Rising Tides by Emilie Richards Page A

be lucky.”
    “Please.” She tried an armoire, packed full of filmy, fragile dresses spanning half a century in style. “There are museums that would love to have these.”
    “I haven’t seen anything that needs a key.”
    “We’re not done.”
    She rummaged through boxes of dusty books and mementos, while Ben methodically examined furniture. They had almost progressed around the room before Dawn spotted the trunk. She remembered it well be cause it was the same one that had held all the family photographs. Some of the photographs were still there, but now half the space was taken up by a small leather suitcase.
    Dawn sat cross-legged and lifted the case to her lap. She traced her grandmother’s initials, gold against dark blue. “Look.”
    Ben squatted beside her. “Locked?”
    She reached inside her pocket for the key. The lock opened as easily as the door. She lifted out a black leather journal. The pages were edged with gold, like a Bible. The first page was inscribed in fountain pen. The script was rounded and carefully formed. With childish whimsy, an ink blot had been turned into a tiny spider.
    She was puzzled. She was halfway through the page before she realized who it belonged to. “Ben, this is Uncle Hugh’s journal. I didn’t even know he’d kept one.”
    She looked up. Ben’s eyes were shadowed. “I’ve wondered what happened to it.”
    “Then you knew?”
    “I lived with him that last summer. I saw him writing in it sometimes. When I got out of the hospital and went back…to the rectory, I looked for it. But all his things were gone by then.”
    She leafed through it. “It starts when he’s about ten, I think, and it’s pretty sporadic. But look, it’s nearly filled. Almost like…” She didn’t want to go on.
    Ben finished for her. “Like his life and the pages ran out together.”
    She didn’t want to think about that. “There’s more.”
    She set the journal beside her and took out a lavender metal box decorated with pansies and violets. Inside, she found a thick stack of letters tied with a black rib bon.
    The letters were more faded than the journal. In the dim light, she was forced to squint to make out words. “This one’s addressed to a Father Grimaud. Look, it’s in French.”
    He squinted, too. “I studied Latin.”
    “My French is acceptable.”
    “Phillip’s is perfect, if you need a translator. Who are they from?”
    She turned the first one over. “Lucien Le Danois.” She looked up at Ben. “He was my great-grandfather.”
    “So what does this have to do with me?”
    There hadn’t been time to ask herself that question. Now Dawn realized how important it was. “I don’t know. What do you think?”
    He shrugged.
    Dawn realized she was hugging the letters to her chest. “If Grandmère had only wanted me to have these, she would have given me both of the keys. Or she wouldn’t have bothered with keys at all. Spencer would have handed me the suitcasethis morning on the porch. Do you see? Obviously she wanted us to work together.”
    “What right do I have to delve into your family history?”
    “I don’t know. Do you have any theories?”
    “I haven’t had time to concoct any.” He stood. “What are you going to do?”
    “I’m going to take the letters back to the house and read them.” She stood, too. She met his eyes, and for a moment she didn’t speak. Then she held out her uncle’s journal. “You take this.”
    “Why?”
    “Think about it. Grandmère wanted us both to find the case. Obviously she wanted you to be part of this. You don’t speak French, but you were with my uncle when he died.”
    “Why do you want me to be part of this?”
    “I don’t. But my grandmother did. Besides, don’t you need something to do besides sit around and judge me and my family?” Reluctantly she inched the journal closer to him.
    He took it with something that seemed remarkably like gratitude.
    “So, you want to share what we find at breakfast to