The Last Treasure (22 page)

“Is it because of that crack I made about having fun?”

“He doesn't want me getting that degree. He wants me to go into maritime law. The only reason he agreed to the program at ECU was that I said I'd consider law school afterward.”

“You never told me you wanted to be a lawyer.”

“Because I don't.” Sam set down his glass on the coffee table and motioned to the door. “Let's go out and get a beer. I need some fresh air.”

“Then we're still going to the museum tomorrow?”

“Absolutely,” Sam said, helping her into her coat. He opened the front door and led her out into a cold rain.

•   •   •

B
ut Sam's heavy expression at breakfast the next morning was all Liv needed to see to know they weren't going. She did her best to hide her disappointment for the benefit of his mother when Faye came to join them for coffee and eggs, but when they were alone upstairs in his room, Liv fell against him.

“I'm only here two days, Sam.”

“I know that.” He stroked her hair. “But this is my father, Liv. You of all people should understand that sometimes you have to make sacrifices for your parents.”

She understood—of course she did. How many times had Sam patiently tolerated her need to cut short their evening to help her father change a lightbulb or spray for imagined bugs?

Regret pushed at her ribs. She smiled up at him, comforted that he needed her patience for once.

“It'll just be an hour,” he said. “Two, tops. And when I get
back, we'll still have plenty of time to get to the museum. Just make yourself at home while I'm gone, okay?”

She promised she would, and when he left, she tried, venturing into the vaulted sunroom and settling into a wicker armchair to watch a flock of sparrows descend on a hanging feeder in the backyard, but when Sam's mother came in on her phone, Liv felt desperately intrusive and rose to leave, her discomfort only confirmed when Faye Felder failed to insist Liv stay put. The deck, tidy and sheltered, would have been fine had the rain not resumed its chilly descent within minutes of her stepping out, so Liv returned to Sam's room and hunkered down on his bed with a book Whit had recommended on the history of wooden ships. But every few pages, she checked the time, eager for Sam's return, feeling like a dutiful house pet, and hating herself for it. Had it never occurred to her that she could go to the museum without him?

When she heard movement in the hallway shortly before three, she glanced at the doorway, sure it was Sam, and started to find Michael slouched there instead, midyawn, his black hair standing up on one side. Had he only now just gotten up?

He made his eyes into slits. “You're not Sam.”

“He isn't here,” she said.

“Probably still slugging back G and Ts with Big Bob at the country club.” He cupped his hand and tipped it toward his open mouth.

Liv turned back to her book, sure he'd move on, but he came into the room and dropped on the other end of the bed, hard enough to bounce her. He smelled stale, like old sheets.

“So, what do you want to know?” he said.

“About what?”

“About Sam, obviously.”

She scooted farther up the bed, uncomfortable at how close he sat, his hand so near to her bare feet.

“I'm all set, thanks,” she said.

“Bullshit. Sam never tells any of his girlfriends anything. They all come to me for the dirt.”

Liv bristled.
All
of his girlfriends? How many had there been?

Michael leaned back on his elbows. “So, how long have you two been seeing each other?”

Liv closed her book. “Awhile.”

Michael snorted. “Not very long if you still think he's so perfect.”

“I never said I thought he was perfect,” she said. “I don't think anyone's perfect.”

“Well, he's
definitely
not. Trust me.”

Liv opened her book again, determined not to bite whatever bait Michael was dangling.

“He didn't tell you about Annie, did he?”

He was trying to rattle her and she wouldn't be rattled, dammit. She answered without lifting her eyes from the page. “He told me she was a friend.”

“Is that what he called her? Damn, that's cold.”

Now Liv felt a ball of dread bounce in her stomach.

“So you're saying he dated her?” she asked carefully.

“No,” Michael said. “He dated Katie Easterday. He
cheated
with Annie Newcomb.”

Cheated
. The word landed against Liv like a glass door
she'd walked into. She felt actual pain from it. As if Michael had smacked her with his palm.

Sam might have been a lot of things, but he wasn't a cheater. Absolutely not.

“But hey, you didn't hear that from me.” Michael bounced off the bed and lumbered to the door. “Enjoy your book.”

Liv called to him, “Why did you tell me that?”

He stopped and turned. “Because I just found out my father knew I wasn't at an interview last night, that's why.”

•   •   •

B
y the time Sam returned, it was almost five.

When he came upstairs, Liv rushed into his arms as if she could force Michael's words out of her heart if she pressed against him hard enough.

“I'm sorry about our day,” Sam said. “Next time. I promise. Make it up to you with some pizza?”

But their last night together suffered a similar fate as their afternoon. Instead of enjoying dinner alone at Sam's favorite pizza parlor, they were invited—ordered, to Liv's ear—to a neighbor's anniversary party. A formal affair, Liv was informed by Sam's mother. Surely she'd brought something suitably dressy?

Liv stared down at her opened luggage and scanned her meager collection of clothes.

“You could always borrow something of my mother's,” Sam said.

Liv looked at him. Was he serious? She decided on a wool skirt and a turtleneck sweater, and pulled her hair into a tight
bun. “When I get back, we'll go out for real,” he said as they walked through a pair of high oak doors into a sea of older faces.

Watching Sam at the fireplace, laughing with a couple in their mid-sixties, one hand in his pocket, the other gesturing with his cocktail, Liv felt tremors of uncertainty. She'd been so eager to visit Chicago, to meet his family and see where he came from—now she longed to get Sam away, get him back to the home they'd made together in Greenville. She didn't know who he was here.

Did he?

•   •   •

R
ain followed her home. From Chicago to Charlotte to Greenville, a persistent shower doused everything in her path, returning her to her father's porch damp and chilled and edgy.

“How was your visit with the boy?” Francis worked his way through a stack of white meat. She'd picked up dinner on the way back from the airport, in no mood to cook.

Liv reached for her Coke. “His name is Sam, Poppy. And he's twenty-six.”

“He's not the rude one, is he? The one who curses like a sailor?”

“Whit's not rude.” She couldn't argue with his second point.

Her father took up his fork and pushed it through his potato salad with renewed intent. “It's good you came home early. There's bad weather moving into Chicago tomorrow. I'd
hate to think of you flying home in a storm. I'd be a wreck.” He smiled tightly. “I thought we could go through the old albums tomorrow.”

Liv kept her eyes on her plate. “I'm actually going to see Dr. Sinclair tomorrow.”

Her father set down his fork. “Is something wrong?”

“Just a checkup.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

No, but she would, she thought as she pierced a cherry tomato and swallowed it whole. If she had to wait in his office all day, she'd have one.

•   •   •

“I
can't guarantee the doctor will be able to see you today,” the receptionist said when Liv stepped up to the desk the next morning.

“I'll wait,” she said. “It's important.”

So she did. Nearly three hours, before a lean, blond nurse stuck her head out the exam doors. “Liv Connelly?”

Dr. Sinclair always reminded her of her father. Same thick glasses, same piercing black eyes, same receding hairline. But, unlike her father, he laughed.

Usually.

“Now, Liv . . .” He took a seat on a wheeled stool and gave her a hard look. He put down her folder, flattened his palms on his thighs, and rolled closer, bringing the fresh smell of spearmint with him. “What is it you want me to say here? You want my approval—is that it? I'm your doctor. I'm well aware of
your health issues. Surely you don't expect me to recommend you start scuba diving.”

“All I'm asking, Doctor, is have you had patients with asthma who've dived?”

“Of course.” He folded his arms. “I've also had patients who smoked three packs a day. I didn't condone that either.”

Then, just as he had done when she was diagnosed with asthma at nine, Dr. Sinclair brought out X-rays and charts to review why deep diving was hazardous, and Liv listened just as she had back then too. But this time when she walked out of the office's broad glass door, she wasn't holding back tears.

This time when she lifted her face to the sun, she held back a smile.

•   •   •

L
iv had never been to Whit Crosby's apartment, and the only reason she knew how to find it was that he'd lent Sam an archaeology journal with his address printed on it. He rented part of an old brick bungalow on a historic tree-lined street in the West End. Crossing to the sidewalk, Liv looked up to see a leggy blonde in an oversize turtleneck sweater and velvet pants scooting down the stairs of his house, sliding on sunglasses as she passed Liv.

The name on the buzzer was faint but readable.

After a few minutes, Whit arrived at the door, shirtless and smelling of soap.

It was clear at once that he was expecting her to be someone else, but he rescued himself admirably. “Come on in.”

Stepping inside, she thought it was a surprisingly lovely apartment, bright and spacious with high ceilings and a kitchen with a cutout to the living room. The windows were all open, the fresh air helping to diffuse the smell of old smoke.

“I was just about to make some coffee,” he said, tugging on a T-shirt. “Want some?”

“Sure.” She wandered into the living room, which consisted of an uncomfortable-looking couch and a wagon wheel coffee table cluttered with empty beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays.

She grimaced. “You do know you can empty ashtrays, right?” she called out.

“What was that?” Whit yelled back.

She smiled and shook her head, advancing toward a curious pile of timbers resting against his fireplace. She counted seven, each one at least six inches thick. “What's with all the wood?”

“My buddy Wes found those in the Keys last year. He thinks they're from a tobacco ship. I keep meaning to take them over to the lab. Hey, I don't have any milk.”

“Black's fine.” She ran her fingers over the end of one timber, the splintered wood sharp and gritty. “So, who's the blonde?”

Whit leaned back to meet her gaze through the cutout. “You met Lona?”

Lona. Liv had decided having an exotic name was a prerequisite for dating Whit Crosby. “We didn't officially
meet
. She came out just as I walked up. What happened to Jocelyn?”

“She transferred.”

“Oh.” Whit came in with two mugs and handed her one. The coffee was flavorful and strong. “Lona's lovely.”

“Yeah, she is.” He squinted at her. “But you didn't come all this way to rate my dates and tell me to empty my ashtrays, did you, Red?”

“No.” She grinned, suddenly feeling as if she might explode with the news. “I went to my doctor.”

His eyes flashed over his coffee. “And?”

“And I need you to teach me to dive,” she said, “before I lose my damn nerve.”

•   •   •

“T
he first thing you should know is that Curtis talks a big game, but he's really a teddy bear. Buck, on the other hand, is one hundred percent bastard. He's especially not kind to new people, so whatever you do, don't take it personally—but don't let him get under your skin either. Ignore him. Drives him nuts.”

Whit gave Liv his lecture when they'd pulled into the marina an hour later and walked briskly down the dock toward a black-and-white boat with the name
Phoenix
painted in fat orange letters on the hull.

“What if they have customers?” Liv asked.

“They won't. It's the quiet season. That's why Curtis brings her up here. Normally they charter out of Wilmington. She used to be a shrimp boat. Curtis found her being sold for scrap and retrofitted her as a dive boat—that's how she got the name
Phoenix
—but unfortunately she still runs as slow as a shrimp boat.”

“You better not be knocking my old lady!” A man with bushy brown hair, wide-shouldered and compact, leaned over the rail and cackled as they approached.

Whit's face lit up. “Permission to come aboard, Captain?”

“As if you'd keep out if I said no?”

“Livy, this is Curtis,” said Whit. “I stowed away on one of his trips to the cape when I was fifteen and he didn't make me walk the plank.”

“Just made him eat Dickie's food—same difference.” Curtis took her hand and shook it roughly. “Whit always gets the pretty girls. Only reason we let him on the boat. God knows he can't steer for shit.” He gave her a gentle tug. “Come aboard, Pretty Livy, before you get your senses back and run screaming from us hooligans.”

No chance, Liv thought, stepping onto the cluttered boat. It would be getting her to leave that would take convincing.

Underneath her sneakers, the boat growled to life and Liv felt the delicious sensation of movement as the crew steered them away from the dock and out into the open water.