Page 46 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
It’s a kiss that says I shouldn’t be doing this, but I’m doing it anyway. It’s full of passion and tenderness and curiosity.
Her mouth travels over mine, her lips gentle. Every instinct tells me to haul her in close, push her up against the wall, and have my way with her.
But she seems to need something a little softer, a little sweeter. I don’t mind the slow burn of this kiss. I don’t mind it at all. I want to kiss her all day, have her all night.
When we stop, she shakes her head. “That was . . .”
“Necessary?”
“Yes. Completely. But I swear I’m trying not to kiss you.” She holds up a hand like she’s taking an oath.
I wink. “Keep trying just like that.”
The sound of footsteps a floor below breaks the connection. We continue up, and I take out my camera once more, recording our journey as we pass maps of expeditions, sepia-toned photographs, and articles of clothing worn by early twentieth-century explorers, until we reach the floor with the collections.
Endless shelves of books and archives line the walls, a grandfather clock standing imperiously in a corner. We head to the Valentina collection at the back of the room, stopping at a framed photo of Edward Valentina in the jungle, his arm draped over his friend Jack Caribaldi, both of them smiling in sepia tinges. The image hangs above a table with an antique wooden globe on it. The shelves next to it, marked with his name, must contain records of his expeditions. Perhaps those are the lost accounts, pointing the way to the treasure. Hell, maybe the treasure is hidden somewhere in here. The ultimate safe hiding place.
“All right.” I pat the shelf, ready to start. “So we’ll go through each book and portfolio?”
Presley’s gaze locks with mine, the corner of her lips twitching. “Or we could start at a place near and dear.”
Frowning, I sweep my arm from the floor to the ceiling, indicating the whole house-turned-society. “I thought this was the place near and dear? The society itself?”
She smiles like the Mona Lisa. “Yes and no. The five-mile stone was the key that led us here, because the society is in Lenox Hill. So the ‘near and dear’ part likely refers to something else.”
She sets her hand on the globe, spins it around, once, twice, her eyes sparkling.
“Is there a magic number of spins? Like in Jumanji?” Then it hits me like a beam shining from above, illuminating the clue in plain sight. “Behind a place near and dear.”
Pressing my hand on hers, I stop the globe, my palm traveling to South America. The site of Edward’s expeditions. “This was near and dear to his heart.”
Her grin is magnetic. “The lost city he found.”
I rap my knuckles against Brazil, and half the face of the globe opens.
A secret compartment.
Am I expecting a treasure map? Photos from the lost city in the Amazon? Something else entirely?
I peer inside, and the spark of possibility in me ignites into a full-blown flame. I can imagine how this would play out on camera—beautifully, giving me everything I wanted when I agreed to this job.
“You do the honors,” I tell Presley.
With a wild glint in her eyes and a smile as wide as the city, she dips her hand in, reaching for the envelope inside. She opens it and takes out three sheets of paper. Three letters.
Her reaction is priceless: utter, unabashed glee, as she unfolds the first page and reads the date out loud.
* * *
From Edward Valentina
September 1920
* * *
She takes a breath, swallows, and reads.
* * *
My Dearest Greta,
* * *
I am so far away from you but know that you are never far away.
* * *
She takes a moment to scan the letter, wonder in her eyes. “I don’t think there is buried treasure. This is the treasure.”
I slowly nod, understanding at last what they left for their children. “Edward and Greta left them their love story to discover.”
20
September 1920
* * *
My Dearest Greta,
* * *
I am so far away from you, but know that you are never far away.
* * *
It is late where I am, and it is cold. I cannot warm up, for you are not here.
* * *
The only thing that keeps me warm at all is the memory we share and the hope that I can find my way back to you. Sometimes on nights like this, when I can’t sleep, I think of the day we met. Do you remember it?
* * *
I recall every detail as if it were a photograph.
* * *
Under the big top, I waited as the ringmaster told me you had arrived. I expected you to be a terrified nymph, the brand-new target girl. The one I had worked with for years had left The Most Amazing Big Top under the Sun. Who would this new girl be?
