“Are you sure? You don’t look fine. Anything I can do?”
We’d reached the opposite side of the street and I paused to look over my shoulder toward the wedding couple being showered with a barrage of white petals that turned scarlet as they fell. “Nothing. Nothing that can be fixed right now.” Because no matter how many times it happened, I could never get used to the sheer number of restless spirits who could see me coming and invade my life when I wasn’t paying attention. I shuddered to think of what would happen if I agreed with Jayne to let our combined lights shine.
“Would you like me to respond to Thomas?”
I faced Jack, trying to recall what we’d been talking about.
He held up my phone. “A meeting—tonight.”
“Right.” We crossed Meeting Street and began walking toward King Street, turning right at Berlin’s. I gave a passing glance at the store window, trying not to remember the red dress my mother had bought there and I’d worn to my fortieth-birthday celebration. The same dress Jack and I held responsible for the happy existence of the twins. It hung in the back of my closet, too snug for me now, but holding more memories than an entire photo album.
I continued. “I think it would be best to meet somewhere besides the house because of the film crew being there, not to mention Marc and Harvey. I’m sure Marc is up to something, and I’d prefer it if he didn’t know what we were doing. I know they’re supposed to be done by six, but who knows?”
I paused in front of the big front window of Buxton Books, reminding myself that I needed to read more and that Sophie’s birthday was coming up. I made a mental note to return and shop. “Why don’t you tell him to meet us at six thirty for dinner? He can pick the restaurant, and we’ll make the reservation. I’ll invite Jayne, too, since I’m sure she’ll want to be kept up-to-date.”
“Right. And because three is an odd number for dinner.”
“Exactly,” I said, avoiding his eyes.
I had no desire to be told that my romantic instincts weren’t the best and some might even say were completely off base. After all, I’d once dated Marc Longo and had considered his brother, Anthony, a great match for Jayne. Both matches had been abysmal failures, but surely I’d learned something from the experience. Surely.
When we turned off King to meander through the back streets to reach the Addlestone Library on the College of Charleston campus, Jack brought up the subject I’d been anticipating.
“Nola said she’d like to apply to UCLA. She said if she wants to pursue songwriting, that would be a good school. And it would be taking her back to her roots. She was raised in Los Angeles for the first thirteen years of her life, after all.”
I nodded. “She also mentioned schools in New York and Ohio, for majors other than songwriting. And recently she mentioned Sewanee and Tulane. Personally, I think if she’s not sure about her major, she should start at USC or the College of Charleston and then transfer if she needs to when she figures out what she wants.”
“Me, too,” Jack said.
“What?”
“I’m not ready to say good-bye, either. And I cringe at the thought of her being so far away from home. I can’t believe I didn’t know she existed for so long and how in such a short time she’s become such a huge part of my life.”
“Yep. Mine, too.” I used my knuckle to wipe away an embarrassing drop of moisture. I felt Jack looking at me and said, “Allergies.”
“Winter allergies are the worst.” He took my hand and squeezed it, then let it go.
I cleared my throat. “I overheard what you said to Marc about a recent blog post. Something about the Confederate diamonds?”
Jack shoved his hands in his pockets, something he did when he paced his office while deep in thought. “Yeah. Apparently, some treasure hunter with a big online presence—known only by his blogger name Blackbeard—said he’d dug up something about the diamonds not being the only part of the treasure given to the Confederacy by the Sultan of Brunei. Some connection to the Hope Diamond.”
“And people took it seriously?”
“When there is the potential for a hidden and valuable treasure, people pay attention. Sort of like how the mention of a new rose variety gets your dad’s gardening group all salivating. Except with treasure hunting, there’s real money involved, so it becomes very competitive. And sometimes dirty.”
“Which is why Marc follows those kinds of blogs. But it’s not true, right? We found all of the diamonds in the clock. There can’t be more, or we would have heard about them by now.”
Jack shrugged. “Anything’s possible, I guess. There was a recent article in USA Today about the Hope Diamond being sent from the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History to Harry Winston’s in New York for cleaning and minor restoration work. A reader of mine e-mailed the article to me because it mentioned the history of the diamond, and various conspiracies including a possible connection to the Confederate diamonds. The reader knew I’d been working on a book about the diamonds, so he thought I might be interested. Apparently, he doesn’t know about Marc’s book.”
“And I hope you didn’t tell him. I’d hate to think Marc got a penny of royalties because of you.”
“I’d rather glue my lips together.” He took my arm and moved us both to the edge of the sidewalk as two girls wearing College of Charleston sweatshirts passed us in single file, both of them talking while tapping furiously on their phones without tripping or looking up. Resuming our walk, I said, “Wasn’t the Hope Diamond once owned by Marie Antoinette?”
“Not by her personally, but it was owned by the French royal family until they were beheaded. It’s why legend says it’s cursed. Nothing like having one’s head removed to start a nasty rumor.”
“I bet. So, what does the Hope Diamond have in common with the Confederate diamonds? I’m assuming it has to be pretty plausible to get treasure bloggers all in a tizzy.”