Chapter 12

Home for Friday-night dinner the week after Seb’s opening, Cameron felt like an alien from another planet, even as she watched her family engage in their usual politesse. Although she was used to this behavior, for some reason, it felt even more stifling than usual.

“Cecile, would you please pass the saltcellar?” Clarissa Endicott Stahl intoned. “Jacques has under-seasoned the chicken this evening.” It was a simple request, yet laced with all of the weight that her mother put into every demand she uttered. A servant silently slipped out of the room, undoubtedly to inform Jacques of his faux pas.

“Of course, Mama,” Cecile said. Her sister carefully laid her knife and fork just so before attending to Clarissa’s request, passing both the salt and pepper shakers down the table. As the shakers came her way, Cameron dutifully did the same, passing them to her mother, who was seated just to her left.

“Frederick?” Clarissa asked after she’d shaken a liberal amount of salt onto her chicken.

Cameron glanced at her handsome, silver-haired father, seated at the other end of the table. He hadn’t been a young man when he’d married the vivacious, well-connected Clarissa Endicott, but he still looked good.

“You’re right, my dear,” her father said without complaint. “As usual.”

Clarissa gave a short nod, and back went the salt and pepper shakers the other way. Her father gave a few generous shakes and then passed the shakers back to Cecile.

Cecile watched her mother and father eating. Uncertainly, she picked the salt shaker up and shook a little salt on her own chicken. Then she picked up the pepper shaker and offered both to Cameron. Like I’m a lemming.

“No, thank you,” Cameron said.

Cecile’s eyes widened. She placed both shakers on the table and went back to eating. One of the servants came up next to her father, refilled his wineglass, then slid back just as unobtrusively into his place next to the sideboard.

Cameron sighed. Because she still lived at home, her younger sister was completely inured to the oppressive atmosphere of these Friday-night dinners. For Cici’s sake, she couldn’t wait for the day when she got a backbone, left the house, and took an apartment of her own. Twenty-five years old and she’d never lived anywhere but her parents’ house. Like Cameron, she’d even commuted to college instead of living on campus, which accounted for her complete lack of social life. Except for the events of which Clarissa approved, naturally. West still lived at home too, but he came and went as he pleased.

Cameron picked up her own fork once again and made the mistake of checking how her Uncle Nigel was enjoying the proceedings. When she looked across the table, he gave her a saucy wink. She barely stifled her laughter in time.

Her mother’s younger brother, Nigel Endicott was nothing like his sister. Whereas Clarissa was proud, more than cognizant of the power and respect her name and place in society afforded her, Nigel had used his connections to facilitate his way only when truly necessary. Though the Endicott name had surely allowed him entrée into the exclusive world of high-end antiquities and antiques, he’d made his own name through his impeccable reputation and undeniable good taste. Cameron wasn’t bothered by the fact that her uncle was considered to be something of a ladies’ man. Back when he was in his mid-forties, his string of affairs with some of the most beautiful, desirable women in the world was catalogued in every gossip magazine. But she knew he wasn’t the playboy type most people thought he was. He was a real, down-to-earth man who appreciated hard work and beauty—in whatever form.

When she’d first gotten started with her Newberry Street boutique, Nigel had been her biggest supporter, helping her learn to manage the business end of things and even appraising antiques for sale. She owed him so much, but he hadn’t asked for anything in return. Part of her thought he might be helping her just to nettle Clarissa. He did love needling his sister, and the fact that Cameron had followed Nigel into the shop business was a thorn in Clarissa’s side. Regardless of what her mother or anyone else thought of him, she loved her uncle and considered him one of the finest men she’d ever met.

“Nigel,” Clarissa said, “what have you been up to recently? I haven’t seen you at any functions lately. Weren’t you supposed to attend the Smiths’ party last night?”

“Yes,” Nigel responded, his voice laden with a hint of indifference. “But I’m afraid I was double-booked.” He leaned back in his seat and crossed his legs, displaying the custom-made shirt under his well-cut blazer. With his sparkling blue eyes, his black hair tinged with gray at the temples, his brilliant smile, and his dapper style, it was no wonder that women flocked to him.

Clarissa clucked at him. “It astounds me how a man of your age and position cannot keep track of his own affairs.”

“Clarissa, I assure you, it’s merely the social engagements that give me trouble. Not the affairs. Those I have well in hand.”

Cameron laughed—a real one this time, earning a disapproving glance from Clarissa, while her father made a choking sound into his wineglass. Cecile, as usual, simply sat there, but Cameron noticed the stain on her cheeks.

“Really, Nigel,” Clarissa said, sounding exasperated. “Well, next time you have to miss an event, try not to make it the Smiths’.”

Nigel shrugged. “I’ve been missing the Smiths’ events for years and no one gives a damn.” He took a drink of wine. “Still manage to keep getting invited back, though,” he muttered.

“You didn’t miss much, Nigel,” her father piped in. “Dreadfully dull. Buck managed to drone on for twenty minutes about his golf game.”

“Frederick!” Clarissa said. “Don’t encourage him.” She gave a sigh. “Why do I bother, Nigel? You’re as bad as West.”

“Where is West?” Cameron asked.

Cecile looked down as their father made a loud harrumph.

“Out,” Clarissa said crisply. “As usual. Let’s move on from this depressing topic of conversation. Cameron,” her mother said, piercing her with her gaze. “Did you manage to get in touch with Junior? Ted was asking whether you two had connected after the Kirkland Awards. From what I understand, Junior was very keen to see you again.”

“Yes, he called,” Cameron admitted. “But we weren’t able to make anything work for the next couple of weeks.”

“Oh,” Clarissa said, obviously disappointed. “Well, do give him a call back. He is such a nice young man.”

Cameron made a noncommittal noise in her throat. Last week, she’d had a taste of what she thought of as real life. Complicated, noisy, and pulsing with energy. The night of the Schoolhouse’s opening, someone had actually climbed up on a chair and serenaded Sebastian and his food with a marvelous Italian aria. If she could have sung, she would have, the food was that good. There was a dish she’d tried—a salt cod brandade, salty and rich—so unlike the bland baked chicken she was currently eating. She’d wanted more, but it had passed by too quickly. Cameron could still taste the brandade on her tongue and Val’s kiss on her lips. She wanted more of that, too. The way he slanted his mouth over hers and tasted. Savored her, as if she were a fine wine. In public, he always held himself back. But his public restraint was blasted out of the water in private, when he unleashed himself fully, for her. That was the most exciting thing of all.

The vibrancy of that evening had carried her through the entire week. Putting her here, in her parents’ formal dining room, somewhere she truly wished she weren’t. She wanted to be with Val, back in Star Harbor, so badly.

It was a moment before she realized her mother was still talking. “… and definitely go back to Alessandro this week, Cameron. Whatever he’s been doing to your hair isn’t working. You look … messy.”

With a start, she realized she hadn’t been to see her stylist in over a month, the longest she’d ever gone without an appointment. It had been on her to-do list, but somehow it had slipped off her radar, along with her bimonthly manicure. She glanced down at her nails. The polish on her index finger was actually chipped. Chipped! Quickly, she slid her hand under the table, not really sure whether she was hiding her offending finger from Clarissa or herself.

“I’ll do that, Mother,” she said. Clarissa nodded, and when she focused her attentions on poor Cecile, Cameron zoned out, imagining what she’d have Alessandro do. She knew just what kind of cut she wanted … something long and loose that she didn’t have to manage every four weeks. Something less sleek and more natural. And her highlights had to go. She’d go back to her solid raven black. It might not be as stylish, but it would be more freeing.

All of a sudden, she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her chest. She took a peek at her chipped nail. That she had to fix. But perhaps she’d choose a less sedate color. Debutante pink was getting old. Maybe she’d try some of those new gels she’d heard about, too. It would be nice not to have to worry about getting a manicure every week.

She lifted her gaze. Nigel was watching her with a curious expression.

“Everything all right?” he asked. “You looked strange for a minute there.”

“It’s nothing,” she said, shaking her head. “So tell me, Uncle Nigel, what have you really been up to? Aside from squiring the world’s most desirable women to parties and dinners, that is?” She gave him a little smile.

Nigel returned the favor, his blue eyes crinkling at the edges. “Since you asked so nicely, I’ll tell you. Those keys your friends found in Star Harbor have intrigued me.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Uncle Nigel. I thought they might be a set. Did you have the same impression?” The keys Nigel was talking about were found by Lexie Meyers, Avery Newbridge, and Julie Kensington. It was less of a coincidence than Cameron had originally thought, once she’d done some research and determined that each of the buildings owned or used by the women were of historical significance.

“Yes. It’s highly probable they are a set, and that’s what makes them even more interesting.” He lowered his voice. “I’ve been doing some more research into the Siren Lorelei. Over the years, a few pieces reputed to be from the Lorelei have popped up here and there. Their provenance is suspect—after all, the wreck is still missing—and they rarely get to market. However, I believe that these keys did come from the wreck, and that they would be of great interest to historians and collectors. And to me.”

“Uncle Nigel, are you going on a treasure hunt?” she teased.

Nigel merely looked thoughtful. “Funny you should use those words. My whole business is just that … treasure hunting. Just like you, I spend my time searching for items of value. Things I think are beautiful and worthy, but typically, they are objects that are of interest to others. Sometimes of great interest. And so I sell them. After all, it is my job.” He looked pointedly at Clarissa, who was still browbeating Cecile. “All this talk of the Lorelei has gotten me to thinking about searching for items for myself. Now they might not end up being items salvaged from a shipwreck, but this is the first time in a long time I’ve been intrigued by a collection.” He laughed. “A collection I’m not even sure exists.”

“You wouldn’t be the first to be bitten by the bug. I believe one of Star Harbor’s historians, Branford Weld, is also interested in the Siren Lorelei.” Theo Grayson had mentioned it the last time she’d run into him and Avery at the LMK. “I believe Mr. Weld is also a history professor at Boston College. You might consider talking to him.”

“I know Bran, actually. He belongs to one of my clubs,” Nigel said, sounding thoughtful. “I had no idea he was so interested in the Lorelei. I’ll have to set up a lunch.”

“Do that,” Cameron encouraged. “And perhaps you’d like to come visit me in Star Harbor. To do some on-site research?”

“Yes,” he said with a laugh, “I have been promising to visit you for a while. This might be a good time to come. Shall I bring the keys?”

“Please. I know you’ve enjoyed studying them, but I think my friends might want them back.”

Nigel sighed. “And here I was, hoping to keep them indefinitely.”

“If you really want to study them more, I can ask. I’m sure the ladies won’t mind.”

“No, no. I’d be remiss if I didn’t return them to their rightful owners. I’ll email you the weekends I’m free.”

“Sounds just fine,” Cameron said with a smile.

“What’s that you’re talking about?” Clarissa interjected. “I do hate work talk at the table, don’t I, Frederick?”

“You do, dear,” her father replied.

“Then we’d best stop talking,” Nigel said. “So we don’t upset you.”

Cameron looked at her mother to find her mouth pinched in clear disapproval. “We could talk about the Symphony Board planning meeting I’m attending next week,” she offered. “The fundraising event is coming up quickly and we have a lot of work to do to finalize our plans.”

“Ah, yes,” Clarissa said, visibly relaxing. “That would be much better.”

Of course it would. Cameron took a deep breath, sighed, and went back to her bland, under-salted chicken.