Jack sent me an odd look. “You really want to know?”
“Sure. If Marc’s going to start digging again, I should probably know why.”
“Sounds fair. Well, when the French treasury was looted during their revolution, the French Blue—as the Hope Diamond was known then—was stolen and disappeared for twenty years. It originally weighed about sixty-seven carats, but when it showed up again two decades later, it was only about forty-four carats. It was rumored that it had been cut in half, but no one is sure what happened to the other half—until an obscure photograph of the Sultan of Brunei wearing what looks like a replica of the French Blue was unearthed. The stone hung from a neck ribbon in the same setting as King Louis XIV once wore. Even without verification, the photograph was included in that USA Today article. It got lots of tongues wagging on all the treasure-hunting forums.”
While he’d been talking, Jack had kept his hands in his pockets, his gaze focused on the sidewalk in front of us, his brows knitted in deep concentration. It was the same look he had when immersed in his plotting.
“Was this the story idea you weren’t ready to tell me?”
He started and stopped several times, never quite managing to get the words out.
“You’re still not ready to talk about it.” I wasn’t quite able to hide the hurt in my voice.
“Pretty much.”
Before I could remind him that we always discussed his books at every stage in the process, I was distracted by Jack putting his hand on my lower back to steer me around a group of tourists walking abreast on the sidewalk, oblivious to other pedestrians. I loved the solid warmth of his palm, the heat wrapping me like a coat. When he dropped his hand, I almost asked him to put it back before I remembered that we were separated. Even though we were still living in the same house. And still loved each other.
I thought again about bringing up the subject of going to visit a marriage counselor but swallowed back the words. I wasn’t eager to repeat the experiences I’d had when I was younger, seeking counseling to deal with my mother’s abandonment. There had been something about the process of opening my mind and digging deep that made me particularly vulnerable to troubled souls looking for a way in. I kept switching counselors each time one suggested medication to quiet the voices I heard inside my head, until I finally gave up therapy altogether.
I also fostered a secret fear that a therapist might tell Jack and me that we were incompatible and should make the separation permanent. Which is why when my mother or Jayne brought up the subject, I reverted to the old Mellie and sidestepped the subject entirely.
We took a right on Coming Street, our conversation paused as we dodged more pedestrian traffic before reaching the impressive and glaringly new Addlestone Library, where the South Carolina Historical Society Archives were now housed. After climbing the steps, we walked through the library in hushed silence, heading up to the third-floor reading room.
We found Yvonne Craig sitting behind her computer at the reference desk. She was wearing a pretty yellow sweater draped elegantly over her shoulders, her beautiful white hair combed back in a glossy bun. In my mind, I still pictured her in the old Fireproof Building on Chalmers, where the archives were housed before they’d been moved, along with Yvonne, to the new library on the College of Charleston’s campus.
Despite her years, Yvonne stood quickly, letting her glasses dangle from the chain around her neck. She walked toward us, wearing a bright smile apparently meant for both of us, but I knew it was aimed mostly at Jack. It had taken me a while to stop being jealous of the octogenarian’s close relationship with my husband, but I had eventually learned to accept it.
She raised each cheek to Jack to be kissed and then did the same to me before stepping back to adjust the yellow cardigan on her shoulders.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Yvonne, but when we first met, I seem to remember you used a cane.”
“I certainly did—horrible arthritis, you know. Jack suggested yoga and it has changed my life. Keeps me flexible. And Zumba. You should really try it sometime.”
Despite still wearing my coat, I shivered. I wasn’t sure if the interior’s chilliness was for the preservation of old archives or because the brittle volumes and papers contained within the archives’ walls were accompanied by their creators. I looked around us stealthily, the unmistakable sense of being watched brushing the back of my neck. Though I’d experienced the same sensation before on my many visits to the archives, this was the first time it seemed there was intent in the interest and not simply passive curiosity.
I shivered again and Jack casually draped an arm around my shoulders, making me realize that being spied on by an unknown spirit had its benefits, too.
Yvonne looked at me closely, her pink-painted lips pursed in thought. “Is everything all right? You look . . . tired.” Her face brightened. “Are you . . . ?”
Before she could finish her sentence, both Jack and I said in unison, “No.” We said it loudly enough that several heads turned in our direction.
Avoiding looking at Jack, I said, “I’m fine. Just not sleeping well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, sending a sidelong glance at Jack before leading us to one of the long wooden tables where neatly stacked folders and books sat waiting. There were many reasons to love Yvonne Craig, but her sense of organization was right up there at the top of the list. We must have shared a common ancestor—not an uncommon reality among Charleston’s older families.
Jack pulled out a chair for Yvonne at the head of the table in front of the stack, then another one next to her for me before sitting down across from me.
Leaning toward Jack, she whispered, “Is this for a new book?”
“No,” I said at the same time Jack answered, “Maybe.”