The Last Treasure (11 page)

She spun to face him.
“Wait,”
she said. “You were supposed to wait for me to come home. Did you think I wasn't coming back?”

“How do I know what to think?” He came toward her, looking utterly stricken, his hazel eyes huge and sad behind his glasses. “You lied to me about who you were going with, where you were going. Someone broke into your car and campus police called me when you didn't answer.”

He sat down on the bed and slouched forward, his hands between his knees. He pushed up his glasses and swiped his eyes with his thumb.

His voice was thin with defeat. “Sometimes people don't come back, Livy. Sometimes you've had a fight about something and they go out for milk and you don't bother to tell them you're sorry or that you can't live without them because you're so sure they'll be right back.”

She sat beside him, the mattress rolling forward with their weight. “I'll always come back, Poppy.”

“You can't be sure. That's the worst part, really.” His hand slid toward hers, his fingers damp. “But you're home now. And it's good.”

•   •   •

M
orning arrived with a cold rain. Relentless sheets slid down the windows, darkening the kitchen as if someone had closed the shades, but Liv couldn't bear to turn on the lights. What did she need to see anyway? She knew the prison of this house and all the routines she'd tried—and failed—to escape. Making coffee, she heard the rumble of tires in the driveway and assumed it was someone visiting Mrs. Carlin. Then she saw the streak of mustard yellow through the curtain of rain, and panic exploded behind her ribs.

Sam.

For a moment, she thought she could just stay hidden and not answer. Then a terrible fear—that Sam would ring the doorbell and alert her father.

She rushed for the door and stepped out before he had reached the top of the stairs. He took them two at a time.

“Sam, what are you doing here?”

“Making sure you're okay—what do you think?” Rain dripped from the edge of his hood. He pushed it off his head, his dark eyes fraught. “I came back out and you were gone. We just figured you'd gone to the bathroom. We'd waited almost a half hour before Whit saw your note.”

Remorse coiled in her stomach. “How did you find me?”

“I have a friend who has a work-study job in the registrar's office. She looked your address up for me.” He sighed. “I don't even have your damn number.”

“I'm sorry.”

“But you're okay? Everything's okay?”

How to answer that?

Sam glanced over her shoulder. “Can I come in?”

“It's not a good idea. My father's . . . resting.”

“Is he sick?”

She shook her head. Where to even begin? The entire ride home from Hatteras, she'd imagined all the gentle ways she could frame her story to Sam without scaring him off or showing him what a fraud she was. That her father suffered from anxiety, and that sometimes he worried too much, that he wasn't a bad man, just desperately lonely and demanding. But no explanation seemed soft enough, reasonable enough. So she'd simply avoided the whole conversation.

Now, despite all her efforts to hide her truths from him, Sam Felder was here, on the threshold of her entire world, seeking to enter, and having no idea what he was about to step into.

Sam's eyes flicked past her again. “Does he need a doctor? Because we can call someone. I can take him to the hospital if it's bad.”

“It's not that kind of sick. He just gets . . . difficult.”

“Difficult?” Sam frowned. “I don't understand.”

She looked up at him. The rain had darkened his hair to a glossy chestnut. She wanted to be in that enormous bed with him again, close and warm and far, far away from here.

She sighed. “I told you I wasn't who you thought I was.”

“I remember,” he said. “And I told you I didn't care.”

“No—you said none of us are.”

He shrugged. “Same thing.” He shifted on his heels. “Have dinner with me tonight.”

Liv searched his earnest eyes, sure she would see a flash of teasing in them, but the deep brown pools remained even and sincere.

“Everyone's family is screwed up, Liv. Even mine.”

Somehow she doubted it. Still she was grateful to him for pretending otherwise.

“Dinner?” he asked again. “And this time, I'm not leaving without your number.”

OFF THE COAST OF TOPSAIL ISLAND, NORTH CAROLINA

Wednesday

“U
n-
fucking-
believable!”

Liv is sure the exclamation is born of joy when she hears Chuck's yell from across the deck, and she feels her heart soar, sure it's the bell, that they've recovered it already. Then she sees the older man rip off his mask and the pink of fury that covers his face like a rash. Seconds later, Sam climbs the ladder, then Whit, then Dennis, and they are all shouting at once, hurling fins and masks. Chuck lunges for Whit, and Sam and Dennis struggle to keep the two men apart.

Liv quickens her pace to reach the melee, dread rushing through her. What was she thinking? She should never have asked Sam to join them. They haven't even been in the water a half hour and already there's a fight. Whit has said something
stupid and hurtful and Sam has changed his mind and wants to leave—but then why are Dennis and Chuck angry too?

As she nears, Sam slips out of the group and catches her by the arm to stop her approach. He steers her away to the quiet of the lounge belowdecks.

His eyes are grim. “There's a grid line,” he says, low. “And two holes. Big ones.” He waits, maybe because he wants to make sure she's still breathing before he confirms it: “The wreck's already being recovered, Liv.”

She grips the top of the closest chair, sure her knees will give out if she doesn't hold on to something.

Oh no. No, no, no.

Above them, voices explode. Chuck and the younger crewmen march past, angry voices colliding. They want to talk to Sam and the moblike level of their rage scares Liv enough that she skirts around Sam to avoid them when they spill into the lounge. She needs to find Whit, but when she climbs the stairs, he is already there, coming toward her, wild-eyed and soaking.

“I don't understand,” she says. “How could they give you a license on a claimed site?” She is sure, so sure, this has just been a simple misunderstanding. But when Whit takes her by the arm to still her, her breath catches. She knows that metallic shade of blue his eyes turn when he's foundered.

The roughness of his voice leaves no doubt. “Warner told me I could have half of whatever we brought up.”

She jerks back, yanks herself out of his grip as if he has shaken her.

He knew it was someone else's site?

How long has he known?

“But—but the scans,” she says, frantic now. “The ones you took.”

“Warner took those, not me. He let me have copies.”

“Oh God . . .” She swallows, the coppery taste of dread lining her throat. No wonder he hadn't wanted her help with the paperwork—he'd never filed for any of it! How could he, when it wasn't free to claim? He had to know the men would find out he'd lied as soon as they dived—was he honestly so delusional that he thought he could talk his way out of it once they did?

Liv rolls against the side of the ship, her head swimming with understanding. The fight at the bar. He'd ruined it with Edwards on purpose. He knew this project was doomed and he'd gotten cold feet, so he'd tried to sabotage it at the last minute.

“What choice did I have, Red? We can't recover with scraps—we need a mother lode and Warner has one. You and I know it's almost impossible to get a license on a decent wreck anymore. We were desperate.”

“Not so desperate we had to break the law!”

“That's not what we're doing.”

“Isn't it? We have no paperwork, no permits. We've brought all these men out here on a lie.”

“Not a lie, Red—a misunderstanding. There's a difference.”

God, he really is delusional.

She darts around him, but he blocks her escape, both hands on her now, as if she's a wriggly fish he's trying to free from a hook. “I can fix this, Red. I'm taking the taxi boat with Dennis. I've got another boat on its way for the rest of you, but, baby,
you have to convince the guys to go back to the house and wait for me to make this right. You can't let them leave.”

She stares at him.
The crew?
That's who he's worried about leaving?

“It's too late,” she says tightly.

“Warner's just down the road in Southport—I can be there in two hours and I won't leave until he sees me and puts our deal in writing. I just need a few days to work this out. It's not too late.”

“I'm not talking about the project, Whit.”

Comprehension and hurt blink back at her. He knows what she means and for a second, she thinks he might admit it—that he really might lose her, that she might finally have had enough of his cut corners and broken promises—but he just pulls her in for a kiss and says, “I'll be back tonight.”

“I won't be here,” she calls after him.

She isn't sure if he hasn't heard her, or if he merely refuses to believe her—but in a matter of minutes, he's on the taxi boat and speeding away, leaving her in the storm of his mess.

•   •   •

O
n their way back to the marina, the uproar subsides. Maybe it is because Whit is gone, and the men have no one to rage at, but there's no relief in the silence. If anything, Liv finds the quiet more disconcerting than the cacophony of their anger. Everywhere she goes on the boat, she can feel the persistent hum of simmering fury, and it undoes her. She wants to find a solitary corner somewhere and hide, but she can't bear to sit still. Instead she goes down to one of the forward
staterooms and is relieved to find it empty. She walks to the bunk and falls into it, the smell of crisp sheets so sweet she wants to cry. This wasn't how it was supposed to be.

“I thought I'd find you here.”

Sam appears in the doorway with two cups. Liv sits up and gathers her hair into a twist. He takes a seat on the facing bunk and hands her a cup. Coffee. Clumps of powdered creamer float on the top. She normally can't bear anything but real cream, but today she has to keep herself from draining the cup in one sip, hoping the heat of the liquid will stop her incessant shivering. She's not even cold, dammit. Just angry. Just crushed.

“I was hoping to find you something a little stronger than coffee,” he says, and she can hear the faint smile in his voice, but she can't bear to meet his eyes. She knows how angry he must be that Whit has dragged them all out here on a fool's bargain.

She glances up at the ceiling. “It's so quiet.”

“I think I managed to calm the waters for now.”

Liv doesn't blame the men for being so enraged. Working under the policy of “no cure, no pay” means the crew's compensation will come from whatever treasure they find and not a daily wage. If the project was a bust, they'd have no income. Never mind that they weren't told they'd have to split whatever they brought up with another salvor, on top of what part of their haul the state is due.

She manages a small smile. “Thank you, Sam.”

“It's okay.”

“No, it's not. I don't know what to say. I'm so incredibly embarrassed right now.”

He frowns. “Embarrassed about what?”

He has to ask? “For this. For—for everything.” She gestures lamely around them. “For bringing you all the way down here falsely. For making you uproot your whole life. I'm so sorry.”

She stops a moment to study his face, waiting for anger to show in his eyes, the amber to darken to a deep brown, the space between his eyebrows to knit together. Unlike with Whit, Sam's emotions have always lived far below the surface of his features. Reading him isn't so unlike searching an ocean floor for buried treasure. Surely he's furious? After all, he's given up his work to help them, and this is what he gets? She doesn't understand how he can be so calm.

Even his voice is smooth, virtually untouched.

“It's not your fault, Liv.”

“Of course it is,” she says. “I never should have let Whit do all the paperwork. He insisted he had it all under control and now I know why he didn't want my help. I should have pressed him, but I was just so relieved that we finally had something real. I can't believe he went to Harold Warner, of all people.”

“Neither can I.”

A thunder of footsteps grows loud down the corridor.

Liv wants to curl up like a pill bug and roll away.

“Everybody but Chuck agreed to stick it out for a few more days,” Sam says. “I told them the house was paid for, the fridge stocked—so why waste it all? That seemed to settle them down a bit.”

“I assume you'll leave, though?”

“I told Whit I would.”

She nods, drawing up her cup and taking a long sip.

“Are you familiar with the Outer Banks Shipwreck Museum?” he asks.

She looks up at him, confused by the question. “The one that just opened in Nags Head?”

Sam nods. “Do you remember Beth Henson from ECU?”

“Of course.”

“She's the director there now. She e-mailed me a few weeks ago about a diary they've acquired, a diary written by Theodosia in the months after the
Patriot
disappeared.”

A ribbon of gooseflesh snakes down her spine. Her fingers tighten on the cup. “Are you serious?”

“Beth's offering me the chance to go through the entries before the museum makes an announcement to the public. I was planning to go while I'm here.” He looks at her squarely. “I was hoping you'd come with me.”

Liv stares at him, startled by the information, his invitation, and most of all the way her heart wants to burst out of her chest. Then she realizes it isn't just the news of a diary that has her heart racing—it's that now she understands why he has been so calm, why his anger has never surfaced.

Why he agreed to excavate a blockade runner when he knew they rarely contained gold.

Heat burns a path up her neck.

Joining this mission never had anything to do with the
Siren
. It was about the
Patriot
, about Theodosia. About bringing this news to her.

Liv swallows. They look at each other, the truth settling between them softly, like dust.

Sam leans forward. “We could go as soon as we get back to the house.”

“But Nags Head is four hours away.”

“Three and a half,” he says. “We could even take the ferry from Ocracoke on our way back. You always said you wanted to.”

That he would remember.

She shakes her head, slowly at first, then more fiercely. “I can't.”

“Why not?”

“Because I've put all that away.”

“Or maybe you've just had to because Whit couldn't keep his end of the bargain?”

“It's not that simple.” She stands and walks across the cabin, a bolt of loyalty charging through her. “You don't know what's gone on, Sam.”

“I know Whit promised you one last mission and he screwed that up. I know he's great at making promises, just not so great at keeping them. . . .”

Liv can feel Sam's eyes on her.

“Should I keep going?”

She turns to find Sam's followed her—too close. The warm, sandy smell of him is too familiar. She knows she should step back, but she can't.

He lowers his voice, the way he used to when they'd pore over charts in bed. “I'm not asking you to shake up your whole life. Just one day, one ride up the coast. We wouldn't even have to stay the night.”

Above them, she can hear the bang and clatter of equipment being moved, tanks being returned to their racks.
Despite Whit's oversight—a kind word for it—she is as much a part of this project as he is. Her reputation and Whit's are woven together. Sam is free to leave if he wants to, but she has an obligation to these men.

“I can't go now,” she says. “If the crew is willing to stay, I want to at least make amends for as long as they'll wait.”

“You want to make amends?” Sam asks. “Then let these guys have the run of the house for a while. Let them drink all of Whit's single malt. Let the younger guys pick up a few pretty girls in town and bring them back and impress the hell out of them.”

She laughs and reaches up to test the knot of her hair. “I don't know, Sam.”

“Stay here. I want to show you something.” He disappears and returns a few minutes later with his bag. He sets it on the bunk and pulls out a folded poster—at least, she thinks it's a poster. Until he opens it up—and her breath catches. She doesn't know how it's possible, but the paper has the same dry, malty scent. She remembers writing notes on it that night in Hatteras as if it were just yesterday, how her hand shook knowing Sam was watching her work, how she'd hoped he'd kiss her deeply before the night was over.

Then a flash of hurt cuts through, as she is reminded of how it came to be in his possession.

She looks at him. “I never understood why you took it when you left.”

“I wanted a piece of you. Of
us
.” He rubs his beard. “I meant to send it back to you a hundred times—I
wanted
to, but I couldn't.”

“I don't even recognize my own writing,” she says—but
that's not true. She's just afraid to look too closely. She knows if she starts to read her old notes, if she follows the bread crumb trail back to this shared past of theirs, the mystery will rise again, as high and green as a forgotten bulb, demanding to be plucked from the soil and sniffed deeply. She won't be able to put it back in the ground.

Sam lays his hands over hers and Liv feels the room fall away.

“One day, Liv,” he says. “That's all.”

But it's not all, and they both know it.

A sudden gust of air blows through the cabin door and flutters a corner of the map. As if the universe is trying to snap them out of a trance.