The Last Treasure (13 page)

“What happened to all that money you brought up near Marathon?”

“It went a lot faster than I expected.”

“It always does.” Chowder winces. “How deep you in for?”

“Deep as it gets. I need a lead.”

Chowder runs his palm over the top of his head. “I haven't
heard about anything. Nobody's finding so much as a beer can around here.”

“It doesn't have to be local. It could be Wilmington. Hell, I'd go to the Outer Banks if I had to. My crew'll cut bait if I don't come back with something.
Anything
.”

Chowder's eyes are bright but pitying and Whit knows how he sounds, how strung out he must look—wild-haired, stinking of seawater and sweat. He's a junkie looking for a score. A gambler frantic for the biggest payout of his career. Whit's sunk everything into this mission. His savings. His marriage.

Red
.

“Go home, Whit. Get drunk, get laid. Jesus Christ, man. You used to be the luckiest son of a bitch treasure hunter from the cape to the keys. Since when do you need me to throw you scraps?”

“I have to make this right, Chowdy. I can't lose her.”

Chowder digs out cigarettes from his pocket. “Sounds like you already have—but if it makes you feel any better, there wasn't much in her to lose.”

Whit opens his mouth to contest, then realizes Chowder is talking about the
Siren
—and Whit is talking about Liv.

“Smoke?” Chowder shoves the opened pack at him.

Whit stares hungrily at the perfect white rounds that peek out from the nest of foil, his tongue prickling. Eight years away and he can still recall the flavor of a fresh filter and that first drag, pure and sweet.

He swallows hard and shakes his head. “I quit.”

“No shit?” Chowder says, chuckling as he snaps his lighter to life. “Me too.”

•   •   •

O
utside Washington, Liv's stomach rumbles, loud enough that she swears she can hear it over the din of air rushing through the truck's cab. She still can't believe she forgot their lunch. When was the last time she ate? She can't recall, but her head aches with hunger.

“Maybe we could stop for a quick bite,” she says.

“How about there?” Sam points to a stand-alone restaurant in a nearing strip mall: Lucky's Grill. Liv's not crazy about the name, but it's just a name, isn't it? Surely there's nothing prophetic in a diner sign.

Sam pulls into the parking lot. The planters along the diner's railing overflow with zinnias. Liv thinks briefly of her plants back in Florida, how she'd meant to move them to a shadier spot under the awning but forgot, too distracted. Her frail jade, just recovering from root rot. It needs her care now more than ever, and she's abandoned it.

The restaurant is bright but mostly empty when they step inside, hot and thick with the smells of fried fish and ketchup. They slide into a booth and pluck menus from behind the table's napkin dispenser. While Sam scans his, Liv looks around and can't help smiling. She feels young and reckless again, the way she did that first trip to the Outer Banks. The three of them: spontaneous musketeers, hell-bent on trumping Warner's great discovery; her, Sam, and Whit.

Whit
.

“Coffee,” Sam says when the waitress arrives. “And a tuna on rye. Salad instead of fries.”

“That's a dollar more,” the woman says, turning her blue-shadowed eyes to Liv. “For you, hon?”

“Oyster sandwich and a Coke with lemon, please.”

When the woman leaves, Liv gives Sam a teasing grin. “Who comes to a diner and exchanges fries for a salad? No wonder they charge you extra. It's a shaming fee.”

Sam laughs. “And since when do you eat oysters?”

“I always ate oysters.”

“
Whit
ate oysters,” Sam says, pushing one of the rolled napkin sets toward her.

Liv watches Sam's fingers arrange the utensils on either side of an imaginary plate, memories spilling everywhere, his hands spreading open the map, spreading her.

The waitress returns with his coffee and her Coke. Liv stares at Sam as he takes several long sips. “What?” he asks.

“I'm just thinking how crazy this is. That just this morning we were on the water, all suited up—and now we're here. That this was your idea.”

He casts a wounded look at her.

“Come on, Sam,” she says. “You know this isn't like you. Being spontaneous this way. It's something . . .” She smiles sheepishly. “Never mind.”

“It's something Whit would do, right?” he finishes for her.

A swell of warmth fills her, an appreciation of a past life. “I liked your rules, Sam. They used to make me feel safe.”

“Maybe I don't play by the rules anymore.”

Whatever threat he kept from his voice burns unmistakably in his eyes, startling her. She's not sure what rules he's referring to.

“I was thinking,” says Sam, rubbing the handle of his mug with his thumb, “maybe on the way back we could drive by the place in Hatteras. For old times' sake.”

Welcome to the end of the world
.

She frees her fork and knife and sets them down, grounded suddenly by the reminder of what they've run from. “You know, if Whit fixes things with Warner . . .”

“There's nothing to fix, Liv.”

“But suppose he
could
.”

“Do you want him to?” Sam says.

She meets his eyes. “I want one more deep dive.” But that's not what he's asking, not really, and they both know it. No matter what comes of this trip, she will have to decide whether or not to forgive Whit, to give him another chance.

Sam shrugs. “Maybe you just need a little space. A little time away.”

“Maybe.”

“You could always come back with me to the cape,” he says, then adds quickly, “I don't mean for good. Just for a week or two, clear your head. I could use an extra hand on the charter. You could put your first mate cap back on again. If that's what you decide to do. Take a break, I mean.”

“Isn't that what this is?”

He leans forward. “We're not doing anything wrong, Liv.”

Not yet
. The words blink back at her, sharply enough that she is sure Sam can read the guilt in her expression.

“I've taken off to the Outer Banks without telling my husband,” she says matter-of-factly.

“You're researching a diary with an old friend.”

She meets his eyes. “You're more than that, and you know it.”

“You have every right to be here.”

“He'll worry, Sam.”

“So let him worry. It'll do him good to think of someone besides himself for once.” Their food arrives and Sam waits for their waitress to depart before he says, “Think of it like old times—when it was just the two of us, and Whit would never give us a minute alone.”

Loyalty surges again. “He just wanted to be part of us.”

“No,” Sam says. “He just wanted to be part of
you
.”

•   •   •

H
ad he? Liv doesn't remember it that way. At least not in the beginning. After their return from Hatteras, and Sam's unexpected appearance at her front door, she and Sam had grown close, weathering January together when winter blanketed the campus with the occasional varnish of ice, Sam's affections—and the concretion Lou gave her that she kept in her backpack—the only reminder of their trip to the sea.

Their courtship wasn't always a smooth one—her father's demands of her time seemed to increase and in the wake of the Hatteras lie, Liv had allowed her guilt to indulge his wishes. Sam's patience was remarkable. She'd promised him she would try to move into a place of her own by the end of March. He'd told her there was no rush.

As promised, he'd also partnered in her continuing research of what might have happened to Theodosia and the
Patriot
, joining Liv on day trips to local historical societies that held collections of journals and nautical archives.

As for Whit Crosby, the trio that he'd been so certain would turn into something grand and world-changing had drifted away like a loose dory upon their return to Greenville. She never saw Whit on campus and Sam never spoke of his antics in their shared classes. Which was why when Liv stepped into the Student Union on a gray Wednesday morning and spotted a familiar head of rumpled hair and long legs sprawled out on a corner couch fast asleep, she couldn't resist making her way over and giving his knee a quick tap.

“Morning.”

Whit woke with a start. “Hey! What are you doing here?”

“I go here, remember?”

“English. Right.” He pushed himself upright and rubbed his face hard. “I only meant to close my eyes for a second. What time is it?”

“Ten thirty.”

“Shit.” He propped his elbows on his knees and groaned. “I'll give you fifty dollars for a sip of your coffee.”

“The first sip's free.”

He took several. It seemed a year since she'd last seen him, fleeing Sam's truck to get home to her father. Memories of their game of truth or dare on the beach flashed, how high the fire had grown, how hot; how careless she'd felt out there under that roof of stars, swigging wine and sharing secrets. Whit had seemed larger than life to her that weekend, roguish and daring. It was oddly pleasant to find him quiet and sluggish, charmingly out of sorts. Maybe she'd been wrong to think he couldn't ever be still, be thoughtful. Just
be
.

His hair was tousled with sleep, thick and wavy. Sam's
hair was always so smooth and tight against his scalp. She wondered what it would be like to push her fingers through Whit's, how different it might feel.

“I was hoping to see you at Warner's lecture last week,” Whit said. “I was sure you'd be there ready to bust his chops about something.” He grinned. “I was really looking forward to it.”

“I'll bet.” She smiled. “I meant to go, but I had to finish a paper.”

“You ever see Sam around?”

“We're dating, actually.”

“No kidding?” He looked surprised, though she didn't see how he could be after finding them in bed together. Or maybe it just surprised him that something had come of that one night. Liv suspected Whit Crosby wasn't the sort to seek out long-term relationships. Not that she had any proof. Not that she cared either way.

“I'll have to congratulate him when I see him in lab this afternoon,” Whit said. “Lucky guy.”

She felt the heat of a blush bloom at her chin. “Lucky
girl
,” she said, hiding her color behind a sip of coffee. “I really did have a wonderful time that weekend. I'm sorry if I didn't ever thank you before I . . .”

“Before you took off like Cinderella?” His smile was forgiving. “You ask your doctor about diving yet?”

“No.”

“Tell me when you do. I'll teach you myself.”

She took another sip, a flutter of possibility sliding down her throat with her coffee. “I read that Warner's still insisting that site might be connected to the
Patriot
.”

“He's getting all kinds of attention for it—why quit? But I know I plan to keep looking for her. How about you?”

“Absolutely. Actually Sam and I are planning to go out to Kitty Hawk to see a man with an antique shop—I've got the name right here. . . .” She tugged her calendar from her backpack and flipped through, finding the page. “Barnacles and Brass Antiques,” she said. “Goofy name, but he specializes in old letters. He says he has some from as far back as 1805. You never know.”

“Sounds like fun.” Whit's eyes flashed. Was he fishing for an invitation? “Do you still think the pirates got her?”

She nodded. “I haven't had much luck convincing Sam, though. He still thinks she sank in a storm.”

“Well, don't let him change your mind, whatever you do,” Whit said. “You and I both know it was the pirates.”

“You think so too?”

“Aye.” He winked. “It's
always
the pirates,
lass
.”

She laughed and reached down to close up her backpack. “I should go,” she said, rising. “I'm meeting Sam at the library at one.”

Whit climbed to his feet. “I'll walk with you.”

On their way out, Liv slowed at the bulletin board outside the double doors and scanned the layers of announcements and advertisements.

“Looking for something?” he asked.

“A room,” she said.

“There's a girl in Greta's hall who just dropped out last week. Kate, I think. Some kind of family thing. Her room's empty.”

Greta. Wasn't she the girl he was going to take out the night they returned from Hatteras? Maybe Liv was wrong to think he didn't want attachments.

“I bet if you stopped off at Student Affairs, you could get her room,” he said.

A dangerous hope rose in her stomach. Her own room meant she and Sam could spend the night together, like real couples. She'd never have to worry about time or bad weather or what sort of new excuse she'd come up with to explain her late-night return. Hadn't she lately worried that Sam was growing tired of her curfews, when there were so many willing women who didn't have to check their watches or phones, whose carriages wouldn't shrink back to pumpkins at midnight?

•   •   •

A
week later, she was loading her books and clothes into the bed of Sam's truck and vacillating between tears of joy and knots of guilt. After cooking dinner for her father and sitting with him while he pushed slices of chicken around his plate and complained of a headache, Liv returned to her new room to find Sam waiting for her with a sausage pizza and a celebratory bottle of merlot. They feasted cross-legged on her bare mattress, too hungry to make the bed.

When only a single slice remained, Liv lowered the box to the floor and climbed into Sam's lap, kissing him deeply.