He’d paid twenty dollars for this. Handed over two tens to the bored-looking guard sitting in the ticket stand, then followed like a sheep as the man lumbered over to the access door at the base of the tower with a key ring that looked as ancient as the lighthouse itself.
Noah steadied himself on the rickety spiral staircase stretching up…up…up, and tried to control his breathing. Elisa, on the other hand, scampered up the stairs several paces ahead of him, reminding him of the Bible verses he’d seen crocheted on a pillow in Magnolia Grocery—something about hinds’ feet and high places.
“You coming?” Her voice echoed in the round structure, only serving to remind him how narrow and confining the winding staircase was. The steps weren’t wide enough for two people, and if anything was going to make him start praying again regularly, it would be the thought of what would happen if someone attempted to climb down while he was going up.
He gritted his teeth, biting hard on the stick of gum he’d popped in hopes he could release his adrenaline. “Right behind you.”
One look down on her part through the open slated stairs would prove that wasn’t true, but it gave him something to strive for. Sweat pooled on his lower back as he forced his legs to move onto the next stair. Done.
One more. Done.
Elisa’s blond head poked over the railing, two levels up. “Do you need more oil?”
He needed to get out of this suffocating hot box, is what he needed. Needed the ground. “I think you slicked me up plenty good enough in the parking lot.”
While he’d been trading cash and his sanity for two tickets, she’d swiped oil down both sides of Noah’s neck. Elisa swore it had calming effects, but all he’d noticed was that his nervous sweating smelled better than it probably would have otherwise.
One more step. Done.
At this rate, they’d find the next clue by Christmas. How many stairs had the guard told them—177? He’d zoned out after that. Was the inside of this tower shrinking, or was that his vision tunneling? He squinted.
“Hey, Noah?”
He grunted, still unable to see Elisa as he gripped the railing in his damp palm. One more step. Done. Six million left to go. He tried to widen his eyes, but it didn’t help the shadows crowding his vision. His heart raced. “What?”
“Did I ever tell you I went to culinary school?”
He blinked, attempting to focus on the next step beneath his feet as it swam. “I heard.”
“Ah, that figures.” Her voice lilted from above, giving him something to climb toward. “Well, anyway, I obviously didn’t stay.”
He wondered how she’d ended up back at the same diner she was waitressing at before she left, but why was she telling him this now? He climbed a little faster as his vision cleared. Two more steps. Done. He sucked in a long breath. “What happened?”
“A lot, actually. I sort of got screwed over by a boy—by a coworker who took my graduation job lead out from under me.”
Noah released his breath. “Boyfriend?”
There was only silence above, and the sound of his own breathing. Then…“I didn’t mean to say that.”
He took another step toward her. “But you did.” So she had a boyfriend betray her.
The thought stung a little—did she count Noah on that same list of betrayals?
“Well, doesn’t matter anyway, because I realized I wasn’t as into cooking as I thought I was.” Her voice softened, though the echo still carried in the tight space. “Just because my mom cooked didn’t mean I had to, you know?”
Three steps. Done. “That’s baloney.”
Elisa had always loved cooking. Even when they were eighteen, she’d fixed a picnic for them to take to the beach. He’d expected PB&J, maybe a few bags of chips. But she’d made three-cheese grilled flatbread sandwiches with her own secret Creole sauce, homemade garlic and pesto chips, and fruit salad with marshmallow cream. And those southern teacake cookies she’d claimed were her mother’s recipes.
A decade later, he could taste the maraschino cherries, picture the hunk of bread that got caught in her hair during an impromptu food fight with the leftovers.
Another four steps. Done. “No, really. I like being manager.” Her easy tone filled the space again, urging his feet forward. Another four steps. Done.
And now he was really trying not to imagine Elisa cooking for the jerk who double-crossed her.
“Being manager is the best of both worlds. I can be around the food but not have to make it.”
But her accompanying laugh didn’t sound genuine, and suddenly, Noah wanted to see her face. Wanted to see if her expression matched her voice.
