Guarding the Treasure Read online

  Sophie pushed her chair back from her desk. Her eyes automatically dropped to the floor as she rolled. “That wheel still squeaks.” She shook her head with a smile on her lips. Her plans to get it fixed months ago, well they… She shrugged her shoulders. It just hadn’t happened yet. She reached for the picture of her mom and dad, her hoodie, and a few books from her personal library to take with her for the summer break, picked up her briefcase, and headed out the door. An entire weekend with no essays to read, no reports to finalize, and no students to think about—Sophie felt relief run through every pore.

  She walked the few halls down to the lobby. “Goodbye, John,” she said, checking out with the security guard. “See you on Monday to get the rest of my things.” She continued to the parking garage, feeling like she was walking on air with such a heavy load lifted from her shoulders. “I need to make a couple of stops before going home tonight,” she thought to herself, checking her reflection in the rearview mirror. Then Jeffrey came to her mind. She sighed deeply and ran a hand through her hair. It was Friday, and at six o’clock, the guy with no apparent life would show up at her door. Just like clockwork. Sophie rolled her eyes as she pulled the car door shut. Jeffrey was a great neighbor, but ever since she had asked him to look after her fish for a week last summer, he’d felt the need to check on her, “just to make sure everything was all right.” It was a line he used to spend time with her, although he’d never admit to it. It was painfully obvious by the way he hung around until she asked him in. Maybe I should give him a chance, she thought. He was probably everything a girl should want in a guy. He had a great body, worked in sports medicine, and had a nice smile. But trying to stomach his lack of self-confidence and sick sense of humor made their time together almost unbearable. Sophie thought he had probably watched too many sitcoms as a teenager, and it had warped his mind to the point of no return. He would probably always be one of those bumbling, silly guys on TV—the ones whose wives had to direct them where to stand and where to sit until the day they died. Sophie wasn’t in the market for that.

  She made her last stop, and fifteen minutes later, the car was parked in the garage. She pulled in a deep breath, letting it out sharply as a random thought passed through her mind. Why don’t I have a social life? Am I like Jeffrey? Her face bunched at the thought. No, not even close. Realistically, having someone around would make Friday nights a whole lot easier, she reasoned, slamming the car door a little harder than was necessary. It didn’t take long for the real answer to the question to come to her. It came in the form of a bad movie that played every time she thought of Trey. He was flawless and had a perfectly wonderful career as a pilot and soon-to-be flight instructor for one of the major airlines in the country. “Everything was fine until he found God,” she said aloud, leaning against the car. Sophie recalled the handsome, brash young man who had begged her to abandon teaching and enjoy his newfound faith with him. She shook her head. “Who did he think he was?” she asked. She closed her eyes, still sensing his passion as he would hold her in his arms night after night, describing how they would fly medical supplies to underdeveloped areas of the world and, best of all, share their intense love for God with those in need. But he was the only one with the intense love, or at least he thought so—she always believed he was only on a temporary high. She remembered how she tried to talk him out of his life-altering plans, but it hadn’t worked. Trey wasn’t changing his mind, and she wasn’t leaving her profession. Sophie made it clear she wanted nothing to do with God, and that had settled it for them and for their relationship, a relationship that had been over five years old at the time and was soon to be tied with a knot. She remembered giving the ring back, the look in his eyes. The memories continued to flow. Trey’s goodbye kiss was long, and his words were soft and gentle as he said he would no longer push her to do things his way. She remembered his last “I love you, Sophie” and the way he touched her lips. She found herself putting a finger to her lips as her eyes welled with tears. That awful night was two long years in her past. “Enough of that pathetic story,” she announced loudly. Sophie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I’ve got better and more important things to think about than men who chase invisible gods.”

  Sophie slept later than usual that Saturday morning and woke more relaxed than she had been in what seemed to be a decade of Saturdays. She pulled pillows behind her to cushion her back against the headboard and threw the deep brown and beige comforter over to the vacant side of the bed, allowing the throw pillows to slide to the floor. Even seeing things a little messy in her never-messy house didn’t change her mood. She smiled and turned to the nightstand. The tattered diary she had found was lying there, beckoning to her. She reached for it, recalling the dismal afternoon she and her mother had spent high in the attic of her great grandmother’s now rundown two-story house.

  They had rummaged for hours, opening box after box of dishes, hats, jewelry chests, and old letters tucked into books and magazines. Sophie remembered the house being thick with a chalky, colored dust that covered the windows and drapes. She cringed at the thought of so much dirt in one house. The place looked like one from those old spooky movies, complete with dust-laden cobwebs spreading like tentacles from ceiling fixtures to furniture and doorknobs. The house had been shut up for years—some dispute over money or something, she recalled. She’d returned home with a thick grayish layer of dirt under her fingernails, in her hair, and on her clothes and a splitting headache that had lasted almost a week. But now it all seemed worth it. She held in her hands a treasure from that old house—at least it was a treasure to her. The diary, although it looked more like an old book, had been buried beneath sheets of paper bearing odd drawings and words in a different language and a few delicate handkerchiefs that, in their time, must have been expensive and of great value to the owner. The items seemed to be related to the diary in some way, and all had been the sole possessions of a private person who lived a private life. She ran her fingers over the cover of the diary, holding someone else’s memories in her hands, and smiled. Memories spelled history, a chance to experience a time in someone else’s life, and in this case, a time that had been significant enough to write down in a book. The diary held so much passion from the past. Each time she read from it, held it in her hands, it felt like two arms reached around her and held her firmly. Each time she touched the book, it seemed to draw her in, wanting to tell her something—something of importance.

  Sophie reluctantly returned the book to the nightstand, thinking as her eyes traced its ragged edges. Was it strange that the diary was the reason she was planning a trip to Ireland? She thought back and could not recall ever having a great desire to visit the country until the first time she had opened the book and had run her fingers over the pages. Sophie had felt an instant call, something tugging at her mind. From that moment, she had begun her study of the diary, but her enterprise proved to be brief. She concluded that the author of the diary had lived in the western part of Ireland at the time of its writing, but that’s where she got stuck because the entries inside were in Gaelic. She sighed, still staring at the book. “I need to understand your language, Diary. I need to find out who wrote in you and all the whys that are attached to the life of your author.”

  She pushed her legs off the side of the bed. I should check my email, she thought, looking at her dangling feet. Professor Kian Smith had not returned her email requesting a translation of the diary from Old Gaelic to English. Sophie considered herself lucky to have stumbled upon his name on a history teacher’s website. The site had included a post mentioning his translation services and stating his desire to translate manuscripts from the sixteenth through the eighteenth century. He wanted to research those time periods for comparison to the culture of twenty-first century Ireland. He hoped to gain access to the papers, books, and diaries of regular people who had lived and died in Ireland hundreds of years ago. His post made it clear that the work would be done for history professors only,
not historians. Sophie had hoped to hear back from him before now, but it had only been a week, and she knew how history buffs could be when they believed they held something authentic. She had to remind herself to be patient and wait for his response.

  Sophie completed her usual Saturday routine of light housework and laundry and finished the morning with coffee and a wheat bagel topped with blueberry cream cheese. She changed into blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt, and then quickly applied some blush, mascara, and lip gloss. She stood in front of the mirror, inspecting herself as she ran a brush through her long dark hair. “Who in the world spends a beautiful Saturday afternoon at the city library?” she asked the thirty-year-old woman in the mirror. She laughed and answered herself. “People with no real life,” she said to the image looking back at her. But today it didn’t matter. The hours spent poring over books about Ireland at the university library was at least a change of scenery and a chance to get out of the house. Besides, the diary was calling to her once again, and she wanted only to be alone at a quiet table with a reference book on the Gaelic language. And hopefully, no one would recognize her.

  The city library was always quite predictable. It was quiet and void of too many people. But then again, why would people be inside? The day was perfect, warm with a light breeze from the south and a hint of green brushing the tips of the trees. Springtime in Washington was always beautiful. Driving into the heart of the city, she had passed two parks littered with small children who were running, swinging, and playing with family. She saw people walking dogs, couples jogging together, and still others getting some welcome tee time on the local golf course. No wonder Pullman had been named the best place to live, pulling a number one rating for its quality of life.

  The beautiful spring weather was doing its best to tempt her back outside as she stood on the steps of the downtown building, but as she entered, the smell of old books and new ink within the walls of Neill Public Library was stronger than the warm sun shining on her back.

  Sophie pushed on the heavy oak doors, listening as the large rusty hinges turned in their cradles. Even though they smelled of fresh oil, they still emitted a sound of stress and were a bit reluctant to open. She passed by four well-used wooden tables before finding the exact spot she had studied in before. It was near the west wall of the large room of bookshelves. She was close enough to the children’s reading area to notice they were finished with Story Time with Darcie for the afternoon, so there would be no little ones interrupting her thought. She set her purse on the smaller of two round tables near the shelves where she would be searching, far enough from the front desk to allow plenty of privacy. The area she needed was in the nine hundreds, and glancing to her right, she saw the nine-hundreds almost directly in front of her.

  “What luck,” she said, smiling as she pulled the diary from her backpack. Opening the old book, Sophie headed to the first set of shelves in hopes of retrieving the book on the Gaelic language she had opened earlier that month. That encounter with the reference book had been brief, she recalled. A couple of students had discovered her and consumed much of her free time, asking questions about Gaelic history as well as offering their opinions. Shaking her head, she moved through the narrow aisle, perusing the selections. How amusing that people thought she only wanted to talk about school and history as if she had no other interests. Running her fingers over five or six titles, she discovered the coveted volume. “Here it is,” she said, quickly pulling it from the shelf. Sophie anticipated what she would find between its yellowed pages, feeling like a kid in a candy store, wanting to learn as much as she could about the language dominating the diary she balanced in her hand. Sophie turned and leaned against the shelf of books, randomly thumbing through the pages. The words were foreign to her yet deeply familiar. She had memorized the handwriting of some of the words from the diary and could form them in her mind as she looked at the same words in the reference book. It seemed a little more difficult today than she remembered, trying to put the words together to form sentences while struggling to hold both books open at the same time.

  “If you want a good book on understanding the Gaelic language, may I suggest this one?”

  Sophie’s head rose with a jerk. “What?” Her eyes were automatically drawn to a man with deep blue eyes, brown shoulder-length hair, and a Yankees baseball cap pulled over his eyes.

  “This book,” he said, opening to an obviously familiar page, “has origins—as well as dates and definitions—of the lost language of the Irish people. It’s one of the best I’ve ever read on the subject,” he said, looking up and catching the noticeable expression of surprise on her face. Recalling a job he’d done for a friend at the television station several months earlier, he decided she was much prettier than she had looked from behind the camera. Her hair was as brown as her eyes, and she had a beautiful mouth that held a slim smile as she continued to look at him with a bewitching bewilderment in her eyes. He had already sized her up, something he had grown accustomed to doing in his profession. She was quite a beautiful package, he decided.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?” she said, trying to decide if he was one of her students or a new faculty member.

  “Do I know you?” came out of her mouth just seconds later as a wrinkle formed above her eyebrows. Then Sophie realized he hadn’t been one of her students because she would have remembered his self-assured mannerisms—not to mention that every pore on his body screamed sexy, and he had a smile to match. She decided he must be one of the new teachers for the summer semester.

  “I’m sorry, let me introduce myself,” extending his hand to her. “My name’s Kevin Gates. I’m sure you don’t know who I am, but I—along with perhaps the entire city—would recognize you a mile away. You’re Sophie Hanes, am I right?”

  Sophie narrowed her eyes at him again, still questioning how this Mr. Gates knew her. “How could the entire city—” Just then the diary slid from atop the reference book. She quickly bent to retrieve it at the same moment Kevin Gates bent to help her.

  “Here, let me get that for you,” he said, settling his eyes on her. “I seem to have rudely interrupted your thoughts, and the least I can do is pick up your book for you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, returning his gaze but only momentarily as he put the diary in her hand. “So Mr. Gates, if you don’t mind my asking, can you tell me just how you know who I am?”

  Kevin looked past her to the round table where he had seen her put her purse and backpack. “If you don’t mind me joining you,” nodding toward her table, “I’d love to tell you everything I know about you,” he said, flashing a questioning look her way.

  Sophie’s cheeks warmed, and she knew color would quickly follow. She gave him an uncertain smile then turned and started for her table. As they sat, the muscles in her shoulders tightened and her breathing quickened. She glanced around to make sure they weren’t completely alone in the library. No matter how great Mr. Gates looked or how sincere his voice sounded, she didn’t trust him. Normal, sane people don’t just pop up to make suggestions on what you should read and then, without missing a beat, tell you they—and everyone else in the city—know your name.

  She shifted in her chair, scanning the library again.

  Kevin knew he had come on a bit strong, a trait he had acquired from his earlier days as a reporter in New York City. It often made people uneasy, but in the right situation it could be an effective tool for getting information. As he slid his chair out, he sensed he’d done it again, but this time not on purpose. He needed to ease Ms. Hanes’ anxiety as quickly as possible. That is, if he still wanted to get to know her better—and avoid being arrested for harassment.

  “So Ms. Hanes, I said I’d tell you what I know about you, and I think it’s only fair that I first tell you how I know what I know.” Kevin continued, noting the perfect shape of her brown eyes. Everything about her was exquisitely shaped, but he tried not to be too obvious with his assessment. In fact, he was finding it d
ifficult to stay focused. The facts, he told himself. Stick with the facts and you’ll be just fine.

  “I have a friend who’s a cameraman for the television station, and a couple of months ago, he asked me to fill in for him. I had no idea I’d be filming an interview at the university featuring the top-ranked history professor in Pullman, and soon, I’m sure, in the entire state of Washington.” He continued, trying to focus on her eyes but struggling because she wouldn’t look directly at him.

  “Needless to say, it was a privilege, and I found it very interesting— that is, after we were finally able to get through the entire interview—how such a young professor rose to the top of her profession in such a short amount of time,” he said, a hint of laughter in his voice.

  Sophie shifted in her chair, self-conscious that Mr. Gates had been at the interview. She glanced at him and then back at the books on the table, feeling the heat of embarrassment on the tips of her ears and on her neck as she remembered all the takes they had to do, and the frustration that had emanated from the reporters and the despondent looks on the faces of the stage people. She also reluctantly remembered her nerves, which gotten the best of her. Several times, she’d had to ask to leave the set. Sophie had tried to tell them she was a really private person and all the attention was making her sick to her stomach, but they’d had a job to do and reminded her that they needed the piece for the news that evening.

  Looking up, she saw Kevin’s eyes fixed on her.

  “I don’t know what to say, Mr. Gates,” she said, dropping her eyes back to the diary. She tapped her finger nervously.