A Proposal Worth Waiting For

CHAPTER NINE

TORIE was somewhat surprised to wake up alone in the back seat of an ancient luxury car, but she stretched and yawned and smiled. She was still a little fuzzy in the head, but she knew that something good had happened. And then she remembered what it was and she sat up straighter and sighed happily. Now the only problem would be if Marc regretted it.

She wondered where he was, but then she heard someone rummaging around in the storage room at the end of the hall and she assumed it was him. She sighed. There wasn’t much point in sitting here waiting for him to come back as though she was hoping for a rerun. Something told her that wasn’t going to happen.

She ran her fingers over the leather seat and turned to look at the beautiful dashboard with its hand-rubbed mahogany trim. They just didn’t make them like this anymore. There was even a long shelf just under the dashboard, running the width of the car. Ladies probably stored their long kid gloves there after the party was over. She smiled at the thought, and then her gaze sharpened. There was something pushed far back into the shelf. You could hardly see it but when she bent low, she could just make it out. It looked like a small notebook of some kind. Maybe the sort of thing people wrote their mileage down in. Or...

Her heart began to beat like crazy and her breath choked in her throat. A journal? Her father’s journal? She pushed forward to the front seat and leaned to reach for it. And at just that moment, Marc came back into the room.

“Hey sleepyhead,” he said, carrying a couple of cans of car wax in and stowing them away on a shelf.

She jerked back, pulling her hand in and turning scarlet. “Oh, uh...hi.”

He grinned at her, probably thinking her pink cheeks were the result of her thinking about the snuggle they’d shared. But that was just as well, because she suddenly realized she wasn’t going to tell him what she’d just seen. If it turned out to be the journal, she wanted a little time to see what it had in it. Who knew what sorts of things her father might reveal in something like that?

“Find something?” he asked curiously.

“No. No.” She shook her head and tried to smile.

“I’ve been out looking through the shelves.” He gestured toward the storage room. “I didn’t find anything either.”

She gazed at him out the car window. “Thanks for letting me take a little nap,” she said cheerfully. “I hate to be a girl who can’t hold her liquor, but better to sleep than to do something crazy.”

He grinned again. “Oh, I don’t know. Crazy can be good too.”

She gave him a look and laughed, and he turned back to the storage room, disappearing in through the door.

She reached out quickly and grabbed the little notebook, and then her hands began to tremble.

Her father’s little leather journal. His name was embossed on the front cover in gold—Jarvis Sands. And inside was the handwriting she knew so well. She flipped through it quickly. There was someone else’s handwriting on the last few pages. She only had to read a couple of lines to realize it had to be Marc’s father who had added his thoughts.

But Marc was coming back. She could hear him approaching the doorway. Quickly, she closed the journal and jammed it down deep into the back pocket of her jeans.

She had the grace to flush again as he came out and smiled at her. The guilt made her look and feel nervous. But he would just think she was still shaky over what they had shared. She wasn’t going to show the journal to him until she knew for sure what it revealed. She just couldn’t see any way around it.

A few minutes later, they left the car barn and walked out to the cliff that overlooked the ocean. The sun was low in the sky. The people back at the house would be preparing for dinner about now. They were going to have to decide what they were going to do.

But not yet. For now, they found a fallen tree and sat on it while they watched the sun move toward a sunset. He made no move to get closer, and she knew instinctively that he wasn’t planning to kiss her again. Did he regret doing that earlier? Who knew? It made her a little sad to think that he might. Still, there was nothing she could do about it now.

“What a beautiful view,” she said softly.

He nodded. “Think of being a local Native American in the nineteenth century and watching Spanish galleons come sliding into the harbor,” he said. “We had an archeologist doing a paper on this area one year. He found evidence that lots of ships stopped along this part of the coast. Can’t you just picture how that would have been?”

Yes, she could picture it. She’d lived her Spanish-era fantasies on her own on the beaches and in the caves from early on. Such a great place for a child to grow in.

Tears filled her eyes and she blinked hard, angry with herself for letting it get to her again. She stared out at the ocean, throwing her head back to feel the wind in her hair. She was filled with sadness and a wave of nostalgia. She’d been so happy here as a child—despite any latent insecurities. The mood in the fresh ocean air was filled with peace and a sense of well-being. Life had been like that here—right up until the day her father had been accused of stealing.

That was the dividing line. Everything had begun to fall apart on that day and it had only gotten worse since.

She’d had good times with friends and success in her job. She couldn’t claim it had been all angst and torture since her fifteenth year. But her father’s agony had been a dark cloud over her family.

His eventual suicide and her mother’s breakdown had only made things worse. She felt as though her heart and soul were restless, looking for answers, aching for closure. Could she ever find happiness without knowing? It felt to her as though that would be impossible.

Rising, she rose and walked out to the edge of the cliff, looking down at the rocks below. Then she turned to watch Marc in the gathering gloom.

“So tell me this,” she said. “What was the official story? What did you hear at the time? What do most people around here believe happened?”

He looked back at her coolly. “About what?”

Her eyes narrowed. “About when my father was fired.”

He sighed. It was pretty plain he didn’t really want to go over it. But he did.

“Okay. Here’s how I remember it. I was in premed at UCC, living with a couple of friends in an apartment off campus. It was a Sunday, late at night. My father called to tell me the Don Carlos Treasure had gone missing.”

“Wait. What were the circumstances?” Walking back, she sat beside him again. She wanted to be sure she got this right. She might never have another chance.

“Circumstances?” He shrugged and thought back. “I’m not sure.”

“Here’s what I remember,” she said. “And believe me, I’ve gone over this in my mind a thousand times. My family and I had been gone that weekend. We were up in Monterey to see the aquarium. Your father was at some geology lecture in Los Angeles and your mother was off on a trip with friends. Palm Springs or somewhere like that. Ricky was at a comic-book convention in Oregon.”

He shook his head, his gaze hooded. “I don’t remember all that, but you were there. I wasn’t.”

“That’s just it. None of us were there. When we got home, no one else was back yet. Even the rest of the staff was gone. No one else was due back until Monday morning. But about an hour later, my father went up to the house to get back to work. Even though he didn’t have to.” She almost rolled her eyes. “He always had that darn sense of responsibility toward the place—and toward your father. He wanted everything perfect for when Mr. Huntington got home.”

Marc nodded and almost smiled. “That is how I remember him. I know my father had a lot of affection for him at the time.”

She nodded too. “Your father got back unexpectedly about eight. My father went out and met him on the drive. He told him the treasure was missing. He’d gone into the library and saw that the display case was empty. He’d been searching for the last hour, in a panic, hoping someone had just moved it. Your father rushed in and they both spent rest of the evening searching.”

Marc frowned. “Didn’t they call the police?”

She shook her head. “My father came home about midnight and told us what had happened. He said Mr. Huntington didn’t want to call them until he’d talked to everyone, just to make sure someone hadn’t borrowed it and was bringing it back. He didn’t want to start a scandal.”

He stared at her. “Any idea who he had in mind?”

She held his gaze for a long moment before she answered. “No.” She sighed. “The next day, after everyone was back, the police were called. They questioned everyone. And someone accused my father.”

Marc looked at her sharply. “Just because he was the one who was alone in the house at the pertinent time?”

She hesitated. She’d run out of proven facts. Now she was going to venture into speculation. “I think someone gave them more to go on than that. Someone made some things up about my father. Someone who had a reason to need the money and might have stolen the treasure themselves.”

“Need the money,” he repeated softly. “So now you’ve got a motive.”

“Maybe.”

They were both silent for a few minutes, and then Marc spoke, his tone emotionless. “My family was having lots of money problems fifteen years ago. Did you know that?”

“I...no, not really.” To tell the truth, that shocked her.

“Mostly tax issues as I remember it. I had to work full time in college. Marge had to give up some renovation plans she had because we didn’t have the money for it. My father had some property in Hawaii and he sold that. We were scraping the bottom of the barrel for a while there.”

“I didn’t realize that.”

He considered, then turned to look into her eyes. “You don’t suspect me.”

She waved that away. “Of course not.”

“Or my father.”

“No.”

“Or the cook, or Griswold, or any of the staff.”

She shrugged. “There doesn’t seem to be any backing to suspect any of them.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ricky?”

“Ricky?” She was shocked at the thought. “No, of course not.”

He knew the name of the person she suspected, but he set that aside. “What about a random theft? A burglar? Someone from the village?”

She shrugged. “Always a possibility.”

He nodded. “And then there’s the obvious one.” He took a deep breath before he said it. “How about your father?”

She winced. “That was what they decided. A few days later, they arrested him. They took him up to the county detention center.” Her voice trembled as she remembered. “It was horrible.”

“Yes.”

She took a deep breath, wishing she could blot out the memories of that time. “He claimed innocence. My mother fell apart. I had to withdraw from my school and stay home to take care of her.” She shook her head, holding it together. “I don’t think she ever recovered. Not really.”

“I’m sorry, Torie.” He looked at her, then away, raking fingers through his thick hair. “I feel a bit cut off from all this. I wasn’t there, didn’t know all the details. I wish I’d been more involved.”

She threw out her hands, palms up. “You were away at school. You couldn’t help it.”

“The next thing I heard,” he said, “was that the treasure had been found buried in the caves. Right where the Spaniards had put it in the beginning.” He shook his head. “Seems odd, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” She tried to steady her voice. “There still was no hard proof my father was involved. The police found the treasure, and he was released right after that. But...” She shrugged helplessly. “He was fired anyway. And still under a cloud.”

Marc grimaced and looked out toward the ocean.

“You’d think once the treasure was found, they could have at least given him a chance,” she murmured.

“Be realistic, Torie,” he said a bit firmly. Then he seemed to regret his tone. He turned toward her. “Actually, my father considered your father a good friend as well as the best butler he ever had. I’m sure he tried to find a way to keep him on. I think there were others who counseled that he had to go.”

Her voice hardened. “You mean Marge.”

He hesitated, then coughed and looked away. “When it came to Marge, I’m afraid my father didn’t seem to have much of a defense on anything.”

She took a deep breath, knowing she was going to sound bitter, but determined to let it out anyway. “So because he couldn’t stand up to Marge, we were thrown like refugees into the street.”

His head went back and he frowned at her, but he tried to keep his tone light. “Hardly. I’m sure you drove off in a car.”

She shook her head. “You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean, and I know it was painful. Unfair, too. But things in life are often unfair. Most people find a way to get over them.”

She glared at him. She knew what he was saying was true, and his manner wasn’t cold or lacking compassion, but these hard truths weren’t what she wanted to hear right now.

“What else?” she asked shortly. “What did your father ever tell you about it all? What did he say about my father?”

Marc thought that one over for a few minutes, then raised his head and looked at her.

“My father didn’t say anything about it when I came home that year. It was sort of the big unmentionable. Everyone tiptoed around it.”

“Oh.”

That obviously wasn’t going to satisfy her. He sighed, threw her a rueful smile and dug a bit deeper.

“It wasn’t until about a year later, when Ricky died that he talked to me about it. It was the night after the funeral. He’d had too much to drink and he couldn’t stop crying. Neither could I. It was...pretty awful that night. But at one point, he started talking about the treasure. He said that maybe we should have left it in the caves in the first place. Maybe fate—or the ghost of Don Carlos—had tried to put it back where it belonged.”

She shook her head. “I wish I could buy that.”

“Yeah.” He looked at her sideways. “At that point he had the treasure in a safety deposit box at the bank. No more display in the library case.”

She nodded. “Did he say anything else?”

“Yes.” He sighed and stretched out his arms. The sun was almost gone and it was starting to get cold. “Actually, he blamed all our troubles on that bag of gold. He thought it seemed like a curse on the family. Like nothing good had happened since the treasure was found and brought into the house.” He glanced her way. “He went through the list. My mother dying. His marriage to Marge. The financial ruin he was facing. Having to fire your father. And then, Ricky.”

She almost smiled. Despite everything, she felt a warm spot for Marc’s dad. His heart had been in the right place most of the time. And she’d always known his marriage to Marge was a rough element in his life.

It was tempting to find a way to blame everything on Marge—but she knew that was the easy way out. She wanted to know the truth, not just something that might be true to make herself feel better.

Rising again, she walked to the cliff and watched the sky turn red as the sun disappeared over the edge of the earth. It was always startling how quickly it began to disappear once it got that close.

“Why isn’t there anyone who knows anything else?” she asked into the wind. “Why doesn’t someone come forward? I just have this feeling...” Throwing out her arms, she turned back to face him.

“You know, I corresponded with local authorities quite a few times over the last year, trying to see what I could dredge up. But nobody tells me anything. All the people who work in law enforcement around here are young. They’re all different from the ones who worked here then. No institutional memory at all.”

He nodded. “The trail has grown cold.”

“But how are we going to find out just what were the facts?” she cried, her frustration quivering in her voice. “Why did this happen?”

Marc moved impatiently. “Face it, Torie. You’re never going to know it all. Some things just aren’t knowable.”

She stared at him. “You really are cynical, aren’t you?”

He held her gaze with his own hard blue one. “I try to be.”

She frowned at him fiercely. “So tell me, Marc. What do you think happened? Be honest. Was my father guilty? Tell me what you think.”

Marc stared back at Torie’s impassioned face. What did he think? Did he have to make a statement right now? Did she really need to know everything going on in his brain?

No. What good would it do her to know?

“Forget it, Torie,” he said, rising to walk toward her. “I’m not going to play that game.”

It wasn’t until he got a few steps away that he realized tears were running down her face.

“Torie,” he began, reaching for her, but she whirled and started off in the opposite direction as though she couldn’t bear for him to see her crying.

“Torie, wait.”

He went after her. She knew he was coming and she started to run. The next thing she knew, she’d tripped on a rock. She’d been moving fast and the momentum sent her sprawling at the rim of the cliff, suddenly half over the edge and sliding toward the rocks below.

“Torie!”

He had her in seconds, pulling her back up to safety. She clung to him, tears forgotten as she gasped for air and looked down at the disaster she could have fallen to.

“Oh my gosh! Oh, thank God you caught me.”

I’ll always catch you.

He held her tightly and swallowed hard. Had he really thought that? Good thing he hadn’t said it aloud.

“Are you okay?” he said instead, letting her go enough to be able to get a good look at her.

“I don’t think so,” she admitted, flattening her hand on his chest. “My ankle feels like it’s being stabbed.”

He swore softly as he pulled her up in his arms and carried her back to the fallen log. Placing her carefully, he pulled off her tennis shoe and took a look at the ankle. It was swelling fast.

He looked up at her doubtfully. “I don’t think you’re going to be able to walk on it.”

“Oh, sure I am. I’ve got to.” She slid down and tried. “Ouch!”

He shook his head but a smile was creeping through. “You’re cute,” he told her, “but silly. You can’t walk on that. I’m going to have to carry you back.”

“Never!” she insisted.

Not again. That first time had almost done her in. But really, it wasn’t her own peace of mind she was worried about. It was a long way back to the house and she was no lightweight, no matter what he said. Gallantry was all very well, but common sense was better.

“You did that once when we didn’t have that far to go. You’re talking about almost a mile here, and through some rougher terrain.”

“No problem.”

She held him off. “Listen to me. I happen to know you have a golf cart back at the house for running around on the estate.”

He looked surprised. “You’re right. I forgot about that.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “But I’m not going to leave you out here waiting in the dark. Besides, I want to get you to a doctor as quickly as possible.”

Her ankle was throbbing and she wanted to get back to the house and put an ice pack on it. She began to relent. Once she got back to her own room, she would have time to look through the journal and...

She reached back to feel for the journal, which was supposed to be in her back pocket. It wasn’t there. Panic began to race through her blood. She looked at the area around the log, trying not to be too obvious. Nothing. Then toward the edge of the cliff where she’d fallen. There it was, lying out in plain sight. She looked at Marc quickly, hoping he wouldn’t see it. But how was she going to get to it without him noticing? And how was she going to get to it at all with her ankle this way?

“I’m going to carry you back,” he said decisively.

“But...” She tried hard to think of a way to stop him but nothing came to her. She was beginning to think she would have to leave it behind and come back later—only hoping that a squirrel didn’t take it home for some light reading.

“Ready?”

“No, I...” Nothing popped into her mind. Nothing at all.

“Oh, wait,” he said. “I wanted to take some of that car wax back with me. Think you can carry it for me?” he asked her.

She nodded, suddenly hopeful.

“Okay. I’ll be right back.” He went back into the car barn.

She rose quickly, gritting her teeth to hold back her cry of pain. She grabbed the journal and pushed it back into her back pocket, then made her way back to the log, sinking down just as Marc reappeared at the clearing.

“Okay, let’s go,” he said, handing her the car-wax cans.

She breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t noticed a thing.

He swung her up into his arms and she clung to his neck with a sigh. If nothing else, this would be a great chance to hold on to him. She was beginning to think that very action could get to be a habit with her.

He started off through the forest. It was pretty dark now, and he had to watch his step. She clung closely and breathed in the scent of him, just this side of swooning.

“You all right?” he asked.

“Absolutely.” She sighed.

“How’s the ankle?”

“It hurts.” She tested it and flinched. “Yes, it’s not too good. You know, I hope this isn’t going to inhibit my activities.” She frowned. “I was thinking, maybe I ought to try to talk to Billy again. He seems to be the only one who has any links to anyone who might be useful.”

He hesitated. “Well, that’s fine,” he said slowly, “but you do understand that Billy was lying, don’t you?”

“Lying?” She looked into his face. “About what?”

“My father.”

“What are you talking about? I was there, remember? I know he went rock hunting with us....”

“No, not that. About not knowing anything about the treasure and what happened to it himself.”

She stared at him. “How do you know?”

He shrugged. “I’ve got some training in intelligence work, you know. And I could see his eyes flicker a certain telltale way when the subject came up.”

She thought that over for a few seconds, then looked up again. “So you think he really knows something?”

“I know he does.”

She moved restlessly. “Let’s go back there tomorrow. Let’s talk to him.”

“No.” He gently squeezed her against his chest. “Let’s leave it alone. Let it simmer. See what comes out in the wash.”

She frowned and felt pouty. “You’re mixing your metaphors.”

He grinned. “But you get the general idea I was trying to communicate, don’t you?”

“Yes.” She looked up at him, eyes flashing. “You don’t trust many people, do you?”

His face went hard as stone. “I don’t trust anybody.”

“Even me?”

He looked down and paused, then with a half smile, he said, “Especially you.”

“Why?” She felt a sense of outrage, and yet...

“You have all the reason in the world to lie to me. Your motivations are as clear as your pretty green eyes.”

And that was exactly why she wasn’t going to show him the journal until she’d read it herself. If he didn’t trust her, she surely wasn’t going to trust him. And that was that.