He clenched his fists as Sophie kept talking. It was easier to hate than forgive. Forgiving would crack the thin veneer of his strength and expose a world of hurt feelings underneath.
Frank drew a breath that sounded painful. “I love that you design golf courses,” he said. “I’m so proud of you. I watched every one of them from afar.”
“I know,” Jack said. “I got the cards.”
“Son, I let you down, and it’s the biggest regret of my life. I held on to sobriety enough to walk your mother through her final years of cancer treatments, but it broke me. I wasn’t able to take care of you after that. I figured the state could do a better job than I could.”
Jack clenched his jaw and looked away. The state probablydiddo a better job. The fact that he was still alive was proof of that. He had survived. So had his dad. He ought to be happy, right?
A lump formed in his throat. Actually, hewashappy. Alice was right. He’d been carrying the weight of resentment his entire life; letting it go would free him.
It was time to forgive his father. There was no need to pick apart every old scar or dig through the wreckage of all he’d endured. Jack could let go of it all, not to absolve his father, but to clear his own path forward without the baggage of the past.
He’d never been good at this sort of conversation and struggled to find a way to move forward.
“Do you still root for the Baltimore Ravens?” he asked his dad.
Frank’s eyes widened in surprise. “They’ve had a great run. You?”
“Yeah. I thought of you when they won the Super Bowl a few years back.”
Frank’s face lit up, fragile but unmistakably pleased. “Maybe we’ll be able to watch them win it again this year. Together, maybe.”
“Yeah,” Jack choked out. “That would be really great.”
Over the next hour, as they carried on a stilted conversation, Jack silently vowed that no matter where he found himself—Japan, Scotland, North Carolina—if the Ravens made it to the Super Bowl this year, he would show up and watch the game with his dad. Heck, maybe he should just show up in Baltimore on any given Sunday to watch an ordinary game.
Win or lose, it would be the best game in the world.
Chapter Thirty
Alice was on her way to the hospital to help Jack check out when the email from the College of Arms in London arrived. Her phone dinged at a red light, and when she glimpsed the attachment icon, her heart leapt.
Finally—answers about the signet ring.
The ring itself was still missing, and Jack suspected one of the Tuckers had swiped it from his hotel room. At least this report might tell her where the ring came from—and who it had once belonged to.
At every stoplight, her fingers itched to tap the screen, to dive into the report, but she forced herself to wait. This was something she wanted to share with Jack. Her heart thuddedas she pulled into the hospital’s garage, parked the car, slung her laptop bag over her shoulder, and all but jogged into the hospital.
Jack was half-dozing when she burst into the room, golf murmuring softly from the wall-mounted TV. A few yogurt cups sat on the rolling table across his lap. He blinked awake as she swept in.
“Jack! The report’s here—the one from London about the ring. I haven’t opened it yet. I wanted to wait.”
He sat up straight, instantly alert. “About time,” he said with a grin. For a man who once had no appreciation of history, he’d certainly grown fascinated with the Roost and the signet ring. With an underhanded toss, he flung the yogurt containers toward the trashcan. They landed inside with a satisfying clatter.
“Let’s get cracking,” he said, slapping the tabletop with open palms. “I’ve been dying to read that thing.”
She slid the laptop onto the table, angled the screen so they could both see, and opened her email.
The report was brief, but packed with insight:
The coat of arms on the signet ring you have submitted was granted by His Majesty Henry VIII in 1536 to the Denby family. The rearing stag was the traditional emblem of the Denby family. The scallop shell pattern on the ring’s shank is a symbol of Christian faith.
In keeping with the family’s tradition, the number of acorns surrounding the stag signify one acorn for each generation. This ring has six acorns, meaning it belonged to the sixth Lord Denby since the granting of the title. Thus, the ring most likely belonged to William Reid Denby, 1615–1659.
William Reid Denby was listed on the death warrant signed by Charles II following the king’s restoration. His death in 1659 spared him arrest and execution for treason.
“Good heavens,” Alice whispered, rocking back in the chair in amazement. “The owner of our signet ring was a regicide.”
