Treasure Me (29 page)

Was this grief? Sorrow tore down the last of his pride—Birdie cared about the rubies a lot more than she cared about him. It was painfully difficult, but he set his emotions aside. She didn’t love him. Why had he believed that she did? He’d let his emotions curtail the normally cynical streak that warned him that a woman like Birdie didn’t possess enough depth to love anyone. Life on the street, picking pockets and drifting from city to city—the life she’d led had destroyed some elemental facet of her personality. She wasn’t the woman he wanted her to be. Life had shorn away the possibility.

Bruised, he set his mouth grimly. Of course, he was forgetting something. She was giving up more than the gems. She was letting go of her connection to Justice.

Maybe he was losing her but she’d lose something too. She’d lose her connection to Justice, a freed slave who’d been her guiding light. Even if Birdie couldn’t see it, she’d craved something belonging to the only woman she’d ever admired.

It struck him suddenly that despite her avarice she wouldn’t pawn the jewels. The gems carried the rich history of a life lived well. They represented the potential for dreams to evolve into reality when the dreamer lived with integrity.

Everything Justice became in her life—a free woman, a loving mother and wealthy businesswoman—every triumph sprung from her ability to
believe
in herself and others. To Birdie, who survived with her emotions dulled and her mistrust of people dragging her down—Birdie wanted no less from her own life. The rubies were a roadmap to her own heart. Now he was forcing her to abandon the hunt, and the only connection to another human being that mattered to her.

He’d let her grieve.

“Tonight we’ll make a decision about what to do,” he said, moving off before she could glimpse his disappointment. “What time will you be done with Delia?”

“We’re going to Ethel Lynn’s after work. We should finish by nine o’clock.”

When she returned to the apartment, he’d offer more apologies. They wouldn’t heal the rift, but he’d try to earn her forgiveness.

He nodded. “I’ll wait for you.”

Stalking into the City Editor’s office, Hugh demanded, “You got something against phones? Why do you need to see me in person?”

The two-hour drive to the
Register
had been bumper-to-bumper. Now it was past five o’clock. Agonizing on how to set things straight with Birdie, he’d barely started on the article about the rubies. And he needed to be at the apartment when she finished messing around with Delia’s hair. Face-time with Bud was one hell of an inconvenience.

Not that the City Editor cared. “Holding out on me?” Bud asked.

The question drilled past Hugh’s rising temper. “What are you talking about?”

“The woman looking for the rubies? Her mother is connected to the Trinity Investment scandal.” Bud glowered. “You forgot to mention it.”

He reeled with disbelief. “Check your facts. They’re wrong.”

Jesus, he hoped they were. He lowered himself into a chair. Dread had him gripping the armrests.

Nothing in Fatman’s report on the nefarious Kaminsky clan had mentioned Trinity Investments or Landon Williams and his late wife, the philanthropist, Cat Seavers. Could Birdie’s mother be connected to the scandal that had nearly destroyed him? Not the sort of odds favored in Vegas, but the City Editor looked smugly confident. A bad sign.

Bud shook his head, amused. “For Chrissake, what kind of a reporter are you? Wish Kaminsky is the babe Landon Williams was running around with, genius. She went by the name Wish Greyhart. Your pal, Fatman, told Ralston all about it. Fatman would’ve told you directly if you’d been answering your cell.”

“I never interviewed Landon’s lover. He sent her away before the story broke. Or Cat did.”

“Well, they’re one and the same.”

“Birdie doesn’t know about Trinity.”

“You sure about that?”

Hell, he was positive. She didn’t have much contact with her mother. According to Fatman’s report, Birdie had been fending for herself since she was teenager. Worse still, her mother was a hardened criminal. Wish Kaminsky didn’t care about her daughter. She certainly wouldn’t care if she’d sent Birdie to Liberty into a perilous situation. But Landon wasn’t the risk—his daughter was. If Meade ever ran into Birdie there was no telling what she’d do to protect her father.

Bud tapped a pen against his teeth, considering. “Seems Liberty is a big draw for both of the Kaminsky women. I wonder if Landon Williams has met this Birdie character. By the way, Ralston says he’s suing you for nailing him in the kisser.”

“Let him.”

“Pull another stunt like that and I’ll do one better. I’ll make it so you never work on another newspaper. Not that any of my colleagues are eager to hire you as it is.” Bud smiled malevolently. “Since your bloodhound instincts have gone punky, I sent Ralston to Liberty. He’s wrapping up the story on the infamous Kaminsky broads.”

Hugh surged from his seat. “You dragged me here to get me out of his way?”

“You catch on fast.”

“I told you I’d give you the story about the rubies. You’re not writing about Birdie. She’s off-limits. Do you understand?”

“Are you threatening me?”

Rage nearly hurtled him across the desk. Somehow he contained it. “You bet I am.”

The City Editor chuckled. “I’m the one calling the shots. For starters, you’ll help Ralston finish the article tonight. If he can’t track down Birdie, you’ll lay on the charm and get a few quotes from her. I hear she’s an accomplished thief. Talk to anyone in Liberty who’s been taken by her. Ralston tried to land a few interviews but a crazy old hag drew a pistol on him.”

Theodora
.

His gratitude was quickly replaced by fear. Birdie cared what Theodora and the other women thought of her. If the story hit, she’d never survive the humiliation.

When
the story hit.

Hugh choked down the emotion barreling into his throat. She’d do what she did best—run. He’d never see her again. It was an unbearable possibility.

Bud slammed his fist on his desk. “Wake up, Einstein! I’m telling you how to play this so I won’t throw your ass on the street—”

Hugh never heard the rest.
The street.
Birdie would return to a pathetic semblance of a life roaming from city to city. She deserved so much more. He’d only begun to imagine the life they’d build together. Bud was snuffing out the dreams before they took shape.

Fury and heartbreak sent him lunging across the desk. He grabbed Bud by the collar and brought his face close.

“Tell Ralston if I find him in Liberty, I’ll kill him,” he growled. “And by the way—
I
quit
.”

* * *

“Delia, hold still.”

Drawing back from the bathroom mirror, Birdie turned on the egg timer for another five minutes. According to the directions on the hair coloring kit, she needed to give the mess a little longer to work.

The wait was enjoyable. Ethel Lynn had graciously offered to let them conduct their beauty regimen in the spacious guest bathroom of her home. Touched by the offer, Birdie had readily agreed.

Dodging Hugh for a few more hours was a good plan. She should be furious with him and she was. He’d write about the rubies even though he’d promised to keep her secret safe. Giving up the search wasn’t easy, but for days now she’d been plagued by an undeniable fact: she should’ve found the gems by now. And the announcement he’d made about loving her—she’d been stunned and thrilled and frightened, a tangle of emotions she still hadn’t found the courage to unravel. After she gave him the go-ahead for the article, would he ask her again to move in with him? The invitation wasn’t something she should seriously consider, but she kept coming back to it.

Elation, unbidden, swept through her.
Am I in love with him?

The emotion died beneath the pessimism anchoring her. She’d never seen love thrive. Her parents and grandparents, every member of her extended family—wanderers all. Not one of them was capable of lasting commitment.

“Birdie, the timer beeped.”

Jarred from her thoughts, she peeled the plastic cap from Delia’s head and led her to the sink.

Ethel Lynn opened the bathroom door. “Would you girls like tea?”

“Sounds great.” Birdie turned on the tap. “Hey, Ethel Lynn—I’m dying to know something.” She started washing the goo from Delia’s hair. “I couldn’t get a straight answer from Theodora. Why did your great-aunt jilt Theodora’s great-grandfather? Did it really start the bad blood between your families?”

“Hells bells. She
would
say that.” Indignant, Ethel Lynn flew into the bathroom. “For the record, Lucas never cared for my great-aunt. Once he arrived in Liberty, he couldn’t keep himself away from his true love.”

Lucas
.

Ethel Lynn couldn’t possibly be talking about Lucas Postell. Dazed, Birdie regarded her.

It’s a coincidence
. Family lore held that Lucas Postell died in South Carolina, either in the waning years of the Civil War or right after. No one had ever mentioned the plantation owner coming north to Ohio.

Still, she couldn’t suppress the excitement in her voice when she asked, “Lucas wasn’t from Liberty? Where’d he come from?”

A silence rich in expectancy filled the air. Even Delia, bent over the sink with the water streaming over her head, seemed to sense it. She lifted her gaze in tandem with Birdie’s to regard the old woman. Which appeared to please Ethel Lynn, who was seldom the center of attention.

Delighted with their fevered interest, she said, “Lucas was born and bred in the Carolinas. He lost everything in the Civil War. He came north to search for the woman he’d loved before the war tore them apart.”

Reeling, Birdie abandoned Delia at the sink. “What was his last name?” Joy started a clamorous ringing in her ears.

Delia flailed her arms. “Come back! Get this stuff out of my hair!”

Her distress sent Ethel Lynn banging into the wall. “Heavens to Betsy—the child’s drowning!”

“Oh. Right.” In her confusion, Birdie had turned the faucet on full blast. She decreased the flow and, grabbing Delia’s head, thrust her into the sink. “About Lucas,” Birdie said, deaf to the young woman’s cries. “What was his last name?”

“Why, it was Postell. French, dear. The woman he loved was a slave on his plantation before the war.”

“Justice. Her name was Justice.”

“Yes, and they had a child together. A boy.” Ethel Lynn daubed at her eyes. “Theodora is a stubborn old goat. My great-aunt never was able to win Lucas’s affections. If he hadn’t died of a heart attack after coming to Liberty, he would’ve carried on with Justice until they were old and gray. Certainly Theodora’s grandfather wouldn’t have been their only child.”

“Theodora is descended from Justice and Lucas? You’re sure?”

“Hell’s bells!” Ethel Lynn stumbled toward the door. “Everyone in town knows Theodora is descended from those tragic lovers. It’s no secret.”

I’m related to Theodora.
A dizzy sort of glee brought her across the room.

Scaring the jittery old woman with too many questions was not a good plan. She might faint from over-stimulation. The doorbell rang and Ethel Lynn turned toward the sound with unmistakable relief.

“Goodness! I’d better see who it is.” She hurried off.

It was well after nine, lights out in a town that rolled up the sidewalks at dusk. “I wonder who’s here so late,” Birdie said.

Dripping water, Delia tripped toward her. “A towel salesman?” she growled.

“Right. Sorry.” Birdie rummaged beneath the sink and came back up with a fluffy pink towel. She tossed it over.
Why didn’t Theodora tell me she’s related to Justice?
There were some things in life you couldn’t control, like the family you were born into. Birdie was coded with the DNA of criminals and drifters, a sordid lot of humanity built on the biology of greed. Back in Lucas Postell’s time it hadn’t been so; Lucas was made of something better, as was the slave who became his lover. Through them another line of Postells were born, Theodora’s line, and the prospect that she was related to Theodora filled Birdie with hope. They shared blood, good blood, a fine mix that wasn’t defective. Why hadn’t Theodora hadn’t mentioned her relationship to Justice? She should’ve known how much the news would’ve meant to Birdie.

Far too excited to figure it out, Birdie asked, “Do you like your family?”

Delia feigned a shudder. “My father walks around town in golf shorts all winter. My mother? When I was in high school, she worked in the cafeteria. I’d be standing in line with my friends and she’d spoon peas onto my plate. I mean, who eats peas with tacos? Parents should be outlawed.”

“Some parents
are
outlaws. It’s even more humiliating.”

Delia giggled. Clearly, she thought Birdie was joking. “We should lock them all up and throw away the key.” She blew a bubble and popped it. “Do you like your parents?”

Sadness darted through Birdie, along with tentative wisps of love. “My father is okay. My mother… she thinks parenting is a contact sport.”

“She’s a hitter?”

“She likes to argue. Grow an opinion and she chops it down. When I was a kid, I’m sure my parents were as embarrassing as yours.” Especially when the police pounded on the door or her father was headed back to prison. He never made it on the outside for very long. “We moved around a lot, and I wanted… I wanted to be related to someone I wasn’t ashamed of.”

“I’m not ashamed of my Uncle Gil.” Delia sat in the wicker chair in the corner, her turban shifting precariously. “He’s really cool. He’s the manager of an Apple store near Cleveland. He doesn’t look like a nerd. He’s GQ all the way.”

“He sounds nice.”
Theodora is nice, in her own way, and she’s family
.

From the parlor, Ethel Lynn called, “Birdie! You have a gentleman caller.”

Hugh? She pointed to Delia’s turban. “Leave it up. I’ll be back to dry your hair.”

* * *