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She smelled of wildflowers. Once on a training mission he’d crawled on his belly through a whole field of the things. He would never forget the scent. “Well?” he prompted when she seemed reluctant to respond.
“I’m still thinking.”
“There’s nothing to think about. The stuff belongs to me. I’ll pay you whatever you paid—double it, for your trouble—but one way or another, I’m taking those boxes with me.”
“Who was Bess Powers to you?”
“What?”
“I’ve been reading her diaries. She was a writer, too. Actually that’s only one of the things we have in common. She wrote novels and travel pieces for a newspaper under the name E. M. Powers, but I know it was Bess, because she covers some of the same material in her diaries. Did you know that back in those days women weren’t allowed to do much of anything? But she did it, anyway. Did you know she was raised at sea aboard her father’s ship? Well, of course you did—after all, she had to be kin to you if your name really is Powers.”
If his name really was Powers? “What the devil—you think I’m lying about my identity?”
“Not necessarily. I don’t have any proof, though, do I? That you’re who you say you are.”
Easy, man—no matter how tempting that elegant neck of her looks, you probably can’t get away with strangling her. “I believe she might have been my, uh, great-great-aunt or something.” He’d been too young when he’d heard his father talking about his seafaring ancestors to remember much about them. His father had been merchant marine, off and on. After they’d split up, his mother claimed his father had walked out on them, but they’d been the ones to leave—she’d told him at the time they were going on an adventure. When he’d cried to go home again—a hotel hadn’t seemed like a great adventure once the novelty wore off—she’d said they weren’t going back, she didn’t want to hear any more about it, and that she knew best. After that she’d refused to allow his name to be mentioned. Hurt, angry and bewildered, Curt had simply wanted his father back. Wanted his old life back. Not until years later had snatches of the old stories he’d heard as a child come back, usually triggered by some experience in his own life. By then he wasn’t sure how much was true and how much was a combination of wishful thinking and imperfect memory.
Now, figuring it would be to his advantage to claim kinship with anyone mentioned in any of the papers, he said, “Sure she was kin to me. They all were—all the people in those papers. That’s why I want them back, they’re the only record I have.”
“What about the Black Swan?”
His eyes narrowed. “What do you know about the Swan?”
“I’ve been reading. Mostly Bess’s things, but some of the other stuff, too. It’s not easy reading. I mean, sure, your ancestors were literate and all that, but I’ve got to tell you, except for Bess’s stuff, it’s pretty heavy going.”
“Why waste your time and effort? I’ll reimburse you and take the boxes off your hands and you can get on with your life.” He waited. “Best offer. Take it or leave it.”
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