Beau shrugged. “Fine with me. Although I just downloaded the entire new Vampire Weekend album and thought you might enjoy listening to it. There are a couple of guitar riffs and lyrics that made me think of that song you were working on at the store instead of inventorying the silver.”
Nola paused, pretended to consider. Drew a deep breath. “Whatever. I guess I’ll go with Beau.” She headed to the door.
I reached out and tugged on her skirt, holding her back. “And?”
“Thank you,” she said, barely loud enough to be heard.
“I’ll be back shortly to start working on that fence,” Beau said as he followed Nola out of the door.
“Take your time! With the fence, that is!” I called after him. I dreaded paying the bill when he was done. Even with the financial windfall from the rubies, we still might have to sell a child to afford the repairs and the twins’ college tuitions.
Jack took a step toward the door, but I held him back. “She’s fine, Jack. Really. And much safer than her being behind the wheel herself.”
A tremor went through him. “True.” His face brightened. “And if she never gets her license, she might be forced to live at home while she goes to college.”
Jack sat on the side of the bed, then placed his hands on the pillow on either side of my face and examined me like a scientist studying a specimen under a microscope.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Yesterday, when Veronica called me to tell me she was taking you to the hospital, I . . .” He paused. “I thought the worst. I wouldn’t believe that you were fine until I saw you myself.” He sat back, his eyes still fixed on mine. “You drive me crazy, but I can’t imagine my life without you.”
A fissure of hope sprang up inside me. “Yvonne said that we don’t marry someone we can live with, but someone we can’t live without. For the record, I agree.”
He leaned over me again, jostling the bed tray, and I tilted my chin in anticipation of the kiss I’d been waiting for. I held my breath. Closed my eyes. Then felt his forehead pressed against mine.
“I need more time, Mellie.”
The small fissure fizzled out as I watched Jack pull away. I touched his arm and felt the familiar zing between us. What about me? The words that the new version of Melanie was trying to say got swatted away by the old Mellie, who refused to retreat. Because deep down, I was still that poor abandoned girl desperate for affection, afraid to say or do anything that might make Jack back away permanently.
I dropped my hand as he gave me one last, smoldering look, then stretched out on the bed in his usual spot and opened the newspaper.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Waiting for you to eat your breakfast so you can tell me what you wanted to talk about.”
“Right,” I said, then took a bite of lukewarm oatmeal, not bothering to hide my grimace. I took another bite, and washed it down with a large gulp of coffee. I picked up my spoon, then hesitated when I saw that Jack seemed absorbed in what he was reading.
I replaced the spoon in the bowl, then very slowly and carefully began unrolling the doughnut bag. I had managed to open the top wide enough for my hand to fit inside when Jack sat up suddenly, letting out a small expletive.
“I just wanted a bite,” I said.
He looked at me with confusion until he saw the opened bag. With a grimace, he folded up the newspaper so that whatever he’d been reading was on top and replaced my bowl on the tray with it. “Have you seen this?”
I quickly read the headline: hope diamond or hope-less treasure hunt? My eyes swept to the byline. Suzy Dorf. I swallowed. “No, I haven’t.” Which was true. I hadn’t actually seen the article.
He picked up the paper. “It looks like Ms. Dorf is resurrecting her Hidden Treasures in the Holy City series. I hope this wins the Post and Courier another Pulitzer. Listen to this.”
Once again there is drama at a particular house on Tradd Street where a movie based on the fictionalized story of the disappearance of Louisa Vanderhorst in 1929 as interpreted by Marc Longo is being filmed. It is interesting to note that Longo is the descendant of Joseph Longo, the suspect held responsible for Mrs. Vanderhorst’s death. A source who wishes to remain anonymous calls the novel and the resulting film “farb” (“far be it from reality”)—which, for the uninitiated, is a term used by war reenactors for those participants who exhibit indifference to historical authenticity.
“This is going to make Marc insane.” Jack didn’t sound upset. “And listen to this.”
Longo, a Charleston businessman, is neither a writer nor a director by profession, which makes this journalist pay attention to the rumors that a more accurate version of the historical events surrounding the Confederate diamonds once hidden inside the house on Tradd Street was purloined and eviscerated to make a more scintillating novel and subsequent spicy film treatment.
He read in silence for a moment. “Looks like Ms. Dorf has been following the treasure-hunting blogs. She mentions the Hope Diamond and the Sultan of Brunei rumors, and the growing consensus that the most valuable part of the treasure remains hidden.” He cleared his throat.
It remains to be seen if the supposed hosts of spirits who purportedly exist alongside the living inside the home will stay quiet during the filming. Stay tuned for more on this and other hidden treasures in our beloved Holy City.
Jack tossed the paper onto my nightstand. “We’ll probably get an earful from Harvey and a bunch of threats from Marc. They’ll probably buy all copies of the paper to keep the crew from reading about the ghosts. I imagine if the activity reaches the levels we experienced in December, they’ll all quit and Marc will claim that we’re in breach of contract.”
“What will we do if that happens? I asked softly.
He shrugged. “It is what it is.”
It was such an un-Jack remark that I stared hard at him. “Really?”
“Really,” he said matter-of-factly. “There’s nothing I can do but wait and see and then deal with the fallout. And keep working on my new book.”