at The Olde Pink House and The Grey, did not have dinner at a VFW post. Even if renting the historic hall had nearly emptied his campaign coffers. But he had to spend money to make money—or so PJ assured him.

Now it was all sounding like a sad story. A guy without much money running for office on the proceeds from his profitable—but young—business.

“The VFW?” She narrowed her eyes, the wrinkles around her lips more pronounced as she puckered her displeasure.

He focused on unpacking the rest of the basket and prayed that no one else at the table was listening. Maybe he wasn’t going to get their vote anyway, but he didn’t need them to see her toss him to the side.

“Near Forsyth Park?”

He nodded quickly.

“Minnie, put it on my calendar. What time?”

He nearly dropped the whole apple pie. “Um . . . seven?”

“Are you asking me?” Her words were clipped but not unkind.

“No, ma’am. Seven. On Friday.”

Mrs. Saunders looked at her granddaughter, who had pulled her phone out and was typing with her thumbs. “We’ll be there.” The breeze tugging at her umbrella was almost enough to knock him over, and he nearly went down when she spoke again. “Jerry, Meg, you’ll attend too. Bring your checkbooks.”

The couple on her other side nodded absently, too busy poking their forks into the crispy chicken.

“And bring your son too.” She looked up at Tucker and stage-whispered behind her hand, “He’s a wealth manager. Who knows what he really does, but he drives the same car as James Bond.”

As she poured more Sprite into the punch bowl and the pink sherbet turned to foam, Penelope let herself imagine what an event this size might be like for Jordan and Stepping Stones. The only thing bigger than the backdrop of Fort Pulaski was the pocketbooks of the attendees.

Imagine if each of them were to offer a job to one of the kids in Jordan’s program. Imagine if all of those kids had a safe place to live and reliable transportation and the support of adults who could help them find their way in the world. What a boost an event like this would be for each of those kids. Kids with faces and names and hopes and dreams.

And she’d let them all down.

She hadn’t heard from Jordan since she’d slumped out of the office, shoulders hunched and head bowed. Her eyes suddenly started to water, and she blinked hard to keep a tear from escaping and dragging her mascara down her face. She couldn’t very well wipe it away with the glove on her hand.

“You could use more punch.” Ginny announced her arrival in what Penelope had quickly identified as her usual way. “I brought you more juice. Why didn’t you use it?”

Penelope stared at her recently refreshed punch bowl three-quarters full. “I did, actually.”

“Well, it’s not enough.” Ginny marched off, more likely looking for an excuse to escape the table than because she truly believed the punch was running low.

That worked for her. Penelope would much rather stand alone at the table than be stuck with Ginny for company. Dreaming about what an event for Jordan might look like was much more fun than grasping for any common ground with Mrs. Haywood’s right-hand woman.

She was slowly stirring the punch, lost somewhere far away, when Jethro arrived at her table, holding out two empty punch glasses. “Hello, Miss Hunter.”

“Oh, Penelope, please.”

He nodded, his eyes direct, piercing into her. “You and Westbrook, then?”

“Ex-excuse me?” She wasn’t sure what he was asking, and she sure wasn’t certain how to respond. Did he think they were together? That was good. Right?

“You’re helping him look for the treasure.”

The statement had no question mark attached, and she gasped. Tucker had said Jethro knew things about the treasure. But he seemed to know things about her too. And it made her hands tremble so much, she struggled to fill the cups.

“How did—did Tucker say something?”

“Naw. But y’all’s thicker’n thieves. Figured if he was goin’ after it, you’d be there too.”

But how did he know that about them? She’d never spoken a word to him before this moment, barely been in the same room.

“You’d better hurry if you want to get there in time for the election.” He took his cups and disappeared between the tables.

Squinting in his wake, she jumped when a cool voice in her ear said, “It’s going well, don’t you think?”

Clutching at her charging heart, she nodded quickly in Mrs. Haywood’s direction. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Looks like you have plenty of punch.”

Ha. Take that, Ginny.

“Yes, ma’am.” Penelope followed the direction of Mrs. Haywood’s gaze toward a table where Tucker was unpacking a basket. His deep chuckle carried across the expanse, and she could nearly see the twinkle in his eyes. “He looks good in the uniform, doesn’t he?”

Mrs. Haywood clucked her tongue in what could only be resigned agreement. “I’m glad he hasn’t spent the whole afternoon by your side.”

“Of course not.” She clamped her mouth closed and swallowed the truth that had made her voice jump an octave. The truth was she wanted to spend more time with Tucker, and she’d have been happy for an opportunity to tell him what she’d read in Caroline’s diary the night before.

Taking a deep breath, she tried again. “We’re here to support the League, to help out however you need us. It’s really important to me—and to Tucker—to support our community.”

“Hmmm.” Mrs. Haywood made a low sound in the back of her throat. “You seem eager to speak for him. Are you . . . more than friends?”

Lord, save me.

There was no way to get around this without an outright lie—or revealing that she’d let others believe something that wasn’t quite accurate. She could say that they were dating. They were. Even if it was for show. But that was splitting an awfully fine hair.

“Well, we’ve known each other forever, and . . .” Her voice trailed off, words disappearing.

Mrs. Haywood tsked. “You do know if you’re courting, do you not?”

“Of course I do.” They were not courting.

The trouble was that the idea didn’t sound entirely terrible. She’d let it enter her head a time or two—not to mention she’d jumped on Emmaline’s implication without prodding. But dating him had its risks. The potential loss was too much to even consider. What if things went south? What if he saw the thing that was missing in her—the thing Winston had seen? Possibly the same thing her dad had seen?

What if Tucker decided she wasn’t worthy of the rest of his life too? She wasn’t sure she could endure that again. She wouldn’t risk losing him.

Besides, this had all started because Winston had waltzed back into her life. She was not about to give him the power to speak into her relationship status. Not again.

Except you already have.

She gave the punch a vigorous stir. Whatever was going on between Tucker and her was not Winston’s doing. Anyway, there wasn’t anything going on. Winston did not have the power to conjure feelings where there had been none for twenty-five years. Neither did Anabelle Haywood.

With a glance down her nose, Mrs. Haywood gave a little cough. “You couldn’t possibly be serious with such a man.”

Penelope swung her haughtiest gaze onto the older woman, glaring with everything inside her. “What do you mean by that? Tucker is a good man—a great man.”

“But his family history speaks for itself. They were traitors to their homeland. Thieves and smugglers.”

Penelope cringed but never let her gaze stray from the older woman’s. True, the journal entries she’d read the night before revealed some . . . indiscretions on the part of the Westbrook family. But surely they weren’t as terrible as Buddy Jepson and Anabelle Haywood made them out to be.

With a shake of her head, Penelope said, “You can’t be sure of that. And even if the Westbrooks from a hundred years ago were as terrible as you say, does that mean Tucker is made from the same cloth? He served in the Marines for more than five years. You’re not discounting his service, are you?”

Mrs. Haywood pressed a white-gloved hand to her throat, her mouth hanging open but silent for several long seconds. When she did finally regain the use of her tongue, her voice went up an octave. “Well, I certainly never meant to suggest any such thing.”

Of course she had. Only Penelope wasn’t free to tell her that she knew the truth.

“I only meant that you—a smart, educated”—her gaze dropped, a dissatisfied frown falling into place as she performed a quick survey—“nice-enough-looking girl—should be careful who you link your name to.”

Penelope nearly snapped the metal ladle in her fist. Nice-enough-looking girl? Nice.

The mirror wasn’t always as kind as she would like, but the backhanded compliment stung. Sure, she wasn’t glossy-magazine pretty. Her wedding dress had had to be special ordered in a bigger size. Her corset was starting to dig into her ribs, and she doubted its worth, even if it did give her a slim waist. But she didn’t need some old bat telling her she looked nice enough. And she sure didn’t need her saying that Tucker was somehow unworthy. She wanted no part in this snooty society.

It doesn’t matter. You need them to keep your job and to win Tucker’s election.

Everything inside her wanted to silence the voice in her mind, but it made a good point. Rats.

Apparently taking her silence as agreement, Mrs. Haywood patted her arm gently. “We all want what’s best. And you can do better.”

Oh, that was taking it too far. It didn’t matter if she needed to be in Mrs. Haywood’s good graces.

Penelope took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Squaring her shoulders and turning to face Mrs. Haywood directly, she made her decision. “If he asked, I’d marry Tucker Westbrook tomorrow.”

She enjoyed seeing Mrs. Haywood’s trembling lips for a split second. Until a deep voice behind her said, “PJ?”