Page 44 of Moonshine and Magnolias (Just Add Peaches #1)

The walls of Rob’s apartment vibrated with the pounding on his door.

He ignored it in favor of popping an antacid from the roll that hadn’t left his side in the four days since he’d returned home.

He rested his elbows on his knees and clicked a link on his laptop on the coffee table in front of him.

“Dammit, Rob!” Hal’s voice came through the door. “Let me in. I know you’re in there.”

Grumbling and scraping noises sounded from the outside hallway before the door swung open. “You gave me a spare key a few years ago.”

“Great.” Rob leaned back on the sofa to stretch. He’d been in a hunched-over position for three hours that morning, ignoring calls from family and potential clients. What he was doing was too important.

Hal trudged into the apartment and plopped himself into the recliner next to the sofa. His feet thudded on top of the coffee table. “No one’s seen or heard from you since we came back. Mom thought you’d been caught under a pile of fallen books. I can see she’s not that far off. ”

Rob moved the pile of notes he had amassed about Uncle Louis away from his brother’s large shoes. Research books lay open on the floor, all turned to texts on Prohibition and rumrunners. “I’ve been busy.”

Hal eyed the mess and heaved out a sigh. “You liked her. A lot. And now here you are, alone, like Dad, and Grandpa. Like Uncle Louis. Do you believe the curse now?”

Regret layered with the bitter truth in Rob’s chest. He had only himself to blame for his situation, not some family fable.

He could fix it. If Uncle Louis’s lost greatest treasure was somewhere on the grounds of the Inn at Fountenoy Hall, Rob was going to get it and hand it over to Wendy Marsh.

But first, he had to find it.

Not that he voiced any of this to his brother.

“Maybe I’m doing this for me. I’ve read stories of revenuers being shot at, or run off the road, or lured into a swamp by a tale of illicit activity.

” Rob hadn’t forgotten Wendy’s words about writing it all down.

“Some are attributed, some aren’t. I’m hoping to find one about Uncle Louis. ”

“Sounds exciting.” Hal’s dry tone suggested anything but. “Come across anything interesting?”

“Uncle Louis may have had a girlfriend. Caroline Clayton.”

“The woman in the photo from the dining room?”

“Yes,” Rob said. “And from the newspaper archive. I knew it had to be about a woman. I firmly believe he was the passenger and she was the driver of the car that crashed into the judge’s house.”

“How romantic.” Hal headed to the kitchen.

When a man describes a woman as fair as sunshine with eyes that match a brilliant, stormy sky and having a pointed chin that turns her face into the shape of a heart , it was obvious he wasn’t writing in his journal for posterity. He was writing for love.

“I’m bored.” Hal opened a cabinet and took out a glass. “Let’s head down to the bar and hit on some co-eds.”

“Because that’s not at all creepy.”

Hal poured something and added ice to his drink, but Rob didn’t look to see what it was. “When did you turn into such a boring old man?”

“Look, I have work to do.” Rob picked up a book from the stack and held it out to his brother. “So unless you’re going to help?”

Hal set his drink on the counter with a clank, then left the apartment.

Good. It was much easier to work in solitude. Rob scanned the article on his laptop, looking for locations and dates.

His brother barged back in a few minutes later and dropped a couple of plastic grocery bags next to Rob’s computer.

They landed with a smack, the vibrations shaking his stack of notes.

Some of the papers Rob had carefully laid out drifted to the floor and he slammed his hand on the rest to keep them from falling.

“Can’t you just leave me alone?” he asked.

Hal sat down again, a tumbler with an amber liquid in hand. At least this time he kept his feet on the floor. “A present for you.”

Rob eyed the glass. “Please tell me you bought that whiskey on your way here.”

“Nope.” Hal took a sip. “Vintage brew, this stuff is. I had it in the trunk about two days after we found it abandoned in the office. Brought it to an alcohol expert, and he estimated the bottle to be about twenty-five years old. Offered me five hundred dollars for it, too. My insides are worth it.” His brother held out the drink. “Want some?”

“No.” Rob eyed one of the bags suspiciously and poked it with a finger. The hard objects inside didn’t give. “What’s in here?”

His brother shrugged. “I had a hunch nothing would end your obsession until you had all the answers, so I smuggled those out of Fountenoy Hall.”

Rob opened the bag. Inside lay several of the smaller archive boxes that held the journals Eulalee had let them look through. The ones he had kept in his room. The ones he had left behind .

“How did you get these?” He tore his eyes from the contraband to his brother. “Lo?c searched our stuff. Since you got into the car without a black eye, I’m assuming you didn’t have them in your luggage.”

When Rob had run into Sebastien’s bodyguard outside his room, the last remaining hope that he could talk to Wendy had vanished and been replaced by an aching void in his chest. Her hurt was so great that she’d posted a guard dog to make sure he left.

Not that he blamed her.

“Remember before we got in the car I told you I had to get the clothes I threw out the window?” Hal took a swig of beer. “I said I didn’t want that hulking beast’s hand on my favorite shirt?”

“You threw century-old books out a window?” Rob snatched up a bag and studied its contents with more attention. Thankfully, nothing looked damaged beyond normal wear.

“No. I threw something my brother needed out a window. He was too damn noble to do it himself.” Hal wiped his arm over his forehead.

“Look. I’m sorry for what I did. What I told Wendy.

I could see that you liked her. And she might have listened to you if I had let you reveal the reason we were at the Hall.

So maybe what’s in those books will help you, I don’t know, win her back or something. ”

Rob blinked to hide his surprise. Maybe Hal had done some growing, too. Rob loved his brother, but thinking about someone else had never been his strong suit.

“Thank you.” He removed a storage box from bag, then opened it and took out one of the journals, the musty odor of old pages and his uncle’s neat script bringing him back to the library when he first saw them.

“But you’re not to blame for my situation.

I knew going in that what we were doing was wrong.

” And he’d done it anyway. To please his family.

To appease his own historical ego. To bring an end to the obsession of each generation of Upshaws to find something that didn’t even belong to them.

“Yeah, but you didn’t expect to find something with Wendy. And after listening to you ream into Dad for the absurdity that is our lives, I realized that you were right. We missed out on a lot of stuff because of this. It ends with us.”

Rob had to keep his jaw from gaping open at the resolve his brother’s voice “Wow, Hal. I’m impressed. I don’t know what to say.”

Hal shrugged and then looked at Rob dead on. “Say that you’ll do what you need to do to get Wendy back. You deserve her. And she deserves you.” He rose from the chair and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Sure I can’t convince you to hit the bar?”

“Drink one to my success.”

“Okay.” Hal recapped the whiskey bottle and shuffled to the door. “I’m keeping your spare key.”

Once his brother left, Rob went into his office and lugged his field kit out of the closet. He rummaged inside for a pair of cotton gloves, then returned to his spot on the sofa.

The bags sat on the table, folded over and hiding the contents inside.

It was hard not to visualize an end to the treasure hunt.

Him, holding whatever gemstone or rare plant or gifts from George III had been lost, and presenting it to Wendy.

Her, clear green eyes wide with delight, taking it from him.

Before throwing it at him with her pitcher’s arm and stomping away.

He settled into the silence of his small apartment. Regardless of what she thought, he had to see this through.

The first journal was a plain, burgundy book, similar to the others owned by his Uncle. Hal had looked through all of them, but Rob hadn’t yet had a chance to read it in depth. He placed it next to him on the sofa to cushion the old pages, and reached out to open it.

His hand hovered over the cover, pausing as if on its own. Just a half inch more. The chances of him finding the answers were so small.

Rob opened the journal.

The story needed an ending.

** *

Wendy stood on the front landing with her tablet, directing vendors coming in to register and answering questions shouted up to her from the circular drive.

Even though she had returned to Atlanta and was again working at Steward Hotels, her knowledge of running events made her the temporary face of Fountenoy Hall.

Campers and vans lined the three-quarter mile stretch to the street, and the lobby overflowed with merchants and performers checking in for Pansy Hamilton.

A thin layer of dust hung in the air, stirred up every time a vehicle arrived or left.

The Civil War and Revolutionary War reenactors greeted each other like lost friends.

Wendy appreciated they put aside the animosity between their competing obsessions to perform in Pansy Hamilton.

Returning to Steward had been a mistake. The job and promotion was everything she had expected it to be, everything she had worked for. And she hated it.