Chapter 32
Islip the diary from my pillowcase to my backpack. “It’s probably you they want, Ms. Charlotte Campbell. But they’re not getting you.”
Not trusting anyone, the backpack goes with me to the bathroom where I prop it on the highest shelf while I shower and change.
Deciding what to wear is a little problem. I long to slink out of the villa in one of my cute swimsuits to frolic in the surf and swing in a hammock while sipping a Keston Kips special. Be in vacay mode. Happy. Carefree.
But today is about deciphering the diary.
I trade the swimsuit for a soft pair of cotton shorts, a tank top, and a baseball cap that I jam down on my curls.
I slip my feet into my pink Vans and head out to the golf cart. Inside my backpack are the essentials I need to translate the diary. A magnifying glass I borrowed from the resort’s tourist desk. A new notepad and pen I bought at the gift shop. A headlight with extra powerful beams for God knows what. And two more pairs of gloves to wear while handling the hand-cut pages with care.
I may be overreacting. This diary has obviously sat in Viola Kips’ possession for a hundred years or more and I can’t be the first person to search it for clues about the location of the treasure.
Although, based on Keston’s memory, these chests and boxes sat in his grandmother’s home all his life and were passed straight to him upon her death. Only Viola and Keston had access to them before I came along.
That means if someone wants to get their hands, and eyes on the diary, all they need to do is walk into Keston’s house and look for it.
But the islanders don’t walk into each other’s homes uninvited. And from what I’ve seen and heard, there is almost no crime here. Probably hard to get away with anything since everyone knows everyone else and it’s not as if you can steal a car and go anywhere.
But a diary is not a car.
I’ll have to tell Keston straightaway that he needs to start locking his front door. I shouldn’t have taken it in the first place, but now I am very glad I did. And glad I made the photographed copies of the entire journal.
As for the existence of a second diary, if that is true, then I need to understand what’s in this one first, so I can ask the right questions about the second one.
Which is why I bypass the beach bar and head straight for one of the opulent cabanas with its lavish chairs and tables, to sit down and get to work.
As I’m taking the items out of my backpack and lining them up on the table under the cabana’s thatched roof, a familiar figure approaches, twirling his wide tray on his fingertips like it’s a magical saucer.
“Good to see you again, CJ,” says Dex. “What can I bring you? Coffee? Tea? A mimosa or . . . me?”
I raise my eyebrows at the young man. “Excuse me?”
He swipes his hand in the air as if rubbing away the scandalous suggestion. “Sorry.” He dips his head. “The manager said I should be more playful and fun with the guests. Like Keston and his cocktail games. I was practicing.”
“You be you, Dex. You’re wonderful at what you do. Not all of us can be Keston Kips.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Although if he had a brother, then that brother could be like Keston.”
An uncomfortable hush descends.
I’m horrible. My attempt to harvest information from innocent Dex is shameful.
“Well?” I cock an eyebrow at him. “No brother?”
Dex’s brown eyes dart left and right, anywhere but on me. “I have to go,” he whispers.
And that’s how I know.
“Please tell Keston I’ll come over to the bar soon. I’m doing a little work first.”
“Sure thing.”
I push aside the stomach-curling idea of confronting Keston about his secret brother and focus on translating the diary.
First, I glance through the opening of the cabana to make sure I’m alone. Straight ahead is the startling blue sea rising and falling in a long-crested wave. The sun beams full measure on the yellow white sand sending diamond sparks of light flashing into the atmosphere.
The garden I’m in is sheltered by lofty mango trees, their wide-spreading branches ripe with pink and orange fruit waiting to be picked. Keston blended some mangoes into his cocktails last night and they were delicious.
If I were the poetic type, I’d think all this natural bounty was a better treasure than gold and jewels.
But I’m not a poet. I’m a lawyer. I’m Cuba Gooding Jr. in Jerry McGuire yelling, “Show me the money!”
I chuckle and turn the pages of the dairy after putting on the gloves. I bend my head until my nose is almost touching the pages, intent on understanding the fancy script and old-fashioned words.
My eyes scan for any entries that mention my beloved or my Kipson or any word that could mean treasure. As I skim, slowing down to read certain sentences, a portrait of young Charlotte Campbell’s life in the early 1800s emerges.
This woman knew how to get a point across in the most delicate fashion. So as not to upset the men, like her father and brothers and suitors twice her age.
I could learn from her. She wrapped her demands and opinions in cushions of flattery and respect.
The fools of the early 1800s thought so little of Charlotte Campbell because she was a woman that they were blinded by whatever nonsense she threw at them. Like how many times each month was a woman suffering from the “curse?” Five? Seriously Charlotte? All to escape to her bedroom and be left alone.
Serves them right.
On one page, she set out a letter to her father begging to choose her own husband. It brings tears to my eyes:
Dearest Father,
With all due reverence to your wisdom and guidance, I find myself compelled to convey a matter of the heart, which weighs heavily upon my spirit. It is my humble entreaty that I might be afforded the liberty to seek out a companion of my own choosing, one whom my heart regards with genuine affection and esteem. I hold in the highest regard the traditions of our lineage and your paternal solicitude, yet I beseech you to grant me leave to pursue a union born not of obligation, but of mutual affection and respect. I trust that the sincerity of my plea will touch your esteemed judgment and kindle your paternal benevolence to favor my earnest desire.
Poor Charlotte. Having to beg her father to let her love whoever she chose. I admire her fiery spirit.
I wonder if Charlotte had a view of the wild blue sea as she wrote these passages in her diary.
Or was she facing a garden? Was it hot and sunny, or balmy and windswept?
The year 1803 starts with the sound of a cannon being shot off. People are dancing in the streets and Charlotte is worried her family will disapprove of the man she loves. (They will, Charlotte, you already know it).
My heart hurts for her as I read aloud her entry for January 1, 1803:
A cannon, its roar slicing through the stillness of midnight, heralded the advent of the year 1803. My heart, brimming with a mixture of joy and trepidation, awaits the imminent arrival of my beloved. Although he is to join me anon, he shall not partake in the family”s festivities; for modernity”s embrace has yet to soften the stern customs of this shore and of my kin. I harbor a gnawing fear that upon his coming, I shall be cast aside, forever shunned from the bosom of my family.
One month later February 1st, she writes:
Today, my heart is compelled to confess a truth, most perilous and exhilarating to its own existence. I find myself irretrievably entwined in affections for one deemed wholly unsuitable by the society which surrounds us. He is my heart”s choice, and in him, I see the embodiment of all that is noble and true. In his gaze, I am understood; in his words, I am uplifted; in his presence, I am whole. Let the world forsake me, let my name be sullied amongst the genteel, but I shall not yield this passion that so consumes me, for it is the very essence of my being. Thus, I shall love him, come what may, and in this secret chamber of my diary, I dare to declare it: I am his, and he is mine, until the stars themselves burn away.
I press a hand to my bosom (as I imagine Charlotte did back then thinking about
her beloved). You were only twenty years old. But you knew your heart. Better than I know mine now.
What powerful words: “I am his, and he is mine, until the stars themselves burn away.” Knowing Keston’s love for the stars, especially his Lucy star, he’d appreciate these words from his ancestors.
“I’m so sorry you had to suffer like this,” I whisper to the ghost of the long-ago girl. A large fiery personality in a small body, effused with longing for a man she could not have.
While I have a man who loves me and no obstacles or barriers to contend with. Except the ones we make ourselves.
Damn it. As soon as he’s free and we can go somewhere private, I’m going to speak to Keston immediately. Get to the bottom of this confusion. I will channel Charlotte Campbell’s spirit and be strong until the stars burn away.