How well I know what status and opinion mean to the man I married. And how little it seems they have come to mean to me.

I wanted to shout at him. “Fergus, for God's sake, look at me. Look at me and see. Make me love you, for fear and respect cannot be enough for either of us. Make me love you so that I will never again turn my steps toward the cliffs and what waits for me there, ”

But I did not shout. When he told me impatiently that it was necessary for me to dance with Cecil Barkley, I murmured my assent.

Now the music is done and the lamps are snuffed out. I wonder when I will see Christian again. I wonder what will become ofme.

Chapter Seven

C.C. sat cross-legged in the center of an ocean of papers. Her assignmentwhether or not she'd chosen to accept it—had been to go through all of the notes and receipts and scraps that had been stuffed into three cardboard boxes marked miscellaneous.

Nearby Amanda sat at a card table, with several more bulging boxes at her feet. With her hair clipped back and reading glasses sliding down her nose, she meticulously studied each paper before laying it on one of the various stacks she had started.

“This should have been done decades ago,” she commented. “You mean it should have been burned decades ago.”

“No.” Amanda shoved the glasses back into place. “Some of it's fascinating, and certainly deserves to be preserved. Stuffing papers into cardboard boxes is not my idea of preserving family history.”

“Does a recipe for gooseberry jam rate as family history?”

“For Aunt Coco it does. That goes under kitchen, subheading menus.”

CC. shifted then waved away a cloud of dust. “How about a bill for six pair of white kid gloves and a blue silk parasol?”

“Clothing, by the date. Hmm, this is interesting. Aunt Coco's progress report from her fourth-grade teacher. And I quote, 'Cordelia is a delightfully gregarious child. However, she tends to daydream and has trouble finishing assigned projects.”

“That's a news flash.” Stiff, CC. arched her back and rotated her head. Beside her, the sun was streaming through the smudges on the storeroom window. With a little sigh, she rested her elbows on her knees and studied it.

“Where the devil is Lilah?” Impatient as always, Amanda tapped her foot as she grumbled. “Suzanna had dispensation because she took the kids to the matinee, but Lilah's supposed to be on duty.”

“She'll show up,” CC. murmured.

“Sure. When it's done.” Digging into a new pile, Amanda sneezed twice. “This is some of the dirtiest stuff I've ever seen.”

CC. shrugged. “Everything gets dirty if it sits around long enough.”

“No, I mean really dirty. It's a limerick written by Great-Uncle Sean. 'There was a young lady from Maine, whose large breasts drove the natives insane. They...' Never mind,'' Amanda decided.”We'll start a file on

attempted pornography.” When CC. made no comment, she glanced over to see her sister still staring at a sunbeam. “You okay, sweetie?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah. I'm fine.”

“You don't look like you slept very well.”

C.C. shrugged then busied herself with papers again. “I guess the se'ance threw me off.”

“Not surprising.” Her lips pursed as she sorted through more receipts. “I never put any stock in that business. Bianca's tower was one thing. I guess we've all felt something—well, something up there. But I always thought that it was because we knew Bianca had tossed herself out of the window. Then last night...” When the shiver caught her, she rubbed her chilled arms. “I know that you really saw something, really experienced something.”

“I know the necklace is real,” C.C. said.

“I'll agree it was real—especially when I have a receipt in my hand.”

“Was and is. I don't think I would have seen it if it had been pawned or tossed into the sea. It might sound loony, but I know Bianca wants us to find it.”

“It does sound loony.” With a sigh, Amanda leaned back in the creaking chair. “And what's loonier is that I think so, too. I just hope nobody at the hotel finds out I'm spending my free time looking for a buried treasure because my long-dead ancestor told us to. Oh!”

“Did you find it?” C.C. was already scrambling up.

“No, no, it's an old date book. 1912. The ink's a bit faded, but the handwriting's lovely—definitely feminine. It must be Bianca's. Look. 'Send invitations.' And here's title guest list. Wow, some party. The Prentises.” Amanda took off her glasses to gnaw on the earpiece. “I bet they were Premise Hall—one of the cottages that burned in '47.”

“’Speak to gardener about roses,’” C.C. read over her sister's shoulder. '“Final fitting on gold ball gown. Meet Christian, 3:00 p.m.' Christian?” She laid a tensed hand on Amanda's shoulder. “Could that have been her artist?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Quickly Amanda pushed her glasses back on. “But look here. 'Have clasp on emeralds strengthened.' Those could be the ones.”

“They have to be.”

“We still haven't found any receipts.”

C.C. gave a tired look at the papers littering the room. “What are our chances?”

Even Amanda's organizational skills quaked. “Well, they improve every time we eliminate a box.”

“Mandy,” C.C. sat on the floor beside her. “We're running out of time, aren't we?”

“We've only been at it for a few hours.”

“That's not what I mean.” She rested her cheek on Amanda's thigh. “You know it's not. Even if we find the receipt, we still have to find the necklace. It could take years. We don't have years. We're going to have to sell, aren't we?”

“We'll talk about it tomorrow night, at the family meeting.” Troubled, she stroked C.C.'s hair. “Look, why don't you go take a nap? You really do look beat.”

“No.” She rose, pacing over the papers to the windows and back. “I'm better off keeping my mind and my hands busy. Otherwise, I might strangle someone.”

“Trent, for instance?”

“An excellent place to start. No.” With a sigh, she stuck her hands into her pockets. “No, this mess isn't really his fault.”

“Are we still talking about the house?”

“I don't know.” Miserable, she sat on the floor again. At least she could be grateful she'd cried herself dry the night before. “I've decided that all men are stupid, selfish and totally unnecessary.”

“You're in love with him.”

A wry smile curved her lips. “Bingo. And to answer your next question, no, he doesn't love me back. He's not interested in me, a future, a family, and he's very sorry he didn't make that clear to me before I made the mistake of falling for him.”

“I'm sorry, C.C.” After taking off her glasses, Amanda got up to cross the room and sit on the floor beside her sister. “I know how it must hurt, but you've only known him for a few days. Infatuation—”

“It's not infatuation.” Idly she folded the recipe for jam into a paper airplane. “I've found out that falling in love doesn't have anything to do with time. It can take a year or an instant. It happens when it's ready to happen.”

Amanda put an arm around C.C.'s shoulders and squeezed. “Well, I don't know anything about that. Fortunately, I've never had to worry about it.”

The fact made her frown, but only for a moment. “I do know this. If he hurt you, we'll make him sorry he ever crossed a Calhoun.”

C.C. laughed then sent the gooseberry plane flying. “It's tempting, but I think it's more a matter of me hurting myself.” She gave herself a little shake. “Come on, let's get back to work.”

They'd barely gotten started again when Trent came in. He looked at C.C., met a solid wall of ice. When he turned to Amanda, he fared little better.

“I thought you might be able to use some help,” he told them.

Amanda glanced at C.C., noted her sister was employing the silent treatment. A very effective weapon, in Amanda's estimation. “That's nice of you, Trent.” Amanda gave him a smile that would have frosted molten lava. “But this is really a family problem.”

“Let him help.” C.C. didn't even bother to look up. “I imagine he's just terrific at pushing papers.”

“All right then.” With a shrug, Amanda indicated another folding chair. “You can use that if you like. I'm organizing according to content and year.”

“Fine.” He took the chair and sat across from her. They worked in frigid silence, with the crinkle of papers and the tap of Amanda's shoe.

“Here's a repair bill,” he said—and was ignored. “For repairing a clasp.”

“Let me see.” Amanda had already snatched it out of his hand before C.C. made the dash across the room. “It doesn't say what kind of necklace,” she muttered.

“But the dates are right.” C.C. stabbed a finger on it “July 16, 1912.” “Have I missed something?” Trent asked them.

Amanda waited a beat, saw that C.C. wasn't going to answer and glanced up herself. “We came across a date book of Bianca's. She had a note to take the emeralds to have the clasp repaired.”

“This might be what you need.” His eyes were on C.C, but it was Amanda who answered.

“It may be enough to satisfy all of us that the Cal-houn necklace existed in 1912, but it's a long way from helping us find it.” She set the receipt aside. “Let's see what else we can turn up.”

In silence, C.C. went back to her papers.

A few moments later, Lilah called from the base of the stairs. “Amanda! Phone!”

“Tell them I'll call back.”

“It's the hotel. They said it's important.”

“Damn.” She set down the glasses before sending Trent a narrowed look. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”