two days a week allowed Selena to fill those special orders.
The nightmare that had sent her fleeing California to South Carolina was now a distant memory. Living and working in Charleston was like being reborn. She didn’t have to look over her shoulder every time she left her house, or glance through the peephole whenever the doorbell rang.
She’d claimed a new city and state as her home. She had a new career and had set up a new business. Not only did Selena think her of herself as lucky—she believed she was blessed.
A hint of a smile softened Xavier’s lips as he strolled out of Sweet Persuasions and down the block to the antiques shop. The past four months had become a summer of firsts. He had purchased his first house and he’d become a teacher.
He’d had second thoughts about relocating to Charleston after accepting the teaching position. But now that he’d moved into his house and settled into teaching military history, he felt as if he’d come home. Xavier was also rediscovering his adopted city—a city with a troubled past and a bright future.
He opened the door to the antiques shop, glancing at the unorthodox greeter sitting on a perch and staring at him from inside a large birdcage. “We have a visitor,” squawked the colorful parrot. “What’s your name?”
“Willie, I’ve told you about asking people their names,” admonished a woman with fashionably coiffed hair the color of moonlight. The elegantly attired shopkeeper smiled at Xavier. “Good morning, Mr. Eaton. You’re going to have to forgive Willie this morning. It’s as if he’s forgotten his home training.”
“He’s forgiven,” Xavier mumbled under his breath.
He wanted to tell Charlotte Burke that her pet needed more than home training. Willie needed to be at home. The first time he’d visited the shop he was treated to a monologue peppered with salty language that left Mrs. Burke red with embarrassment.
Charlotte Burke sighed. She’d given Willie a lengthy lecture as soon as she’d removed the cover from the cage earlier that morning. Her scolding had continued while she cleaned the cage and gave the parrot food and water. Willie had learned his colorful language from her husband, who claimed he could say whatever he wanted within the confines of his home. What Walter Burke had refused to acknowledge was that although there were no small children in the house, the parrot repeated everything he said.
She smiled at the incredibly gorgeous man, who made her wish that she was at least thirty years younger so she could flirt with him. Fortunately for her, she was married, and she wasn’t a cougar like some of her friends.
“You’re not teaching today?”
Xavier pulled his gaze away from what had become a stare down with the foulmouthed bird. Charlotte Burke’s cornflower-blue eyes matched her pantsuit exactly. The strand of South Sea pearls around her neck coordinated with the pearl studs in her ears. Her face, unlike her hands, was wrinkle-free, leading him to believe she’d had some work done.
“Today’s a school holiday.”
The Christopher Munroe Military Academy, a college preparatory school for grades eight through twelve, had opened its doors to day and boarding students ninety years ago with just fourteen young men. The school’s population had changed dramatically over the years with the acceptance of students of color and females, expanding to include grades one through twelve.
“That is so nice,” Charlotte crooned, her Southern drawl more pronounced than usual. She pressed her palms together. “If you come with me, I’ll show what I picked up at the estate sale.”
Xavier followed her to a table with a collection of silver and crystal pieces. “How old is this one?” He’d pointed to a heavily decorated silver teapot.
Reaching for a square of felt, Charlotte handed him the pot. “It was made by Samuel Kirk & Son in the mid-nineteenth century. Throughout the late nineteenth-century Kirk specialized in flatware and hollowware with heavy repoussé work or chasing that resembles neo-Rococo. If you turn the pot over you’ll see that it’s signed.”
“What is chasing?” he asked.
“It is a surface decoration drawn on the piece and then the decorator hammers it with a blunt, ballpoint chisel to distort the surface to achieve the desired effect without removing any metal.”
“Amazing,” Xavier said in a quiet voice. He set the teapot on the table, and picked up a coffeepot.
“That one is a silver Hallmark English coffeepot. It was made around 1767.”
“I’ll take the coffeepot, the teapot and the matching service pieces.”
Charlotte nodded, staring at the length of lashes touching the top of Xavier Eaton’s cheekbones. “What about the crystal?” She was hoping to sell him most of the silver and the crystal.
Reaching into a back pocket of his slacks, he took out a credit card. “I’m not sure what crystal pattern my sister would like, so I’m going to pass on it. But I know for certain that she’s partial to silver.”
“You’ve selected some very fine pieces.” A slight frown appeared on Charlotte’s face. “Didn’t you tell me you’re a history teacher?”
“Yes.” Xavier had had a lengthy conversation with her when he’d first visited her shop. She was aware that he’d graduated from The Citadel, and that he’d returned to Charleston to teach part-time at a military school. A smile parted her lips, the gesture reminding him of a Cheshire cat.
“I have something I believe would be of interest to you.”
His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “What is it?”
“You’ll see,” Charlotte said in singsong voice.
His curiosity piqued, Xavier watched as the antiques dealer put on a pair of white-cotton gloves and placed a leather pouch on the table. She took out a tattered clothbound journal and then another that was equally worn. “These are the journals written by a freeman of color who fought with the Union army in the War Between the States.”
He wanted to correct Mrs. Burke by telling her that the official term was the Civil War, but knew that the Confederate loss was a sore point with most Southerners. She opened the journal, turning the pages as if she were handling a newborn. Some of the entries were written in pencil and others in ink. Incredibly, most of the writing was legible.
Xavier leaned over the table. “If you don’t mind my asking, where did you get these?”
Charlotte gave him a sidelong glance. “I found them.”
“You just happened to find journals that are more than one hundred fifty years old?”
A flush suffused the woman’s face. “I really didn’t find them. But, I promised the woman who gave them to me that I wouldn’t divulge her name. She was cleaning out her house and she found them in a trunk in her attic. The trunk belonged to the great-grandmother of a woman who used to clean her grandmother’s house.”
Xavier tried to process what he’d just been told. “Why did she give them to you rather than a museum or historical society?”
Charlotte’s flush deepened. “She said the memories were too painful and she just wanted them out of her house.”
Realization dawned for him. Journals, if authenticated, that could be worth five or six figures at auction were given away like a bundle of old newspapers. “How much do you want for them?”
“I can’t sell them.”
A shiver of annoyance snaked its way up Xavier’s back. “If you don’t intend to sell them, then why show them to me?”
“That’s because I want to give them to you.”
He went completely still. “Do you have any idea what these are worth?”
Charlotte shook her head. “No, and I don’t want to know. You teach