Chapter 2 - The Silver Locket in Her Pocket
“Then perhaps your staff can move our plates to the back room,” I said, keeping my voice low so Sophie wouldn’t hear the tremor of anger beneath it. “Right after you explain to an eight-year-old why her clothes aren’t good enough to look at the river.”
Claire Whitmore did not flinch, though her fingers twitched against the leather binder she carried under her arm. She was in her early forties, dressed in a charcoal suit tailored so sharply it looked like armor.
“Mr.…?” she prompted, waiting for a name she clearly believed wouldn’t matter.
“Daniel,” I said. I left off Mercer. When Rebecca and I had incorporated Hearthstone Hospitality Group nineteen years ago, we had named it after the fireplace in our first tiny diner, not ourselves. Only the executive board and the original head chefs knew my face. Claire had been hired six months ago by our regional director, Arthur Vance, while I was taking time off to help Sophie through the first brutal year after her mother’s passing.
“Mr. Daniel,” Claire said, her tone smoothing into the practiced condescension of someone trained to handle difficult problems quietly. “Bellweather House is hosting a private investor tasting along this window wall at six-thirty. The hostess was new. She made an error seating you here. If you relocate to the service bar corridor now, I will take twenty percent off your check.”
Sophie looked down at her blue-and-purple turtle. She pulled her legs up under her chair, trying to hide her sneakers. They were scuffed pink canvas shoes—the last pair Rebecca had bought her before the hospital stays began. Sophie refused to wear anything else on Fridays.
“We aren’t in anyone’s way,” Sophie whispered, so softly the clinking silverware at the next table almost drowned her out.
Claire’s eyes flicked toward the front lobby, and for the first time, I saw something beneath her arrogance. Not just snobbery. Fear. Her jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle jumped near her ear. She wasn’t just protecting the restaurant’s image; she was terrified of whoever was coming in at six-thirty.
“I don’t have time to debate policy,” Claire said, stepping closer and lowering her voice to a hiss. “My regional director is walking through that door in ten minutes with the buyers. You have two minutes to gather your things and move, or I will have security escort you to the parking lot.”
Buyers.
The word hit me harder than the insult about my boots. Bellweather House wasn’t for sale. It was Rebecca’s flagship design—from the reclaimed barnwood beams overhead to the riverbank view where she had sketched the original floor plan on the back of a grocery receipt.
Before I could respond, Claire waved a hand toward the host stand. A broad-shouldered man in a dark suit stepped forward. He was young, maybe twenty-five, and looked deeply uncomfortable as he approached our table.
“Ma’am?” the security guard asked.
“Marcus, assist this gentleman and his daughter with their coats,” Claire said briskly. “They’re leaving.”
Sophie’s lower lip trembled. She reached out to grab her purple crayon, her small elbow bumping Claire’s leather binder. The binder slipped from Claire’s grip, hitting the edge of our table and spilling a sheaf of glossy cardstock menus and a small, heavy object onto the white linen tablecloth.
It didn’t roll far. It stopped right beside Sophie’s plate of cut chicken.
It was an oval silver locket on a broken chain, engraved with a tiny, intricate compass rose on the front.
My breath caught in my throat.
I knew that locket. I had bought it at an estate jeweler in Boston twelve years ago for Rebecca’s thirty-fifth birthday. Inside the clasp was a microscopic engraving: Always Home — D & R. And it wasn’t supposed to be in Claire Whitmore’s binder. For the past two years, it had been locked inside the private mahogany wall safe in the founder’s office upstairs—an office that was supposed to remain sealed since Rebecca died.
Sophie stared at it, her eyes widening. “Dad… that’s Mom’s.”
She reached for it instinctively.
Claire’s hand shot out and snatched the locket off the tablecloth before Sophie’s fingers could touch it. Her manicured nails scraped the linen. For a fraction of a second, the manager’s composure shattered completely, her face draining of color as she stared at my daughter.
“Don’t touch things that don’t belong to you,” Claire snapped, shoving the locket deep into her trouser pocket.
I stood up slowly. At six-foot-two, my shadow fell completely across her. Marcus, the security guard, took a half-step forward, his hand raised slightly, though he looked at my face and hesitated.
“Where did you get that locket, Ms. Whitmore?” I asked.
“That is none of your business,” Claire said, stepping back. “Marcus, remove them. Now.”
“Actually, Claire, I don’t think Marcus needs to do anything,” a smooth, familiar voice called out from the archway of the main dining room.
We all turned. Walking toward us, flanked by two men in expensive gray overcoats I didn’t recognize, was Arthur Vance—my regional director, and the man who had stood beside me at Rebecca’s funeral and promised to protect her legacy as if it were his own.
May you like
Arthur looked directly at me. For a split second, his eyes widened in sheer panic. Then, before I could say his name, Arthur looked past me at Claire and spoke first.
“Claire, why is this contractor still in the dining room?” Arthur asked coldly, looking me dead in the eye as if he had never seen me before in his life. “I told you the repair crew was supposed to use the loading dock.”
