practice nursing a broken heart.
* * *
On Saturday morning, Ashley found herself sitting at her dining room table next to her troublesome cousin. The Rev sat across the table from them like a referee.
“Honestly, Topher, if we weren’t related, I’d wring your neck.” Ashley gave Topher one of her I’m-fed-up-with-you glares. It didn’t have much of an impact on him, probably because he’d become Jackie’s favorite relative. Like the crazy uncle every kid loves.
Sort of like Uncle John, Topher’s grandfather, now that she thought about it.
And even though Topher had specifically defied her instructions by taking Jackie to the library, she couldn’t complain about that since Jackie was going to have the absolute best Heritage Day project ever.
No other kid had ever uncovered an archaeological site in his backyard. So Topher had her exactly where he wanted her.
And it was annoying.
Jackie sat next to the Rev, kicking his legs under the table as he gobbled down a second helping of pancakes.
She cast her gaze from Jackie to the Rev, who was also packing away her cooking. The rush of pleasure at seeing her food consumed took the edge off her irritation.
She was proud of Jackie, furious at Topher and Micah for disregarding her wishes, and worried about the historian who was scheduled to arrive at any minute.
There had been a reason Grandmother had put restrictions on who could look at Rose Howland’s letters and diary. And Ashley had a sick feeling the reason might be buried in the backyard.
“Is there more bacon?” the Rev asked, turning his dark-brown stare on her. It never failed to unsettle her.
“Sorry. That’s the last of it,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.
His mouth twitched in reaction to her body language. “I can see you’re not having a very good day,” he said.
“No, I’m not.”
“Come on, Mom. This is an adventure.”
Right.
“So”—the Rev turned toward Topher—“this diary y’all found. What exactly did it say, again?”
Topher pulled out his cell phone and showed Micah the photo he’d taken of the page in Rose Howland’s common book that contained the directions to the “treasure.”
“Good God,” Micah said, his whole body stiffening as he studied the photo, using his fingers to make the image larger.
“What?” Topher asked.
“I know who Abimael is.”
“Please don’t tell me he was a member of Captain Teal’s crew,” Ashley said, picking up the coffee carafe and pouring herself a third cup—or was it a fourth? She’d lost count. She needed to cut back. In fact, her hands were a little shaky even as she poured.
“He wasn’t a pirate,” Micah said. “He was—”
The doorbell rang, interrupting the conversation. “That will be the historian,” Ashley said, pushing up from the table and running after Jackie, who beat her to the door.
Laurie Hawkins, a thirtysomething professor with the joint College of Charleston–Clemson University Historic Preservation Project, stood on her doorstep, head tilted back, studying Howland House’s facade.
“Early 1800s, I would guess,” the woman said. She had chin-length black hair and wore a pair of tortoiseshell glasses. In her jeans and a College of Charleston T-shirt, the woman didn’t fit Ashley’s idea of a college professor.
“Professor Hawkins?” Ashley asked.
The woman shifted her gaze and met Ashley’s stare. “Hi,” she said. “Mrs. Scott, I presume. You must be Jackie, the boy who found the treasure,” she added, squatting down to meet Jackie on his level.
“I am,” Jackie said with a wide smile.
The professor looked up, meeting Ashley’s gaze. “Nice house you have, Mrs. Scott.”
“Ashley,” she said. “And yes, Howland House was built in 1827. But there was a much older house on the property before that. Not far from where Jackie made his discovery.”
“I’m excited. I can’t wait to see it.” The professor’s childlike enthusiasm was contagious.
In short order, they all went out to the site by the old oak tree, where Professor Hawkins brought out a paintbrush and some tiny trowels and began sifting through the sand.
“It’s definitely an eighteenth-century writing desk,” she said as she lifted out a piece of the rotting wood, her hands covered in neoprene gloves.
“Why would Rose bury something like that?” Ashley asked.
“The more important question was who she was burying it for,” Micah said.
“I think we can assume it was for Henri St. Pierre,” Topher said.
Laurie turned around. “I don’t know the history of the people who lived here. Who were Rose and Henri?”
Ashley gave the professor the short version of the history. “So it was just Rose and Henri living on the island,” Ashley said when she’d finished with the