The Last Treasure (21 page)

A gust of fear swallows her. Liv shivers.

“We should go back,” she says.

Sam comes closer, his voice a husky whisper. “How far?”

Thirteen years earlier

W
hen the plane touched down, Sam reached across the seat for Liv's hand and squeezed it almost as hard as she'd been squeezing the armrest.

“Relax,” he said. “My folks are going to love you.”

“I hope so.” And God, she did. While she'd never seen pictures of Sam's family, she'd gathered they were every bit the traditional, all-American unit. What would they think of her fractured home life, her overly dependent and controlling father? Would they pity her, judge her? Sam assured her that he'd already laid the groundwork of her history over the phone—her mother's accident, her father's challenges (Sam's word, not hers)—and that she didn't need to feel self-conscious.

Easier said than done.

It had taken Liv three weeks—from the time of Sam's invitation almost to the exact moment she climbed into the shuttle for the airport—to convince her father that he could manage one long weekend without her near. She'd almost not told him about the plane, sure that news would seal her fate—airline crashes were on the rise; did she need him to read her the terrifying statistics?—but with only four days to travel, even she couldn't spin a road trip convincingly. Even though she was only going for part of their long break, she'd promised to keep her cell phone with her at all times, just in case, and to call him the minute she landed, which would have been right then, she realized as she looked around, aware suddenly of how desperately quiet the cabin had become.

Around her, mumbles of the delayed arrival circulated. Liv felt sure she'd jump out of her skin if she didn't exit soon.

“We're late,” she said. “I feel bad if we've kept everyone waiting.”

“Don't. Michael always runs late for everything.”

His younger brother. Liv had heard little about him—only that he'd flunked out of his second college and was back home again.

The door opened and the line of passengers lunged forward. Slipping into the aisle at last and following the stream, Liv felt a strange charge of panic, as if her father had somehow followed her, as if he might be waiting to bring her home before she could have a chance to enjoy her freedom. Sam's hand folded around hers, but still she scanned the expectant faces that waited outside the doors when they emerged from the carpeted corridor; still she feared seeing her father's among the crowd.

•   •   •

“M
iracle of miracles.” Sam pointed her to a blue Volvo on the other side of the arrival lane where a rangy, dark-haired man leaned against the back of the car with his hands shoved up under his arms, squinting against the wind. Michael. Liv reached up with her free hand to hold her coat collar closed, the brisk air needling her bare throat.

“Don't tell him we were delayed,” Sam muttered. “I want to keep him on the hook awhile. He needs it.”

“Welcome home, bro.” Michael peeled himself off the car. “This Liz?”

“Liv,” Sam corrected tightly, opening the back and flinging their luggage inside.

Michael pried one of his hands free and gave her a halfhearted handshake. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she said back, glad when Sam steered her to the door.

“Watch that shit on the seat,” Michael called as they climbed in. “I had to pick up the old man's dry cleaning.”

“Glad to see he put you to work,” Sam said.

“You're a fucking riot.” Michael swung them out into traffic before Liv even had a chance to buckle up, and accelerated into the passing lane, abruptly enough that the driver behind them honked.

“Slow down,” Sam said. “Jesus.”

“I just figured you lovebirds would be champing at the bit to get home, sweet home.” Michael cut Liv a look in the rearview mirror and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

She flushed and turned toward the window. Small patches of snow speckled with dirt dotted the side of the highway.

“I can't believe Dad let you drive Mom's car,” Sam said.

“It's not hers anymore,” said Michael. “She gave it to me. He bought her a Benz. You still driving that P.O.S. truck?”

“Until someone hands me a new car on a silver platter.”

“She didn't hand it to me. She was trading up.”

“So you did her a favor taking it for free, right?”

“Screw you.” Michael jerked them around a slow sedan; Liv gripped the door to steady herself. “I told Dad I have an interview at Home Depot tonight, so if he says anything, just go along with it, okay? Marcus and the guys are meeting at Pup's to watch the game. Dad would just give me shit. Oh, hey—guess who I saw Friday night at Lucky's.” There was a teasing crackle in Michael's voice. Liv looked at Sam.

“How should I know?” he said testily.

Michael grinned. “Annie Newcomb. She asked about you.”

Liv leaned forward. “Who's Annie Newcomb?”

“No one,” Sam said.

When Michael turned them—slung them—into a cul-de-sac of stately brick Colonials with multicar garages and deep swaths of flawless lawns a few minutes later, Liv felt a shiver of surprise. Sam had always led her to believe his childhood home was modest, working-class—just like hers—and the irony startled her. While Whit had overblown his upbringing to hide his meager roots, Sam had done the exact opposite to downplay all his privilege.

A pretty middle-aged woman with a neat twist of auburn
hair waved to them from the front door, holding a wineglass in her other hand.

Michael snorted. “Fifty and still perfecting her Miss America wave.” When Sam reached for the door, Michael grabbed his arm. “Remember: I've got an interview.”

Sam shook him off. “I'm not lying for you.”

“I'm not asking you to lie. Just don't get weird about it.”

“Don't forget his dry cleaning,” Sam said, pushing open the door.

Liv was sure the woman would walk the tidy curl of pavers to meet them at the car, but she remained at her post, smiling and waving eagerly, like a pet who knows better than to press the boundaries of her invisible fence.

•   •   •

“P
enny put you in my old room,” Sam said, leading Liv up a set of wide carpeted stairs.

“Who's Penny?”

“Our maid.”

Sam's family had a maid? Liv followed him down a corridor flanked with framed photographs. She wanted to slow to study each one, but Sam's pace was relentless. Already he'd rushed her through introductions with his mother in the home's high-ceilinged foyer.

It was a nice room, she thought, stepping inside. Tidy and homey. She glanced around, charmed by the curtains that matched the navy blue wallpaper, the bed's smooth quilted cover. When Sam opened the closet to show her hangers in case she wanted them, the scent of fresh cedar rushed out.

A real house, she thought.
This smells like a real house.

“Is your father here?” she asked.

“Still at the firm, probably. He'll show up for dinner.”

She toured the room, slowing at a shelf of sport trophies. Sam's name etched in fine letters, year after year. Champion. First place. Most Valuable Player. She picked up a statue of a bronze runner holding a flag and admired it.

“It didn't look like this when it was my room,” Sam said, coming in behind her. “I didn't keep these up here.”

“Why not? They're impressive.”

“They're dusty.” He dragged his index finger over a gilded basketball and wiped it clean on his shirt.

Michael passed the doorway wearing earphones, tapping out a drumbeat on his hips.

“Sorry about my brother. My mother keeps bailing him out and my father keeps threatening to send him into the service. It's what he needs.”

Liv closed her eyes and let her head fall back against his chin. She almost didn't dare keep them shut, afraid she'd open them to find herself back at the table with her father, her hard-earned recess only a dream. The scent of roasting meat drifted toward her, faint but sweet.

“Your mother's very pretty.”

“She'd appreciate you saying that—she works hard at it. She doesn't eat.” The disdain in his voice surprised her. “She drinks wine like it's water, but she never actually
eats
. She spends her whole meal pushing food around her plate to make it look like she's eaten. Watch her at dinner. You'll see.”

Liv moved to the bed and stretched out. She smiled up at the ceiling fan, its long blades still. “I can picture you lying here,” she said. “Staring up, night after night . . .” She turned her head toward him. “Ever have sex in here?”

He grinned. “You mean with someone other than myself?”

“Very funny.” She rolled onto her side, meeting his level stare. “So, who's Annie Newcomb?”

“Just a girl.”

“I figured that part out on my own, thanks. Did you date her?”

“No. She was just a friend.”

“A good friend?”

“Not as good as you—how's that?” Sam leaned down and kissed her on the mouth. “Get unpacked, okay? I'll meet you downstairs.”

•   •   •

R
obert Felder was seated at the head of the heavy oak table when Liv followed Sam into the dining room at six thirty. His resemblance to Sam startled her. Both men shared the same dark, serious eyes, the same crisp features.

Liv glanced at Sam's mother, who was scanning the table. “Everything smells delicious,” she said.

“It does, doesn't it?” Faye Felder motioned to the middle-aged woman who emerged from the kitchen with a basket of rolls. “Penny is our angel.”

Footsteps thundered down the stairs and Michael blew into the room, earphones slung around his neck.

“You're late,” Robert Felder said sharply.

“Actually I am.” Michael dropped a kiss on his mother's cheek and reached over her shoulder for a roll from the basket, tossing it up like a baseball. “Later.”

Faye blinked at him. “You're not eating with us?”

“Can't,” Michael said. “Got that interview at Home Depot, remember? Save me some, will you, Penny? I'll eat when I get home.”

Mr. Felder's eyes rose. “Strange time for a job interview.”

“Yeah, well. It's a tough job market.” Michael's gaze slid to Sam's and flashed with warning as he strolled out of the room. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, sweetheart,” his mother called after him.

“I suppose I should just be grateful he's even interviewing,” his father said.

Sam shoved a cube of steak into his mouth and chewed roughly.

Faye Felder swirled her wine. “You have any brothers or sisters, Liv?”

“No, ma'am. Just me.”

“And your mother, is it?”

“Her father, Mom.” Sam shot his mother a disapproving look. “I told you all this, remember?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. You did.” She smiled wearily at Liv. “He did, dear.” She cut off a few tidy cubes of steak and arranged them around her salad.

Robert Felder speared a slice of butter and spread it evenly over his roll. “Where are you from, Liv?”

“North Carolina. I was born in Raleigh.”

“A Southern belle.” He slid his eyes to Sam. “That's a first for you, isn't it, son?”

Liv's cheeks flushed hot. She looked at Sam, waiting for him to say something, but he just reached for his wine and took a long sip.

“You don't have an accent,” Faye Felder said, tilting her head back and forth as if Liv were one of those find-the-hidden-picture puzzles. “There's a lady in our women's league from South Carolina—I forget where exactly—but she says
y'all
this and
y'all
that. I just get such a kick out of her.”

Liv forced a polite smile.

“Before I forget—” Robert Felder pointed his fork at his son. “I told Bob Newcomb you'd have lunch with him tomorrow. He's excited to introduce you to the new associate.”

Flickers of alarm scurried up her spine. They were planning to go to the Field Museum tomorrow.

Sam snapped open his napkin. “We'll see, Dad. Liv's only here for two days.”

“Who's Bob Newcomb?” Liv asked.

Mr. Felder glanced up at her and frowned, as if he'd forgotten she was there.

“He's a lawyer in my dad's firm,” Sam said. “He practices maritime law.”

“And makes a heck of a lot more money than ninety-nine percent of the treasure hunters he represents too,” said Mr. Felder.

Liv grinned. “But probably only has one percent of the fun.”

She expected to earn an agreeable laugh, but Sam's expression turned startlingly stony. She glanced around the table, finding his father and mother equally unamused.

“Is that what you're majoring in, Liv?” Robert Felder asked coolly.
“Fun?”

His tone was just cutting enough to remind her of Harold Warner when he'd tried to belittle her line of questions at his lecture.

Feeling Sam's pointed gaze, she said, “I don't think there's anything wrong with choosing a career you enjoy.”

“Said every broke would-be artist working the drive-through.” Sam's father snapped his fingers for the rolls. “Hand me those, Faye.”

After dinner, Liv followed Sam down the hall into the den. He poured them two splashes of whiskey and led her to a stiff leather couch in front of the stone fireplace, the gas flames lavender and steady behind the square of glass.

A pair of mounted bass hung above the mantel, their bodies shellacked, their wide mouths gaping.

Liv pointed at them. “Is that where you plan to mount your very first Southern belle too?”

Sam groaned. “I'm sorry about all that.”

“You could have said something, you know.”

“It's just how my dad is. He's hard on people. Women, especially.”

“And that's supposed to make it okay?”

“I'm not defending him, Liv.” Sam sipped his drink, his eyes on the fire.