Only, I wasn’t sure where exactly that was. Inside was a newspaper clipping from the New York Times Style section. A photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley in formal wear was accompanied by the headline, “Kingsley Diamond Debut, Fit for the Crown Jewels.” The article was short, just a couple of lines about the stone and how rare red diamonds were. The twenty-five carat gem was discovered in one of the Kingsley’s mines, an extraordinary find. Apparently the ginormous red diamond had been unearthed five years before, but only revealed to the world in the last twelve months. It had taken quite some time for the fastidious cleaning and cutting of it, preserving every millimeter possible. Mr. Kingsley desired the diamond to be set in a piece of jewelry worthy of its beauty before it was debuted, and jewelers from all over the world flew in to show him what they would do. Finally, he’d required “a model as exquisite and brilliant as the stone itself to display it,” or so the paper quoted him as saying. So, at the annual Kingsley Foundation charity event the previous year, Mrs. Kingsley had arrived with the red diamond and pearl necklace prominently displayed around her throat.
The diamond was gorgeous. Even in a grainy newspaper photo, it glittered like the North Star. I couldn’t help but admire it, be impressed by it. Something about the rich crimson color, enhanced by the pure white pearls suspending the stone, made me shiver, though. I couldn’t put my finger on the cause, but just looking at it made me feel dirty. Maybe it was the fact that a mineral, a stone dug up from dirt, was worth enough money to feed the country in which it was found, where people died of starvation every day, for years on end. The thought left me nauseated.
I opened several more of the plain, white envelopes, and tried to forget that I was forgoing my job search to help a girl who was the sole heir to a billion dollar diamond fortune. Meanwhile, I couldn’t even afford college tuition. Three more envelopes all held clippings related to the Kingsley Diamond and its many outings. The damned thing got more press than a Kardashian. I wouldn’t have been surprised to open one of those trashy magazines the K girls used to reign over, to find that the diamond had taken their place. For the column, “Stars, they’re just like us!” the diamond would be there, being cleaned, with the heading, “See, they take baths, too!” In general, the articles I now had were just like those magazines; they lacked any substance. Just a bunch of fluff about how much the diamond was worth, how rare the color was, how beautiful the necklace was, the same stuff, over and over.
Like the poem, I felt certain the articles were important in Lark’s grand scheme. I just didn’t know why, and the longer I stared at pictures of the stupidly expensive stone, the more disgusted by humanity I became. So, I stacked the articles and pushed them aside in favor of the bank letters. Or, rather, as I soon found out, the bank statements. Lark had rented a safety deposit box at First National under her assumed identity.
Odd, I thought, don’t you need identification to rent a safety deposit box? Not that I’d ever tried, but it sort of seemed like the kind of thing the bank would want before letting someone store stuff there. I mean, you had to show ID to get a library card these days. Maybe Lark had a fake ID, I thought. A good one was probably pretty easy to come by in New York, particularly when you had a lot of money.
From the statements, I could tell the monthly fee was being paid automatically from a savings account. Besides the name of the bank, also First National, and the last four digits of the account number, there was nothing more I could glean from the statements. I’d never wanted to be a computer geek more than I did in that moment. Then, I’d be able to figure out where the money was coming from, and if that account was under Lark’s real name or her fake one, and whether or not it was being used for anything else.
Calling the authorities crossed my mind again. Tracing Lark’s savings account was the type of thing they were equipped to do. Activity on the account could lead them to her. Although, if she was alive and in hiding, which was the likeliest scenario if she was using her account, she obviously didn’t want to be found. If that was the case, that she’d simply fled, she’d gone through a lot of trouble to escape undetected. And if she’d been apprehended, this bank account wouldn’t tell the police anything they didn’t already know.
“No cops,” I announced to the empty apartment.
My stomach growled, reminding me that I’d skipped breakfast. I’d be skipping a lot of meals soon if I didn’t find a way to pay for food. So far, Asher had insisted on paying for our dinners together. I could have overanalyzed his thoughtful gesture, and mistaken his kindness for romantic interest, but I wasn’t really getting those vibes from him. It was more likely that he knew how poor I was, and considered my meals charitable donations. After all, he was all about helping the needy. Taking advantage of his too big heart couldn’t go on forever, though. So, I set my Lark stuff aside and resigned myself to an afternoon of job hunting. I opened the Post, pulled out the Classifieds section, and tossed the rest of it on the coffee table.
Using a pen from my messenger bag, I circled every listing that said, “No experience necessary.” That was basically my only requirement for a job. This amounted to ten leads. Just as I was reaching for my phone on the table, I noticed the headings under the crossword puzzle at the very back of the paper.
Across. Down.
Two lips across mine. Ten fingers down my spine. No space between us.
“No way,” I muttered.
The more I thought about it, the more I believed the poem referred to crosswords clues. I felt like a child who’d just found the prize at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box. My elation quickly subsided, as the reality of the situation sunk in. There was no way to know what crossword she was referring to. I mean, was it the Post or the Times? Or maybe some small publication, like the Queen’s Gazette? Or the Columbia Heights Daily?
No, definitely something widely accessible, I decided. She wanted the clues to be decipherable. The crossword I needed would be somewhere I could find it, like online or at the library in microfiche. Did libraries still keep stuff on microfiche? Only one way to find out: next stop, the public library. Best part? I finally understood the significance of the day of her life Lark wanted me to emulate: September 23rd, the day she’d come to D.C. on the train.
For the bargain price of thirty-nine dollars roundtrip, there is a bus will take you from New York City’s Chinatown to Washington, D.C.’s Chinatown. You can’t beat that, right? WRONG. I’d made the mistake of being economical once, and never again. Not only was the bus overcrowded, hot, and deafeningly loud, with the pungent odor of egg rolls, the luggage compartment underneath had been filled with TVs, stereos, and other expensive electronics. I’d watched them load it all up while waiting to board. It was a pretty safe bet they’d fallen off the back of a truck somewhere, so the whole ride I just kept picturing the police pulling the bus over and busting the lot of us. I could picture the headline: Lark Kingsley, Arrested for Transporting Stolen Goods Across State Lines. My mother would die of shame. Literally.
I rubbed my fingers down the velvety cloth of the seat I was currently sitting in, shuddering slightly as I thought of the sticky plastic material that had covered the bus’s seats. The smooth ride, the comfortable temperature, the lack of abusive odors, these seemingly small luxuries of the train made it a hugely favorable alternative to bumping along Interstate 95 down to the Nation’s Capital. Sure, it was four times the price. But it was worth every extra penny.
Without warning, the masculine hand atop the armrest next to me covered the small distance and wrapped warm fingers around mine. Another shiver went through me, this one of pure pleasure. Every single touch just felt so right. I hadn’t even known that was truly possible. Romance novels claimed the busty beautiful heroine melted every time her brooding lover turned his smoldering dark gaze on her; I’d chalked up the fantasy to good fiction – until Blake. His touch did make my insides gooey as liquid chocolate. And I did feel the desire burning in his gorgeous gaze when it met mine. Blake looked at me as if
I was the most beautiful girl in the world. What really made my knees go weak, though, was the love he felt secure enough to put on display. No one had ever loved me the way Blake did. And the feelings were mutual. I loved him so much that my heart almost ached sometimes from the overload of emotion.
I turned from the window and my ruminations to where Blake sat next to me. I grinned like an idiot before snuggling my head down into the crook of his shoulder. If I could just have this, this peace, this calm, this lack of pretense forever, I’d die a happy woman.
He kissed the top of my head, his lips lingering against my hair a moment before he spoke. “I need to use the little boys’ room; we’re going to be there in just a few minutes.”
I sat up and smiled again, brushing my lips across his soft mouth in reply. He stood and began making his way down the aisle, moving steadily and confidently despite the movement of the train. As soon as he was out of sight, I reached down into the bag at my feet and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was silly, and kind of cheesy, but I loved hiding notes for him to find later. This one went into the side pocket of his messenger bag, tucked within the Welcome folder from Georgetown. I pictured him finding it when he took out the folder to check his itinerary, or consult the campus map, and couldn’t help but giggle. Blake always called or sent a text as soon as he found one of my short messages to him.
Lately, I’d been on a themed kick, entitling the first of the series “10 Things I Love About You (Because There’s Nothing I Hate).” It was a little before my time, but I loved the Julia Stiles and Heath Ledger film, and knew Blake would appreciate the homage. The one I’d just hidden was Number Four: How you make me feel like anything is possible, as long as we’re together.
Of course, if our parents had their respective ways, in just under a year we wouldn’t be in the same city. It’s not that they were trying to keep us apart or anything – they would have to know we were together first – they just had their own agendas for our futures. With my parents’ plans for me including Columbia and Blake’s father expecting him to attend his alma mater, Georgetown, we were dealing with a slight hurdle. I didn’t let this get me down though, I had no doubts that we would figure it out. Our entire relationship was tricky and required delicate maneuvering. School next year was just par for the course, another obstacle for us to overcome together.
“You are so cute when you’re deep in thought. You scrunch up your nose,” Blake declared as he slid back into his seat. He kissed the tip of my nose, before moving down to my lips. We were the only two in an alcove meant for six, so when he hesitantly deepened the kiss, I went with it. He sighed and tangled his fingers in my hair, his other hand slipping around my waist to draw me as close as the arm rests would allow.
Before our make out session had even reached a PG–13 rating, chimes dinged overhead, and an automated voice announced, “Now approaching our final destination: Union Station, Washington, D.C.”
“Thwarted by the bell again,” Blake declared as we broke apart.
We both laughed. Because our secret relationship was, well, secret, our more intimate encounters were constantly interrupted. It happened so often that it was genuinely comical.
Blake’s hand was now cupping my cheek. His eyes searched mine as his thumb moved gently against my skin. Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he leaned towards me again. This time when his lips found mine, the kiss was softer but just as heart-stopping as the first. Only the abrupt stopping of the train ended our hold on each other. Blake brought our joined hands to his lips and kissed each knuckle, making the chaste gesture incredible intimate. Using the other hand, he scooped up both of our overnight bags, and we disembarked just like that. His hold never faltered for a second. Sure, holding hands was something even ten-year-olds did during their playground romances. Unfortunately, we, teenagers on the precipice of adulthood, didn’t have the luxury of PDA of any sort at home. We never knew who might be watching, or walking by. The anonymity of being in an entirely different city as our friends and families was glorious.
Without stopping to consult any of the signs, Blake led me through the station, into a cavernous space where passengers were in varied states of hurry, and out into the sunshine. Ever the gentleman, Blake walked on the side nearest the street, passing a line of people waiting for taxis. A line of black Towncars sat idling several yards ahead. He paused briefly to peruse the men standing next to their vehicles. Each dark sedan was identical to the next, making it impossible to tell them apart, which was why the drivers all held signs bearing their passenger’s name in neat bold-faced type. Spotting Greyfield, Blake led me to the car his father had insisted on hiring for the weekend. The tall, thin driver wore black slacks and a white shirt, instead of the more formal suit and tie of his counterparts; he spotted us immediately.
“Good morning, folks. Blake?” His questioning gaze was friendly.
“Yes, sir. How are you doing today? Blake Greyfield.” Blake set our bags down and held out his free hand. The driver looked slightly taken aback by the gesture, but readily accepted the proffered handshake. “And this is Lark.”
I greeted the driver with a smile and a small wave to put him at ease since he looked slightly confused by my presence. This seemed to relax him, and he didn’t ask any questions.
“Nice to meet you both. I’m Calvin Goode, but my friends call me Cal. You’re welcome to do the same if you like. May I put your bags in the trunk?” he asked, already reaching for the overnight cases.
“That’d be great, Cal. Thank you,” Blake answered.
While Cal was doing that, Blake opened the rear passenger door for me. I got in and immediately slid to the far side, so he wouldn’t have to walk through the honking traffic in front of the train station. When we were both inside and settled, Blake was sitting in the middle of the seat, so our legs were touching.
“So, where are we headed?” Cal asked once he was behind the wheel.
“First, we’re going to take the beautiful Lark to the W Hotel, and then I’ll need to head over to Georgetown,” Blake replied.
“Your wish is my command, at least for the next two days.”
Traffic was light for a Saturday morning, especially compared to Manhattan. As we drove, I realized how different the two cities were. Here, trees lined many of the streets, and the buildings were short, completely unlike the mammoth skyscrapers of New York that obscured the sun and cast dark shadows over the bustling metropolis. Compared to our island of tightly packed steel and granite, the District felt as if it was wide open. You could actually breathe here. I’d been to D.C. on an eighth grade field trip, but hadn’t appreciated these small pleasures then. Maybe it was being with Blake. The world appeared different when we were together, as if he was my own personal pair of rose-colored glasses. Snuggling into Blake, I sighed in contentment and watched the buildings with their beautiful architecture passing by outside the window. I would’ve been happy driving around all day, tucked against his side. A few times I looked up and caught Cal smiling at us in the rear view mirror. There was no way to tell for sure, but I had a feeling he’d keep my presence here with Blake between the three of us.
Much too soon, we arrived at the W. Blake checked his watch as Cal unloaded our bags from the trunk and handed them over to a waiting porter. He was eyeing the nearby intersection, where the road we’d driven over on dead-ended into another one with only an occasional car driving by. Blake looked uneasy, glancing nervously at the light traffic.
“Don’t bother getting a cab, sweetie. Take the car. I don’t want you to be late for your lunch,” I told him, anticipating that Blake was about to insist Cal remain at my beck and call.
“No, no, you keep it in case you want to go somewhere.” Exactly as I thought, he never failed to be the perfect gentleman.
“Seriously, love, take it. I’m not planning on going anywhere in particular. I’ll probably just wander around for a bit, no biggie. The best way to sightsee is on foot, anyway. I honestly prefer it th
at way,” I said with a smile. I kissed him lightly before stepping away. “I know you have to get going. I’ll be fine, I promise.”
“Sir, we’ll be more than happy to order the lady a car or hail her a cab if she needs one,” the waiting porter offered.
“See? They’ve got me covered,” I said.
This seemed to mollify Blake, who stepped forward and kissed me again, reaching down to squeeze my hand as he did.
“I have my cell if you need anything. Anything at all. And I’m sure Cal has a card if you need him.” As if on cue, Cal stepped forward and produced two cards with his name, cell number, and the main line for the car service. He offered one to me and one to the porter.
“Have fun, sweetie,” I told Blake, squeezing his hand back before shooing him towards the door Cal was holding open.
Blake ducked his head to get in the car, and rolled down the window once inside. “See you tonight?”
I blew him a kiss in response.
The porter – his name tag read Mark, and I made a mental note to remember it – held the door open for me when I turned away from the departing car. I’m sure he thought we were more than a little dramatic; two kids in love who couldn’t stand to be apart. He smiled politely as I passed, but the jaded look in his eye told me what he really thought: It will never last. Poor Mark.
Entering the lobby, I paused to admire the glass-top bar immediately to my right. Despite the fact we were both only eighteen, I had no doubt the bartenders would serve us tonight should we decide to hang out down here. As unfair as it was, the Kingsleys, Vanderkams and Greyfields of the world were treated differently. Even here, in a city where my family’s every move wasn’t documented on Page Six, people would still recognize my last name. Maybe they’d begrudge me the fact that I’d been born into the “right” family, but that wouldn’t stop them from falling all over themselves to cater to my every whim. I didn’t kid myself, I knew the only reason people were extra nice to me was the hope I’d slip them large bills for their trouble. Whether or not you believe money makes the world go round, it certainly does grease the wheels, and a lot of outstretched palms. And for many, the name Kingsley was interchangeable with money. It wasn’t exactly the greatest thing ever.