twelve
Penelope sat down at her desk, propped her elbows in front of her keyboard, and rested her chin on her folded hands as the speaker on her phone announced the voicemail from Mrs. Haywood. Her voice was shrill, almost disbelieving.
“I thought we were clear that you were going to fix this nonsense with Westbrook or remove yourself from the situation entirely.”
On a sigh Penelope closed her eyes but could still see the light shining through the big plate windows of her office. She could still hear Mrs. Haywood’s admonition as well.
“After what I heard happened on Friday night at that dinner, well, I just don’t see how the Ladies’ League can be associated with you or your venue. We’ll be moving our event to another location.”
The call ended with a decisive click.
“A handshake is good enough, they said. We’ve been holding this event here for years, they said.” She grumbled to herself as she stared out the windows. A few pedestrians strolled by, probably tourists looking for the candy shop or the best place to buy a souvenir on River Street. But all Penelope could think about was the conversation she would have to have with her boss.
Of course, Madeline had been the one who insisted there was no need for a formal contract to reserve the Hall. They’d worry about contracts when it got closer to the event and food and drinks were being ordered. The Ladies’ League always held their summer fundraiser at the Hall.
Until this year, apparently.
Penelope dropped her face into her palms and took a deep breath. In. Out.
Would Winston and Emmaline’s wedding be enough to save her job? Maybe she could talk them into having their rehearsal dinner at the Hall too. That would . . . She tried to crunch the numbers in her head. It wouldn’t even begin to make up for losing the Ladies’ League.
Madeline would have no choice.
Her stomach suddenly felt sick, a sour taste rising in the back of her throat.
She, Penelope Jean Hunter, was going to lose her job.
That’s when the tears came.
Suddenly the door to her office from the street opened, its loud rattle and jingling bell making her jump to attention in her chair. With a quick swipe of her fingers under her eyes, she made sure that her mascara hadn’t smudged.
As the door swung all the way in, Jordan Park stepped inside, her sunny yellow dress as fresh as a day at the beach. She offered a timid smile, her hands clasped behind her back. “Hello, Miss Hunter. Do you have a second?”
“Of course. Come in. Have a seat.” She jumped to her feet and pointed at the empty chairs in front of her desk—at least, it would be her desk until Madeline called. “Please, call me Penelope.”
Jordan shook her head. “Oh, I can’t stay long. I just wanted to . . .” Her voice trailed off, her hips moving the flowing skirt like a bell. “Well, I wanted to say thanks for meeting with me. It was real kind of you, and I’m sorry if I wasted your time.”
“My time?” The tears that she’d blinked back a moment before threatened to spill again, and she bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. Suddenly she charged forward and pulled Jordan into a tight hug, the girl’s skinny shoulders twitching under the weight of the embrace. “I wish I could do more.”
The faces of all of the well-to-do men and women at Tucker’s dinner flashed before her eyes, and she tried not to think about how much their money could have helped Jordan and her friends. There were always good causes to support, people in need. So why did Jordan’s tug so at her heart?
Forcing herself to let go, Penelope took a step back. “How are you doing? How’s Stepping Stones?”
Jordan brushed her dark curls out of her face before reaching into her bag. “I wanted to bring you something. When someone donates to Stepping Stones, we like to give them something to remember us by. Maybe it’ll remind you to pray for us.” When she pulled her hand free, she held a smooth, flat rock. It was sandy in color and would easily disappear into the beaches of Tybee Island, except for the bright pink block letters painted on top.
SAVANNAH STEPPING STONES
JOSHUA 4
Penelope accepted the stone like it was a child, cradling it in her palm and pressing it to her chest. “What a lovely gift. Thank you.”
“It’s not much—”
With a wave of her hand, she cut Jordan off. “It means the world to me that you thought of me and wanted to bring me a gift. I wish I could do more.”
“No, ma’am. You were honest with me, and I needed that.”
Penelope pulled her into another hug—this one more gentle than the last—just as the door to her office opened again, letting a blast of Savannah summer heat into the room. She looked right into Tucker’s eyes. His eyebrows pinched, the nod of his chin seeming to ask who she was hugging. And somewhere deep in his eyes was a question—why was she upset?
Or maybe she was just self-conscious.
With one last squeeze, she released Jordan and turned to make introductions. Jordan’s smile became smaller and her eyes grew larger. “I’ve seen you on those ads.”
His flat chuckle seemed to come from deep in his throat. “Don’t believe everything you see on TV.”
She quickly shook her head and ducked toward the door. “I should be going.”
Penelope nodded, waved, and thanked her for the gift before closing the door on Jordan’s rapidly retreating form. “I think you might intimidate her.”
“That’s the girl with the kids aging out of the foster care system?” He tromped across the room and fell into one of her chairs.
Penelope nodded.
“She barely looks old enough to be out of the system herself.”
It was true. But somehow the girl had more determination, direction, and pluck than most women twice her age. How else could she explain starting a nonprofit to help the people in her very own situation?
“Well, she’s pretty impressive, if you ask me. But somehow I don’t think you stopped by to talk to me about Jordan. What’s up?” Penelope shuffled back toward her desk, setting her new stepping stone beside her monitor. It might be a good reminder when she had to start a new job.
“Well, I figured out . . .”
When he paused, she glanced up at him in time to see his frown.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, standing and invading her space.
“Nothing.” At least nothing she wanted to share at the moment. Nothing that wouldn’t make her dissolve into a pool of ridiculousness.
“Not nothing.” He motioned to his forehead, moving his finger right between his eyebrows. “You always get scrunched up right here when something’s wrong. And you’ve got four lines there right now.”
“I do not,” she said. But her hand automatically moved to cover the spot, smoothing the skin there with her thumb and forefinger.
He pulled her hand away and ran his thumb up the middle of her forehead.
If he was hoping to relax her, he was epically failing. Every nerve inside her was strung about as tight as it had ever been, so she jerked away from his touch, ignoring the confusion written across his face.
“PJ, you can talk to me about anything. You know you’re going to tell me eventually anyway.”
She scowled at him, a low growl finding its way up from the back of her throat. She wasn’t angry with him. Probably. She just couldn’t name whatever was stirring in her gut. Whatever it was, it was almost definitely his fault.
The problem was that he was right. She would tell him eventually. They talked about everything—including that hold-up-traffic kiss. Somehow she’d let him talk her into continuing this charade. Sort of. But no more kissing.
Except kissing Tucker had been an unexpected—but decided—perk of dating him. The feelings that had joined in were not. Cutting out the kissing was supposed to eliminate those feelings. But whatever was stirring in her middle sure felt like feelings.
Ugh.
Leaning her hip against her desk and crossing her arms over her chest, she stared at the floor. Tucker joined her, pressing his palms against the wooden corner, his hand a little too close for comfort.
They stood in silence for what felt like an hour but was probably thirty seconds. Finally, her nerves couldn’t take any more. “I’m going to lose my job today.”
His head snapped up, his mouth open and moving but not making a sound.
“Mrs. Haywood heard about our shenanigans at your party, and she’s . . . displeased.”
Tucker pushed himself off the desk, marching to the wall and back, his jaw working back and forth. His cleanly shaven jaw. Even after she’d told him there would be no more kissing.
Her insides rioted, and she pressed a palm to her stomach, which did precisely nothing.
“She can’t do that. It was my fault. Didn’t you tell her that? I mean, I practically attacked you. You had no idea. I’ll tell her you didn’t even like it.” He stopped pacing then, looking at her from under arched brows.
If he was looking for confirmation that she had indeed liked the kiss, he was going to be waiting a long time. “She left a voicemail, so I didn’t get to explain.”
Settling back in beside her, he asked, “What does she have against public displays of affection?”
Penelope cringed. “I don’t think it’s so much the display as the partner.”
“Right.” He hung his head, shaking it slowly. Even his shoulders drooped under a weight she couldn’t see. She’d expected him to be angry on her behalf, but this solemn acceptance made her heart twist. She wasn’t going to let him lose his fight.
“We haven’t figured out your ‘nonsense’ yet,” she said, forcing a smile and adding air quotes to the key word. When he didn’t look up, she brushed her foot against his. “But we can.”
He nodded. “I might have a lead in that direction.”
“And you didn’t start with that?” That deserved a shove with her elbow.
He gave an exaggerated sway to her push. “I’m just—I’m really sorry, PJ. It’s my fault.”
“Hey. If it’s between you and this job, you know what I’d pick. Every day of the week.”
“And twice on Sundays?” he asked with a wry grin.
“Don’t push your luck, mister. Now tell me about this lead. Did you find something out about Mrs. Fitterling?”
Jumping to his feet, he held out his hands to pull her up too. “I did one better. Feel like going on a field trip?”
“I’m supposed to . . .” She glanced at her desk and the phone that hadn’t rung yet. But when Madeline was ready to sack her, she could call her cell. “Okay. Where are we going?”
He opened the door for her, waited for her to walk through and lock it behind them, and pointed away from the water. River Street was filled with tourists sweating their way between tourist shops, fanning themselves with brochures for ghost tours and the like.
She felt strangely like a tourist, searching for a piece of Savannah that she didn’t know, a piece of her hometown she’d never seen before. Before she realized what she was doing, she’d reached for his hand, stopping just before her fingers brushed against his. She forced her hand to her side and focused on navigating the cobblestone alley that led away from the river and toward the rest of the historical downtown. When her heel got stuck in a crack, she questioned the wisdom of wearing these particular shoes to work. Then again, she hadn’t known that Tucker was going to show up with a clue to the treasure.
“So, what exactly did you find?”
He was a step in front of her but looked back with a grin at her question. “I found Mrs. Fitterling’s.”
“What?” He had to be mistaken. She knew Bay Street like the back of her hand, and there was no way there was a dress shop hidden among the hotels, coffee shops, and bistros.
He shrugged as they reached a steep staircase, then paused, a glint of mischief in his eye. “Well, it’s not Mrs. Fitterling’s anymore.”
When he held out his hand to help her up the steps, she accepted.
“I dug into the county records, and sure enough, Caroline was right. There was a dress shop on Bay Street. It closed in 1877, but it turns out Mrs. Fitterling never owned the building.”
Penelope was nearly out of breath by the time they reached the top of the steep cement stairs, her palm caked in dirt from the metal handrail. She brushed it against her skirt and refused to look down to see if she’d left a stain. She managed a gulp of air as they waited for a streetlight to turn green. “Does it matter?”
“Only in that a Mr. Owen Bennett owned it up until the 1920s. Then it was bought by Jackson Holt, whose son inherited it and still owns it. His family still runs a bar in the same location.”
“You’re kidding me.”
His somber expression gone, Tucker winked at her as they turned onto Bay Street. “Nope. Jackson’s Hole.”
She laughed, immediately envisioning the neon lights of the bar that she’d passed a hundred times. “Mrs. Fitterling would be scandalized. Her poor little dress shop overrun by karaoke-singing college students a few drinks in.”
He nodded as the bar appeared at the end of the block, a chalkboard sign on the sidewalk announcing the happy hour specials. “Probably no more than she was the night that Caroline and Josiah showed up.”
They stopped outside the bar, its sign clearly announcing they wouldn’t open for a few more hours. “What are we doing here?”
“Jackson Holt Jr. said he’d meet with us. And he said he might have something of interest to our search.”
Her breath caught. “Something . . . from that night?”
Pushing the door open, he said, “Let’s find out.”
Tucker stepped into the dim light of Jackson’s Hole, his eyes straining to see after the bright sunlight outside. He knew PJ was having the same problem when her outstretched hands landed on his back, feeling her way into a new environment.
“Mr. Holt,” he called. Silence was the only response, so he tried again, louder.
“Don’t light your breeches on fire. I’ll be right there.”
Tucker turned to PJ, her face still in the shadows, her shoulders shaking lightly. He clapped a hand over his own mouth to cover the laugh that threatened to escape.
“Why didn’t you turn a light on?” came the same voice a couple seconds later. “It’s darker’n midnight out here.”
Overhead lights suddenly flicked on, and Tucker moved his hand from his mouth to his eyes, shielding them from the blinding light. “Mr. Holt?”
“Who’s asking?”
Tucker dropped his hand enough to get a good look at the man. His whiskers were white, his eyebrows sprouting like an overgrown plant. The lines on his face made him look old enough to have owned the building when Mrs. Fitterling was still a tenant, but his eyes were sharp, knowing.
“I’m Tucker Westbrook. We spoke on the phone.”
The man’s squint eased up a bit until his gaze landed on PJ. Suddenly Holt ran a hand over his mop of silver hair and down his wrinkled button-up. “Weren’t expecting a lady here today. Ma’am.” Holt nodded toward her and then scowled at him. “You should give a man some warning.”
Tucker quickly nodded, sweeping his arm around PJ’s back and holding her to his side. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holt. This is Penelope Hunter. She’s helping me search for that cargo that went missing during the war.”
“Ma’am.” Holt gave a quick bow, then slid across the floor until he could scoop up her hand and press it to his lips. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Oh—” PJ let out a small squeak, her shoulders shaking again. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Mr. Holt ushered them to the bar, swiping his sleeve over a stool seat before holding it out for PJ. “I guess you want to see what we found, huh?”
Tucker nodded, but Holt didn’t even pretend to look in his direction. PJ’s sweet smile held him captive. Tucker knew the feeling.
“That would be lovely, Mr. Holt,” she said.
“Oh, oh, Jackson, please.” He skittered behind the bar, ducked beneath the wooden countertop, and reappeared with a small leather pouch in his hand. “I pulled this outta my safe soon as I knew you were comin’.” The fabric itself was less than impressive—nondescript and worn by the years—but it was still solid. And when Holt blew on it, a layer of dust made a cloud over the counter.
“What is it?” PJ leaned forward on her elbows, eyes wide.
Tucker could see her reflection in the mirror behind the bar, such sweetness between the bottles of bitter amber liquid lining shelf after shelf.
“My dad, he came into some money and decided to buy this old place. It was a restaurant and then a food kitchen before the Depression. And then after Prohibition ended, well, he added a bar. About that time, food and drink were in high demand. But he never made much money from it, only enough to keep it up to code.” His gaze drifted over PJ’s shoulder and was lost to history. “I took it over right ’round ’65. And when he passed in ’72, he left me enough money to renovate. The pipes and wiring were out of date, so they had to tear out all of these walls. First day of demo, they found this.” He held up his pouch, clearly his prized possession.
“What is it?” PJ asked again.
“Minié balls.”
Tucker’s stomach took a hard dive even as PJ shook her head. “Miniature balls?”
“Ammunition. Civil War era.”
Suddenly her face reflected the hope in his chest. “And it was just . . . what? In the wall?”
Holt nodded. “And that’s French.” He pointed to the single word printed across the pale leather.
Tucker couldn’t read it—he had a hard enough time with English—but he knew that it meant this particular bag of ammunition had come from France. Probably on a boat that had run the blockade. And if PJ’s expression was any indication, she knew it too.
Holt leaned in a little more, his eyes moving back and forth, telling a story that he seemed to have been waiting years to tell. “The contractor, he said there was a hole back there he had to close up. Said it was dangerous. Said it wasn’t safe.”
“Do you have any blueprints from before the renovation?” PJ asked.
Holt shook his head. “Naw. I don’t, but my contractor might.”
Tucker bit his tongue to keep from asking if it was possible the man was still alive. PJ had the tact to ask the question in a softer way. “Could we get in touch with him?”
Holt shrugged. “His kid owns the company now, but I got a card somewhere.” He ducked into the hallway in the back, leaving Tucker and PJ in stunned silence for a long second.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
Her gaze swept over the open room, over a pool table and past a dartboard. “Just wondering what this place looked like when Mrs. Fitterling was here. And wondering when they moved the cargo.”
His eyebrows rose.
“If this is all that was left behind, someone moved Caroline’s treasure. I’ve skimmed the rest of the diary, but I haven’t seen anything else about it.”
“What’s in the rest of it?”
“Sherman’s arrival.”
Right. The Christmas of 1864 had been anything but joyful for the residents of Savannah. But that didn’t explain what had happened to the treasure.
When Holt returned, he handed PJ a business card. “Thank you,” she said.
“Anything for the prettiest treasure hunter to come through here.”
She began to smile but stopped short. “The prettiest? You mean there have been others?”
“Sure.” He nodded solemnly. “It’s been a few years”—he paused—“maybe a few decades, but there was a time when I had several visitors in the same year.”
Tucker’s throat went dry. Jethro Coleman hadn’t been lying. There had been others looking, and they’d gotten at least this far, figured out at least as much as he and PJ had. So what had kept them from finding the treasure?
“What’d you tell them?” PJ asked.
Holt winked at her. “That Savannah is full of lost treasure.”
They thanked Holt for his help and left. As they stepped onto the sidewalk, the sun felt like it had been turned up a few degrees, and Tucker blinked hard against it, still able to see PJ’s silhouette against the backs of his eyes.
When he could finally see again, he turned to face her. Crossing his arms, he frowned. “What do you think?”
“Well, I guess we better meet with a contractor.”
He nodded.
“You want to go now?”
“Tomorrow?”
Because first he needed to do something he should have done weeks ago.
Christmas shall be a drab affair this year. I had so hoped that it might be filled with joy and reunion, but there is nothing left to celebrate. General Hardee and his men abandoned our precious city and have left it open to Sherman’s troops, who have filled the city to bursting. There are bluecoats everywhere I look. Even now officers meet with Papa to arrange for their men to sleep under this very roof.
I can hardly imagine, but there are so many of them and not nearly enough beds in which they might sleep. I daren’t think where they will all find housing.
Mama refused to let Sarah go to the market by herself, so Bradford escorted her this morning. Desperate to see beyond the view of my windows, I begged to join them. Clinging to Bradford’s arm as we left the house, I could not believe my eyes. Even the cemetery has been consumed by them. They have made little camps among the headstones, the fires burning all through the day not enough to warm them.
The air is sharp, the wind chafing. These men look ragged. Their hair is uncombed, their beards rough, their uniforms even more so. I pulled my cloak tighter about me, but I could not help but shiver in the cold, as they must.
They glared at me as we walked past, and I moved even closer to my brother. Their words, though likely foul, did not reach me. Still, everything in me shudders to think what they will do to our city.
Yet, there was one man. No, he was but a boy too young yet for whiskers, his eyes haunted. Oh, the things he must have seen. And his mama without him for Christmas.
This war is unfair to all. It has taken so many sons and brothers and fathers. My heart aches for these men.
As we walked toward Bay Street, I could not help but wonder if our activities have done anything to help bring it all to an end or if we are merely delaying the inevitable.
Friday, December 23, 1864
Bradford has moved into my room, sleeping on a pallet at the foot of my bed. Every other room, save my parents’, has been taken over by officers. They dine with us and meet in Papa’s study and discuss things in softer tones. Despite my tendencies toward eavesdropping, I have heard nothing of interest.
But last night something most interesting happened. I could not very well have the candle burning in my room with Bradford asleep, so I tiptoed to the library so I might have a few moments to write down the day’s events.
I had barely finished writing the entry when I heard a noise in the hallway. I slammed my book closed and stowed my pencil, ducking into the corner behind the door. I leaned toward the seam around the door frame, praying I might hear a voice, hear something that would help our home feel like it belongs to our family once again.
There was no voice, only footsteps upon the carpet. They moved slowly as though uncertain of the way. Surely it could not be Mama or Papa. And Bradford’s gait was far too distinctive to be mistaken for anyone else.
The door opened slowly, creaking softly in the dim light. I swallowed a gasp, only then realizing that I had left the candle on the table where I had sat. The house was not as safe as it had once been, and I knew that not even Sarah would be out of bed at such a time. Whoever this was, he was not a friend.
I could have run for the candle, but I feared any movement might alert the intruder that he was not alone. Then the door stopped. My heart did as well. I am sure of it. There was not a sound or a breath as I waited. The waiting seemed unending. I stared at the wall behind the door, lined with my father’s leather tomes, for hours. Perhaps it was only minutes.
Then a voice called out a questioning hello. It was deep but gentle, though the image it conjured in my mind was of the giant Goliath in the paintings I have seen in churches. Could I be David? Was I placed in that very location so I might fight off the great monster?
I prayed that it would not be so, for my knees trembled and my eyes burned. I remained silent.
Again the man called out.
Is someone here?
I wanted to jump out and scare him. Perhaps he would believe me to be a ghost and tell his men, and they would all flee Savannah’s streets and leave my family alone. But I could not muster the courage to face him. I wished to disappear into the floor, to become one with the books and blend into my surroundings. But my floral dressing gown could hardly be missed against the royal colors of the books adorning the white shelves.
Oh! Excuse me, miss.
His words sounded nearly as surprised as I was. I had been spotted, and there was nothing for it but to face my would-be attacker. As I looked over my shoulder, I found not a feral giant but a humble man, head bowed and waist bent. He offered profuse apologies for interrupting me and backed away slowly.
I think he might have left had he not looked up in time to see me watching him. When our gazes met, he offered a slow smile, asking if I was the Miss Westbrook he had heard so much about. Of course, I did not know who he had heard about or what things had been said. I managed a nod of agreement nonetheless.
He asked if I’d like him to leave, and I shook my head. Why ever did I refuse? What foolishness had overtaken me? I did not know.
After looking over his shoulder as though to confirm that we would not be interrupted, he gave me another smile. My, but it was handsome. His teeth are white and evenly spaced, and his entire face lit like a lantern from within.
He asked if I could not sleep, and I shook my head. He frowned then and suggested it might be because my home was filled with strangers. I offered only a shrug, just then realizing that I was wearing naught but a dressing gown over my thin cotton nightgown. I tugged the collar closed beneath my chin, clutching my book to my side with my elbow. I should have left him then. But every time he opened his mouth the most fascinating things escaped.
He told me a most diverting anecdote about the other officer sharing his room, a Lieutenant Carruthers, who apparently has some sort of nasal blockage that prevents him from sleeping silently. I nearly burst for holding in my laughter, for he was quite amusing as he demonstrated the terrible sound.
A strange silence settled upon us then. It was not uncomfortable, yet I felt my skin tremble beneath his inspection. I could not meet his gaze, but I knew he was looking at me. Me with my hair in a plait and my figure concealed beneath the billowing fabric of my robe. His survey was not unkind, but there was an intensity there I had never experienced.
Finally I thought he might devour me with his gaze if not distracted, and I blurted out the first thing I could think of. I asked him his name.
His laugh was deep and joyful, and it bellowed from low in his belly until I joined him. Then his gaze turned serious. His name is Lieutenant Haulder, and he is from Pennsylvania.
I nearly blurted out another question. I wondered if he was married with a family at home waiting for him. But why should that matter to me? No matter how handsome or charming, he has invaded my city and my home. I have no right or need to ask such a thing.
I excused myself then, racing for my bedroom, lest I meet another of our guests less inclined toward civility. But I could not seem to remove him from my mind. I lay in bed listening to Bradford’s deep breaths, thinking over and over about my exchange with Lieutenant Haulder. My eyes finally drifted closed as the sun rose.
From the moment I dragged myself from bed today, I have thought of nothing but the tall lieutenant. He was civil and respectful, yet when he looked at me, I was sure he saw a woman. I was almost sure he looked at me with interest, as a man looks at a woman he finds beautiful. I know I should not care for his attentions, yet how could any woman deny such a feeling?
It was almost as thrilling as our trip to Mrs. Fitterling’s last week. Yet I feel a small portion of guilt to have shared it with anyone other than Josiah.
I can hardly believe that Christmas is but a day away. The air carries a promise of snow, and I cannot help but consider the men sleeping upon the ground. Lieutenant Haulder returned to the house from a walk yesterday afternoon, his face containing none of the humor it had held the evening before. I knew I was not free to ask him what has caused him distress. Not with Mama watching so closely, insisting that I work on my stitching in the parlor by her side.
It took some great maneuvering for me to extricate my person from her side, but as soon as I did, I hurried toward the kitchen, for Sarah knows everything that goes on in this house. Even with the extra residents.
Sarah was not to be found. Instead I found Lieutenant Haulder helping himself to a cup of coffee—or the version we have settled for for so many years. I must have looked surprised, for he begged my pardon for helping himself. How kind of him, even though his fellow officers have no such manners. I have seen them digging through the cupboards and even trying to pry open the sugar chest. I’m glad I came upon that awful man before he could discover that we have no sugar to steal. There has been none for almost a year.
For the second time in as many days, I was alone with the dashing Lieutenant Haulder, and I knew this would be my only chance to speak freely with him. I asked him what sadness had come over him, and he told me of his men freezing in the cold, without cover or protection. The corners of his mouth dipped under his fair whiskers, but his gaze never left mine. His eyes are so green, like the church lawn before a picnic.
I was too taken with his eyes to realize when he reached for my hand. But suddenly he was holding it, his fingers warm about mine. He said that he hoped I did not think him impertinent, but he must speak or burst. That is when he said I am the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
I did not know how much I had longed to hear those words until they were there before me, warming me more than the fire in the grate. He leaned forward, near enough for me to feel his breath upon my face. I do believe he might have kissed me then, but for Sarah’s return. Instead he tipped his head toward me and slipped away before we could be caught in a compromising situation.
A man this kind could not be as terrible as they say. He has a good heart, a gentleness to him. Yet it feels wrong to even think of such a man when I hold another’s secret.