Page 7 of Return to Whitmore
“Can’t you see it written all over his face?” Lorelei asked.
Chapter Four
Summer 2025
At seven thirty that evening, after a full day of conversation and walking the beach, Nina got ready to leave Charlotte’s place. She had a phone call with Will and Fiona at camp, and she wanted to double- and triple-check a few documents from her divorce lawyer, a lawyer she was calling her “guardian angel.” What she’d told Charlotte thus far about Daniel, about the woman he’d been cheating on her with, about their trip to South America to study anthropology, made Charlotte’s blood run cold. She felt overprotective in the way of big sisters, eager to make whoever had destroyed her little sister’s heart pay for what they’d done.
“What are you up to tonight?” Nina asked, gathering her things and offering Charlotte a sleepy smile.
Charlotte touched her ear nervously. What she was actually up to tonight was her business and her business alone and nothing she wanted to bring Nina into. More than that, Charlotte wasn’t entirely sure what would unfold when shereached her destination. Nerves made her quiet. That, and her previous promises.
Nina had come into the equation of the Whitmore mess, and Charlotte hadn’t betted on it.
“I’ll probably chill out for a while,” Charlotte said. “Maybe watch a movie and eat a few snacks. Something simple.”
“That sounds nice,” Nina said sadly. “I wish I could stay.”
Charlotte hugged her little sister and watched from the front door as Nina got into her car and drove away, back to her little rental not far from the White Oak Lodge. Charlotte held her breath and counted to ten, then slammed the door and raced to the dresser to get ready. She’d said she’d be at the restaurant by eight fifteen. It wasn’t a run-of-the-mill restaurant either, but a top-of-the-line, Michelin-starred restaurant that Charlotte had opted for because she’d assumed everyone at said restaurant would be tourists and unwilling to listen to her conversation. Plus, she was sort of a foodie, always had been. It was in her Italian blood.
You can take the girl out of Tuscany, she thought as she scrambled into a bloodred dress,but you can’t take the Tuscany out of the girl.
She knew if she said something like that in front of Francesca, Francesca would scoff and tell her to stop being so American. In the mirror, she smiled to herself and put on a shade of lipstick that made her look more like Francesca than she usually liked.I can’t get you out of my head, Mother,she thought.
On the drive to the restaurant, Charlotte’s arms shook almost violently. When she’d arranged this dinner meeting, she hadn’t known Nina was on the island, hadn’t known that everything would get so twisted up. Beyond that, who she was meeting needed answers from Charlotte, answers that Charlotte wasn’t sure how to give. By the time she parked in the lot outside theglowing restaurant, Charlotte had worked herself up so much that she had to sit and count her breaths.
The person she was coming here to meet, she’d never met before. How did she know she could trust them?
“I don’t,” she answered herself, then got out of the car.
A woman in a sleek black dress opened the foyer door and smiled in a way that, Charlotte knew, probably pleased all of the other high-rolling clientele at the restaurant. “Good evening,” she said. “Welcome to Chez Paul.”
Charlotte smiled back and thanked the woman, slipping into the foyer to assess the restaurant and see if her new “friend,” so to speak, had already arrived. The restaurant itself was just as spectacular as the online photographs, with intimate, ornate tables, long-hanging lamps with soft lighting, and small plates of food that looked decadent and inventive, seafood with a French twist. Charlotte’s mouth began to water immediately. When was the last time she’d eaten something so wonderful?
“I’m meeting someone,” Charlotte told the hostess. “I’ll wait here.”
The woman smiled and moved on to another mini restaurant emergency, one that required low tones between the hostess and servers. Charlotte had worked her fair share of restaurants over the years and knew the drill. Everything was chaos, especially on a night like this. She didn’t envy them.
If Charlotte really didn’t get funding for her documentary, would she have to start working at a place like this again? Her stomach curdled with dread.
And then a thought rang through her.Not if the Whitmore treasure is real.
What was she thinking? She laughed at herself and let herself loosen into the night. There was no treasure.
That was when she spotted someone in the kitchen.
Like many exquisite restaurants worth their weight in Michelin stars, this one had a window that showed off what was happening in the silver and glowing kitchen. Men and women dressed in chef whites worked purposely, their sharp knives flashing, their skillets singeing. It was a little like watching a choreographed dance, with everyone in their designated place at the right time.
But one of the chefs was staring through the window at Charlotte.
It didn’t take long for Charlotte to realize she knew him. Her heart exploded.
Suddenly, she shot away from the kitchen window and back toward the door. She couldn’t take it. She shoved the door open and prepared to hurl herself into the night. She could call her contact and say something came up. She could arrange for another meeting place. Why hadn’t she known that Chez Paul was so dangerous? How could she have missed something so pivotal?
But when she opened the door, she discovered Addison, hurrying up the walkway. Addison’s shiny cheeks were tear-soaked, and her eyes were tinged reddish pink. She waved and then, very suddenly, threw herself into Charlotte’s arms like a child. Charlotte held her, listening to the frantic thudding of her heart, as Addison spoke into her shoulder, “I’m so glad you’re here. You don’t know what I’ve been going through.”
Suddenly, they were in the foyer again. The hostess gestured, smiling in a way that suggested she could easily pretend that Addison wasn’t full-on sobbing. “Right this way, ladies,” she said.
Charlotte dared a glance back toward the kitchen and realized the chef was still staring at her. A part of her had hoped she’d imagined it. The back of her neck was on fire. All she could hope for was that the hostess would guide them to a table inthe back, hidden in the shadows, far away from the kitchen. But luck wasn’t on her side tonight. The hostess showed them a table just two rows away from the kitchen window, in the midst of the overwhelmingly recommended ambiance. Addison picked up a fancy linen towel and mopped herself up. “I’m sorry,” she said, flustered. “I held it together from here to the airport, but the second I saw you, I lost it.”
