Chapter 19 #2
He came out of that summer unscathed and trotting around to dream jobs while I spent years praying I’d walk out of Old Vines and find him leaning against that stupid truck and playing his harmonica, waxing poetic about what a fool he was and how all he wanted was to stay right there forever.
Of all the feelings seeing him has churned up, it’s the anger at how easy this is for him that’s the strongest. I am completely out of control while he’s all unchanged and smiley, infuriatingly unfazed by my arrival.
Like what we were and what happened is just another story from one of his history books.
A game of tag with his come and get me, Rue Conway postcards.
He can bet his ass I’m more serious—I have a kid whose school I can’t afford, a mother whose brain is being controlled by a four-centimeter mass, and a business going under. Everyone acts like there’s all this time to have fun, but there’s none. Some days it feels like there never will be.
Naturally, I don’t tell Nash that. I give him a cold smile and imagine lighting his house on fire—save that beautiful coffee table—as he pours hot water from a kettle over two Earl Grey teabags in a mug.
And just like that, the anger brewing in me morphs into something muddied as I recognize he’s in the first steps of making a London Fog.
I want to tell him I drink black coffee now, but I can’t. My voice box is temporarily broken by the ease at which he shuffles between the familiar ingredients and steps. That he has a frother.
When he sets the drink in front of me, I stare at it.
“You just keep London Fog ingredients on hand?” I bite out. “And a frother?”
He half smiles. “Looks like it.”
I stare at it like it’s toxic waste. It would be easier to comprehend if it were. Easier to wrap my brain around the thing my fiancé convinced me not to love while this man made it without me asking after eight years of being away from me.
He and Cap continue their conversation, and I pray for it to taste awful; it’s anything but.
The floral and citrus notes explode on my tongue, not too sweet nor too overpowered by the distinct flavor of the tea itself.
It tastes like rainy mornings and lazy afternoons and doing something for no other reasons than wanting to and it tasting good.
“Good?” Nash asks.
“Fine.” I clear my throat. “Thanks. Maybe we should get started. Cap—the papers?”
Cap gives me a corrective look; I grind my teeth. “Dad.”
“Sure thing, kiddo.” He grins his approval then tosses an envelope on the counter.
I hate him.
Nash chuckles.
I hate him too.
I spread the papers across the counter, and Nash slips on the same pair of wire-framed glasses from yesterday.
“You’re staring at me,” he says, his low voice laced with a teasing lilt.
I raise my brows but focus on the papers, selecting one at random. “You’re wearing glasses.”
His head teeters. “I’m older than I used to be.”
I pinch my lips to fight my smile.
Cap explains what we’re looking at. “Those are copies of the correspondence from the bankers to the high-ranking officials regarding the transport of the money from the banks.”
I skim a document, no big red X showing me anything useful.
“Not much in those other than confirmation that the money was stolen on its route from Washington, Georgia back to Richmond, Virginia.”
“Back to?” I ask, flicking my gaze to him as I exchange one paper for another.
“It started in Richmond,” Nash answers. “Banks and officials were scared with the war ending and the collapse of the Confederacy that the Union would seize the funds. They took it south to keep it safe. When they were assured that the money wouldn’t be seized, the banks decided to take it back to where it started.
To the banks and people it belonged to.”
“And that’s when they were robbed,” Cap adds, pulling a flask out of a pocket and dumping a heavy pour into his coffee.
Next comes his bottle of pills, Nash and I watching him intently as he throws one down with a gulp of his spiked coffee.
This man must be running a race with his vices to see which one will take him first. He continues.
“Pissed off soldiers who hadn’t been paid got wind of the wagon coming through.
Poorly guarded. Raided the sonofabitch in the middle of the night. ”
“It was a free-for-all,” Nash says. “Men stripped their pants off and filled the legs with as much money as they could. Hats. Whatever they could find. Some buried it along the road in hopes of getting it later.”
“What happened?” I ask, taking another sip of my drink.
“Some was recovered after the robbery,” Nash answers.
“And the rest—nobody knows how much—never was,” adds Cap. “Speculated between eighty-five and one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand 1865 dollars.”
“And you think—what? Anson Burns got away with all of that? How could he have carried it if the others couldn’t?”
“Don’t know.” Cap pulls Penny out of his pocket. I smack his hand, making him frown before he puts it away. “Could’ve had a wagon. An extra horse. Probably didn’t end up with all of it. But enough.” He slides Nash the letter. “Read it.”
I step closer to Nash so I can get a better look and our eyes meet over his shoulder; it’s the closest we’ve been in eight years.
The way my body lights up warns me to step back.
Screams get out of this house right now!
I ignore it. If we’re doing this together, I can’t be scared off by unfounded butterflies and proximity-induced hot flashes. I’m here for the gold.
Nash looks back at the paper, reading it aloud as I follow along.
“‘My dearest Maggie
“my delay of returning to you is finely over.
I hav spent a fortnight planning a surprise.
you told me once you dreamed of living on the coast and painting it.
I am returning to you from this war to give you every thing that you ever wanted.
I hav planned us a life in Charleston in a house more beautiful than you can imagine and hav made a list of places for us to see
“there is a plantation here with a garden bigger than our whole farm. the owner is a reverend and allowing visitors. I went for a forenoon looking for the perfect scene for you to paint and found it in unexpected colors of green, brown, white, and blue
“there is an oak tree which locals say is hundreds of years old and spreads far and wide. it must be the strongest in the world. you will never believe it and need to touch every branch and crack of the bark just to know its real’”
Nash pauses, looking at Cap over the top of his glasses. “Magnolia Plantation and Angel Oak?”
Cap grunts in agreement; Nash continues.
“‘we will go to the ocean like you always wanted. there is an island here where only the most daring people go, surrounded by saltwater and where the yanks camped in the war. we can fish for our supper and swim in the sea’”
Another pause.
Nash: “Folly?”
Another grunt.
“‘and at last, dearest Maggie, we will go into the city.
I will show you the park where rivers come together and pirates hanged.
I will show you the church where George Washington worshipped and signers of the great constitution of these United States are buried.
there is also a house Washington stayed in.
can you imagine us living some where good enough for a president?
“we will visit your Legare cousins as your father once told me they moved here before the war.
“I beg of you not to ask how I hav acquired the means to give you all this as I will name it good fortune after every thing the war took. I hope we hav four sons to fill our new house. but first, know I missed you every day of those six years I was away.’”
At this pause, Nash looks at Cap.
“What is it?” I ask, looking between them. “Is it something? Something from the war?”
Cap grunts. “Keep going.”
Nash does.
“‘we will sit upon a bench in the back yard and never forget the riches we hav.
“I hav included a train ticket for you to Charleston so we can begin our new life together. one better than we ever dreamed.
“I love you
“Anson’’”
It’s beautiful but . . . “That doesn’t sound like a treasure letter.”
Nash doesn’t seem to disagree because he wordlessly looks at Cap.
“Look at that last part and how he tells her not to ask how he can afford it. It’s a confession,” Cap says, poking at the paper with the mermaid of his cane. “And the places he specifically mentions.”
Nash reskims the letter. “Last three are downtown. White Point Garden, Saint Michael’s, and the Heyward-Washington House.” He passes it to me and works his teeth over his bottom lip.
I reread it like I have anything to contribute. Like I have any clue what either of them are talking about. All I know about Charleston is that it’s hot; all I know about the Civil War is that the South lost and slavery ended. I’m useless.
“And the cousins?” I ask. “This Legare?”
“Luh-gree,” Nash corrects. “Well-known name in the area. Property all over the place. Whole street with the name in downtown after Solomon Legare—a goldsmith—who built the first house on it. It left the family and eventually became the Sword Gate House—my favorite on the street.”
“Why’s that?”
Nash swallows a sip of coffee. “It was on the tour.”
A not-answer, of course.
“You think Anson left clues at these places? Or distributed the gold? Went to this cousin’s house?” I ask. “Why send this letter at all?”
“Probably nervous,” Nash answers, scratching an eyebrow. “Maybe—if he really did make off with some of the money. If—” He gives Cap a skeptical look. “Then he knew authorities would be looking for it and sent this as a way for her to find it if he got arrested.”
“He used at least one different name,” Cap adds. “Found it on an inn receipt. John White.”
“Why?”
“I assume to hide his tracks of the purchase of a house.” He chuckles. “Probably didn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
Nash answers. “The Union held Charleston at the end of the war, and the city was chaos after it. Someone wanted to buy a house, it’s doubtful anyone cared where or who the money was coming from as long as there was money.
Real estate records from then are mostly nonexistent, making any name he bought it under basically useless. ”
I look back at the letter. “How would Maggie have known where to look?”
“My guess is something in here would have let her know,” Nash says. “An indicator.”
“A code?” I ask, unconvinced. Other than how evident it was he loved his wife, the letter is boring. Nothing out of the ordinary like clues in treasure hunting movies I’ve watched. Even Nicolas Cage in National Treasure couldn’t convince me this was something worth chasing.
Cap grunts; Nash rereads.
“Did you go to all these places?” I ask Cap, remembering he was arrested in White Point Garden.
“Several times.”
“And?”
“And—” He takes a sip of coffee and holds it in his mouth too long before swallowing. “Here we are.”
This is ridiculous.
I look at Nash—he’s as unconvinced as I am. “What do you think?”
“Not sure. Seems like a stretch but . . .”
“But what?”
“But . . . stranger things have happened.”
I almost laugh. “Like?”
His eyebrows lift. “Like you giving up on laughing and telling your fiancé I’m dead.”
Cap finds this hilarious; I glare at him before returning my attention to the papers.
I don’t care what they think about my laughing frequency, I’ve come too far to start doubting this plan. I need the money. I don’t have time for laughing. The business doesn’t. Bennie’s tuition doesn’t. Mom’s surgery that’s now ten weeks away doesn’t.
“How far apart are these places?” I ask, wishing I knew more about the city or what any of this means. “Can we visit them all in a day?”
Nash says, “May—”
Cap cuts him off. “Can’t rush it.” He leans back in his stool and taps his cane on the tile floor of the kitchen. “Right, Nash? There’s a term for it, ain’t there?”
Nash tilts his head, seemingly confused as he takes a final sip of his coffee then sets the empty mug in a large farmhouse sink. “A term?”
“For needing to take your time in historical endeavors. Not rushing. Slowing down to really see what’s in front of you. Exploring every angle.”
Slowing down?
“We need to rush,” I insist, pulse picking up as the word foreclosure scrolls across my mind like a news ticker.
“I have to get back. I can’t afford not to rush.
” Nash looks at me. Right. “My clients are anxious. For the coins. For their collection.” And for good measure: “And I have a wedding to get ready for.”
“Don’t work that way,” Cap reiterates. “We gotta emulate Anson’s timeline. Really soak in the experience of what he was trying to plan for his wife. Win her over.”
“Anson’s timeline,” Nash repeats slowly, understanding dawning on him as he does.
“Win her over. That’s right. Historians call it—” He takes his glasses off.
It’s criminal he looks just as good with them as without.
“The Practice of Actual Time in Historical Recollection and Reenactment. The PATHRR. Boring stuff but does the trick.”
“Yep,” Cap agrees. “Knew there was a fancy name for it.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Means we have to take as much time as Anson took or we might miss something,” Nash explains.
“We could technically go to all these places in a day, but to see it the way Anson would have in 1865, we’ll need .
. .” He sucks on his lips as he looks at the ceiling, seemingly pondering the route. “A fortnight, like he said.”
“Two weeks?” I shriek, money signs flashing before my eyes.
“Your collectors can’t really expect you to find a treasure in days, can they?” Nash asks.
“Be a tall ask if they did,” Cap says, like no big deal, tapping his cane.
I glare at them both. “What is this?”
Nash shrugs. “Can’t rush history, Rue. You of all people should know that with the antique store. Your collectors will understand.”
“He’s right,” Cap agrees. “Can’t rush.”
They both fight smiles; these assholes are playing me.
“You’re dragging this out on purpose?” I demand, working my bottom jaw side-to-side before blowing my bangs out of my face. “What the hell for?”
As if scripted, they both say, “Sounds fun.”
“Fun?” I nearly shout. “Are we riding horses and dressing in period-specific clothing while we’re at it?”
Nash looks like he might like this idea, and I want to claw the smug off his face.
I’m also helpless.
After reading the letter and realizing how little I know about the history of this city, I need Nash—and Cap. I can’t do this alone. If they want to drag this out for two weeks, I have no choice.
Last night’s hotel killed my funds, but if I leave, I’ll be right back to where I started.
“Fine,” I grit out. And because there’s no way in hell I’m getting into that truck of his, I add, “But I’m driving.”