her arms around his neck, and Jimmy returned the embrace, cautiously at first, then with more enthusiasm. Twenty years since he’d last held her, but the fit felt like it was yesterday. They were nearly the same height; her full breasts pressed into his chest as she hugged him tight, then tighter still. She wore a different perfume than he remembered, but he liked it. He liked everything about having Emma Mae Garrett this close.
When he finally forced himself to ease back, Emma let him go until just their hands touched. He searched her face in the streetlight’s glare, seeing again the clear, pale skin, dusted with freckles, the deep peach of her mouth, the bright blue eyes. For a second he was seventeen again, starting the best summer of his life.
But the past was…just the past. With a wrench, Jimmy pulled his thoughts to the present. “This isn’t the safest part of town to stand around in after dark. Come inside.” Taking her hand, noticing its softness, he led Emma across the street and into The Indigo.
One of the edgier jazz bands was playing tonight, the music hard and loud. Smoke hovered in the air and he heard Emma cough as the fog caught her by the throat. The place was full, especially for a Tuesday. He threaded his way through the crowd without letting go of her hand, stopped at the bar long enough to order them both a drink, then headed for his office.
“Sorry about that.” He leaned back against the closed door. All they could hear now was the pulse of the bass and the drums. “Things get kind of loud out there.”
Smiling, Emma shook her head, and a curl of red-gold hair escaped to bounce on her neck. “It’s wonderful music.” Her English accent was as elegant as he remembered.
“You still like jazz?”
“I dropped it for a few years. Then came to my senses.”
“Nothing’s quite the same, is it?”
“Nothing.” They looked at each other for a second, while the air got tighter, harder to breathe. Jimmy thought about the beat-up truck he’d owned that summer two decades ago, about popping an Ellington tape into the player and sitting with his arm around Emma, watching the sun disappear behind the mountains. About the things they’d learned together in that truck, in the dark…
“Have a seat,” he said abruptly. Looking relieved, Emma sank into the recliner in the corner while he rounded his desk. Before he could sit down, there was a knock on the door.
“Drinks, boss.” Darren McGuire, the club’s server, set a tonic water on the table beside Emma and a whiskey at Jimmy’s right hand. “Anything else?”
Jimmy consulted Emma. “Would you like a sandwich? Nachos? The variety’s not great, but we can feed you.”
She leaned forward to pick up the tonic. “Actually, I haven’t eaten since my flight left New York at nine this morning. I’d love a bite—something simple.”
He nodded at Darren. “Ask Hank to give us the best he’s got.”
The young man raised an eyebrow. “That’s not much.” He caught sight of Jimmy’s frown. “I’m going. I’m going.”
Shaking his head, Jimmy dropped into his chair. “God save me from wisecracking waiters.” He took a drink of whiskey, just for something to do. After twenty years, after anticipating this meeting for five long days, he suddenly didn’t know how to act.
The direct approach usually worked best. “So…your e-mail was kinda mysterious. You said when you were coming here, but not why.”
After a pause, while she stared into her glass and he stared at her, Jimmy said, “Emma? Do you want some gin with the tonic? Vodka?”
She jumped a little. “Oh. No. This is fine. I’m simply trying to decide how to begin.”
“Sounds bad.”
“It is, in a way.” Her gaze came to his face. “My father had prostate cancer. He died three months ago at home in England.”
The ground dropped out from beneath Jimmy’s feet for a minute. It was always a shock when someone you knew—and liked—was gone. “That’s…I’m sorry. He was a really good man.”
“Yes.” She looked at her hands, set down the glass of tonic.
Another long silence. “Are you here because of your dad?”
“Yes. I don’t know why I’m making this so difficult.” She drew a deep breath. “Before he died, my father asked me to find you. And when I found you, he wanted me to bring you a bequest.”
“He shouldn’t have bothered.” Jimmy resisted the urge to loosen his tie, though his collar felt a little tight all at once.
“But he did.” She reached into her large leather purse and drew out a polished wooden box, four inches square, two inches deep. “The gift is inside. I don’t know what it is—there’s a seal I didn’t want to break.” She showed him the blob of gold wax over the catch on the side.
“Emma, I don’t need—”
She got to her feet and crossed to the desk, picked up his hand and placed the box on his palm. “It’s yours. He wanted you to have it.”
He felt her touch deep in his chest. “Okay, okay. We’ll see what’s inside.”
“This isn’t any of my business.” She backed toward the door. “I’ll leave you alone.”
“No way.” He reached across and caught her wrist. “We’re doing this together. Sit down.”
He waited until she took the straight-backed chair on the other side of the desk, then pulled out his pocketknife and flipped open the blade. The sharp tip slipped easily underneath the seal and pried it off in one piece.
He closed the knife and set it aside, then sat staring at the box. Walnut, he thought, inlaid with two lighter woods in an angular, mazelike pattern. “Well, here goes.” He thumbed the hook free and eased the top back on its hinges.
Clean, soft sheepskin filled the shallow cavity, cushioning a silver disk as wide as the box. He picked up the medallion for a closer look. Inlaid with gold and silver and different shades of turquoise, the piece felt heavy in his hand.
“What is it?” Emma asked softly.
Jimmy shook his head. “Hell if I know.” Fine engraving combined with the inlay to create a sunrise over mountains.
Emma stirred. “There’s something in the lid.”
Laying the disk on its nest, Jimmy pulled the folded sheet of paper out of the box’s top and spread it open. Bold handwriting in fountain-pen ink covered the page.
Jimmy,
You may remember Joseph Hobson, an elder of your tribe on the reservation in South Dakota. After a chance meeting in Africa as college students, he and I corresponded for many years; my work with the Sioux language and traditions owed much to the friendship between us. When I left the United States and returned to England the last time, he knew we would not see each other again in this life. This medallion was his parting gift to me. He did not know where or by whom it was made, only that he’d received it from his father,
