“What does that mean? Is this—” There might as well be a live parade marching through my chest. This is something. My whole body knows it. “A four and six. And—” I reread the section of the letter. “And a Legare cousin who nobody can confirm.”
Nash straightens; for the first time he looks like he thinks we might be onto something. “46 Legare.”
Another weak grunt from Cap and I already have my phone pulled out. On a real estate website, I find the house at 46 Legare with images.
“It’s an address, but—” I face the phone toward Nash, a photo of the immaculate home filling the screen. “It was built in 1964.”
“Won’t work,” Nash says. “House built in ’64 would have torn everything up during construction. Someone would have found it.” He shakes his head, lips in a tight line. “Not it.”
He’s right. I reskim the letter. “He says ‘first,’” I say.“‘but first, know I missed you every day of those six years I was away.’”
I look from the letter to them, Bennie’s words to my dad falling straight from the depressing drop ceiling. “Probably do it backward—that always works in the movies.”
“Could first mean the six is first?” I ask. “Sixty-four instead of forty-six?”
Once again, I have Nash’s attention, but this time it pulls him from the chair to stand next to me.
A new search on my phone reveals a house in disrepair. The photos are old—the house was last sold about twenty years ago, and the pictures were never updated. I swipe through them all,nothing standing out on the inside except atrocious décor from the eighties. But at the images of the backyard, I freeze.
Because in the middle of the overgrown yard, there’s a stone bench—it’s old.We will sit upon a bench in the back yard and never forget the riches we hav.I wordlessly pass the phone to Nash, zoomed in as far as I can on the stone and what appears to be the name Maggie carved into the side.
“You see this bench, Dad?” I ask, my brain firing in a million different directions. “Or ever try this address?”
“Tried everything, kiddo,” he says, opening his eyes before letting them fall closed.
That’s a ridiculous answer. “Nash?”
“Every other lead we’ve followed had a million holes but ...” Standing next to me, he takes his glasses off. “I can’t tell you a single reason why this couldn’t be something. That house is on the route of our tours. It’s old. Built in 1860. It—” He laughs like he can’t believe what he’s about to say. “Shit, Rue. It might be it.”
“Holy shit,” I say in a whisper. Because: Holy shit. Holy. Shit. “We have to go see it.” I shove the papers in my purse. “Right now.”
At the same time, Nash and I look at my dad, as if remembering the harsh reality we managed to take a momentary hiatus from.
Cap reads our hesitation. “Go.” He bats a weak hand through the air. He looks fragile, so fragile I don’t want to leave. “I won’t die before you get back and tell me what you find.”
“That’s not funny,” I snap.
Nash is already at the door, me on his heels when I stop and go back to the hospital bed. I lean down and hug Cap the best I can.
He wraps one arm around me: It’s significant.
When I pull back, my smile is plastic and come apart imminent. He sees, because he barks, “Don’t come back without Penny.”
It turns the tears at my eyes to a laugh on my lips.
Fifty
Per usual, Charleston is three degrees cooler than hell and the streets are busy. As Nash and I weave through tourists, a horse and buggy tour clods by at the same time we step into the street to avoid a walking tour on the sidewalk.
This city is filled with lovers of history, just like Nash. He belongs here.
“You okay?” he asks. “With your dad?”
I laugh softly, a little guilty that he’s not even what I was thinking about.
“I’m wondering how you’re ever going to leave this place,” I admit. “It’s filled with history. I know you say you’d come to Fontain but ...”
He stops in the middle of the sidewalk and places his hands firmly on his hips, challenging. “But what?”
