“Was there something you wanted?”
He took a step inside the room. There were boxes everywhere, separated into sections, and one open on the floor in front of her feet. “I’d like to start prepping the kitchen in a day or two, but that means packing up what’s there. I thought you’d want to do that yourself so you’d know where things are and can find what you need to eat or whatever.”
“Good idea,” she replied, collecting the photos on her lap into a neat pile.
“What’ve you got there?” he asked, leaning forward curiously.
He saw her hesitate. Things hadn’t been as awkward as they might have been after their kiss, but they hadn’t exactly been comfortable, either. Especially since all he could think about was doing it again.
“Can I trust you?” She perched on the edge of the stool and looked up at him, her eyes wide. “I mean, this is the big-family-secret kind of stuff. Major skeletons in the closet. The kind of thing that would rock the small world of Jewell Cove.”
He chuckled a little. “That sounds pretty big. But maybe it’s not as big as you think. Our town’s been the subject of lots of scandal over the years. Did you know that one of my ancestors on my dad’s side was a pirate? He used to sail along the coast pillaging and stealing.”
She smiled, clearly intrigued. “You’re making that up.”
“God’s truth. Then he became a privateer during the Civil War. Made a tremendous fortune. Of course, it’s long gone now. But there are rumors about there being treasure buried out on Aquteg Island, out past Fiddler’s Rock.”
She held out the picture, but as he put his fingers on it she hesitated. “Swear to me you won’t tell a soul.”
“I swear.” She let it go and he looked down at the picture. It was a group of people—servants—in the great hall downstairs. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“The chauffeur in the back.”
Tall, blond, upright bearing, nice livery. “What about him?”
Abby’s voice lowered. “He’s the spitting image of my father. The hair, the eyes, the shape of the cheekbones, and angle of the jaw are the same. I’m certain that this is Kristian—and that he was my real great-grandfather.”
Tom’s furrowed his brow. “Wait,” he said, meeting her gaze. “The letter you read, the one in the box. It was dated February of ’43. If this is really the Kristian from the letter you found—and we’re assuming it is—the dates don’t add up.”
“I read the rest of the letters. The last one said he was coming back for her. It was in October of ’43. My grandmother was born ten months after that.”
“Wow,” Tom said, handing her back the photo. “If you’re right, that is quite a skeleton. Great-grandma Edith had an affair with an employee and she had his baby. But are you sure? No offense, but it sounds like a bit of a stretch. It’s just a photo.”
“Elijah and Edith were both dark-haired. My gram and dad were blond. Besides, it’s more than simple coloring. If I showed you a picture, you’d see it. I promise. I’m positive.”
She put the
photo on top of the others and tucked them back into the box. “You know what this means, right? It means I’m not a true Foster,” she said. “This house doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to one of Elijah’s relatives.”
Tom shook his head and knelt in front of her, putting his hand on her knee for balance as he looked into her face. “It belonged to Marian, and Edith’s blood runs in both of you. Marian could leave it to whoever she wished, so it is yours. In every sense. You have as much right to it as anyone, and don’t you forget it.”
Her eyes softened and he swallowed, forcing himself to stay where he was and not lean in the few inches to kiss her.
“Even if that’s true, it sure raises a lot of questions.” She bit down on her lip. “There are so many blanks. There’s nothing after that last letter in 1943. What happened after that? What if Elijah found out the truth? What if…” Her voice stopped but the question hung in the air just the same.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“What really happened the night she died, Tom?”
“You think it wasn’t a simple fall?” He rested back on his heels. An affair was one thing. But murder? He wasn’t sure his imagination could stretch that far.
“I don’t know what to think. But it would explain that awful feeling I get when I look up at the landing. And it would explain why things feel unfinished.”
He let out a breath. His mind told him this was crazy. But for some reason he believed her. Maybe because at times he’d felt it, too—an edgy sort of energy in certain areas of the house.
“Who knows,” he finally answered. “Is it possible Edith’s death wasn’t accidental? Sure. But, Abby, you can’t let what happened in the past drive you crazy worrying and wondering. Nothing can change it now.”
After a pause, she put her hand over the top of his. “Thank you.”