The Last Treasure (25 page)

Twelve years earlier

“S
o, what do you think?”

Whit's eyes were wide with expectation while Liv and Sam surveyed the stretch of canvas that flapped wildly in the breeze, its four corners tethered to the boat's rail. The old-timey lettering was fitting for the name they'd settled on: FCC Treasure Tours, the initials to represent their last names.

“I thought we agreed no goofy decorations,” Sam said, pointing to the four skulls and crossbones that grinned horrifically from each corner of the banner.

Whit shrugged. “I told the guy when I placed the order to keep it simple, but you know how it goes.”

Liv could see Sam wasn't convinced, but it was too late now to quibble about clip art. Their first charter was scheduled for the following day and their signage had been two weeks
late, a delay that had been the norm for their efforts. They'd arrived in Wilmington a month earlier to find the
Phoenix
had needed far more updates than expected. For the next two weeks, Whit had overseen the repairs while Liv had secured the paperwork and Sam the financial details, which quickly taxed the well of their loan. To help cover costs, they all found extra work. Sam and Whit took odd jobs at the marina and Liv waited tables in town. They'd rented a two-bedroom apartment with terrible water pressure but decent natural light, though they didn't make the best of roommates. Sam turned in early and rose early—Whit was a notorious night owl who rarely wandered downstairs before noon on his days home. Liv, equally enchanted by moonlight swims and sunrise breakfasts, always found herself somewhere in between.

Fortunately they existed far more harmoniously on the water. On the
Phoenix
, their oppositional habits worked in the business's favor—just as Whit had insisted they would when he'd proposed the idea. Since Whit was a natural salesman, he would organize the tours and act as dive captain. Sam, an expert sailor, would manage the boat and run the bridge. Liv would pitch in wherever she could.

“Well, I love it,” Liv decided. “I think the pirate theme will help business. Get people in the mood. Make it look like we know what we're doing.”

“Who says we don't know what we're doing, Red? That's just nerves talking.”

“They're actually
yelling
.” Liv smiled at Sam.

“I bet a celebratory pitcher at the taproom would shut them up,” Whit said.

“I should really check on my dad first.”

“You should,” Sam said. “I'll take you.”

•   •   •

W
indswept Estates was neither of its names—its false advertising offended Liv every time she pulled into her father's run-down condominium complex just outside Wilmington. But the rent had been priced right, even if the décor was all wrong—a point her father had made repeatedly the entire time they moved his belongings off the U-Haul and into the one-bedroom ground-floor apartment. But what choice did she have? The two-hour commute to Greenville would have been impossible to endure on a regular basis, and given her father's increasing anxiety attacks, regular would have meant almost daily. While the combined income from his disability and the royalties from his textbook offered him a comfortable budget, real estate by the water was three times what it had been inland. Liv had taken him to over two dozen apartments before finally finding one he agreed—albeit cantankerously—to move into. There was a grocery store and a library nearby. He had cable and a stove that was easy to keep clean—not that he ever used it for fear of burning down the unit.

“You don't have to come in,” Liv said as Sam turned off the truck. “I'll be quick.”

She found her father at the sink, staring out the window at the parking lot. “He's just going to sit there?”

“He offered to come in. I told him it was fine if he didn't.”

“Are you ashamed of me?”

She pulled in a sigh. “Of course not, Poppy.”

“The ants are back. Nothing I do seems to help.”

She glanced at the empty counter where he'd claimed there'd been an infestation the week before. “I don't see any.”

“Of course not. They hide when they hear noise. I just swept up a whole bunch. It's the lady who moved in upstairs. She's a slob. She empties her pans over the railing. I find grease drippings on my deck. I've told the maintenance people, but they won't do anything.”

Liv turned away, rolling her eyes. “We have our first customers tomorrow, Poppy.” She knew he didn't approve, but she hoped he might at least congratulate her.

“You could still go back, you know. Get your degree. Do something meaningful. Classes haven't even started.”

With every visit came the same reminder. She knew leaving school had been a hard pill for her father to swallow. “I will go back,” she said. “Eventually. But these charters are meaningful to me, Poppy. They're everything.”

“Nothing can be everything.” His gaze remained fixed on the window. “Does he plan to marry you?”

“We've been so busy. All the preparation. Getting a new business off the ground is a full-time job. It hardly leaves any time.”

“How much time does it take to ask someone to marry him?”

She lowered her eyes, feeling her neck flush at his point. She didn't want to admit that anytime the subject of marriage came up, Sam changed it, a habit that was growing harder and harder to dismiss.

“Maybe I'm not sure I want to be married, Poppy.”

“People need to be married, Livy. It's too scary alone.”

“You're alone.”

“No, I'm not. I have you, don't I?”

She nodded and helped her father lay down another set of ant traps along the backsplash, leaving him with a kiss.

•   •   •

F
CC Treasure Tours' first charter—two couples, both celebrating their twenty-fifth anniversaries—proved a startling success, and resulted in very satisfied customers who'd promised to recommend the adventure to all their friends. To celebrate, Whit suggested a feast of crab legs and beer. It was all so reminiscent of their initial meal together that Liv was sure Whit would suggest truth or dare when they cleared their plates, but he skipped out for a date with a woman named Honor instead (Sam had said there was a joke in that somewhere), leaving Sam and Liv to round out the day's success together on the balcony under a star-prickled sky.

“Be right back,” Sam said, and Liv settled into her chair, marveling at the night and her good fortune at no emergency calls from her father on such a special evening. She wondered where she and Sam would make love, having the whole apartment to themselves, no doubt until morning. Whit's dates usually lasted all night, which wasn't to say their duration was any level of his commitment. For a while Liv had tried to keep up with Whit's ever-changing roster of lovers, the cavalry of women he burned through like matches, strangely curious to see which ones lasted longer, but the exercise became impossible, and really, why did she care so much?

“I was hoping he'd leave us alone tonight.” Sam returned with a pair of flutes in one hand and a bottle of champagne in the other.

As he took his seat Liv searched his dark eyes, realizing there was something else in his hand besides the glasses, a shape colored the same shade of navy blue as the night sky, catching no reflection until he held it out. A flutter of possibility tore through her. To think, just the day before her father had asked if Sam planned to marry her, and she'd wallowed silently in her own distress over the subject. Now he was about to propose. Flickers of excitement raced across her scalp.

He handed her the box. “To new beginnings.”

She had already imagined the ring even before she pushed up the velvet lid—the shape of the diamond, nothing too big; the band fine and delicate; a straightforward, simple design, no-nonsense, just like Sam—so clearly that it took her brain a moment to fully process the small anchor charm that shimmered up at her instead, and the V of thin, lacy gold chain that held it.

Aware of her stunned silence, she fixed a smile quickly on her face. “It's beautiful,” she said, freeing the necklace carefully from its tiny clamps. And it was.

“You look disappointed.”

“I'm not,” she said, grateful for the dark to hide the heat of shame crawling up her cheeks. “No, really. I love it.”

He sighed and put his hand over hers, finding her eyes and holding them. “One thing at a time, Liv. Let's get this business more than floating,” he said. “Let's get it sailing.”

She turned to let him secure the clasp beneath her lifted
hair. He was right to wait. But still his presentation crushed her, his choice of language impossible to ignore. One thing at a time.
Thing
. It was as if he couldn't even say the word
marriage
.

•   •   •

T
he first few months of their charter business passed quickly, despite the predictably quiet winter season that Curtis had warned them about. After too many rows over dirty dishes and music after midnight, Whit decided to move onto the boat, which meant Liv and Sam could find a smaller apartment, which they did, closer to the marina. By June, they were back on the water almost daily. Today's wannabe salvors were coming from Virginia Beach, so they had requested a noon dive—a plan that had pleased everyone. After weeks of five a.m. alarms, Liv was grateful to wake to a sunlit house. She reached up and slid the curtain back to scan the sky. Flawless blue. Another perfect day for treasure-hunting. She rolled over to find Sam's side of the bed empty and already cool to the touch. He never could sleep in.

The rich, nutty smell of espresso pulled her down the cottage's narrow corridor to the kitchen. Stopping in the bathroom, she glared at the cowlick that had sprung up in the night like a middle finger, but what did she expect? It had been over a year since she'd had a proper cut, and the length and mass of her hair continued to startle her—she'd never let it get this long.

Sunshine spilled into the kitchen, spraying golden streaks on the peeling linoleum floor and warming her bare feet on
her way to the fridge. She poured herself a glass of orange juice and carried it into the living room, where their chart resided on the only wall in the small house that was big enough to hold it. Liv scanned the map lazily as she sipped the tart, frosty juice, thinking with a rumble of regret that it had been months since they'd had any leads to add—not that she resented the fact. How could she? FCC Treasure Tours had finally taken flight—and she and Sam had little free time to continue their research, never mind time for each other. Days began early and finished late. But ten months on the
Phoenix
and Liv considered herself an able crew member topside and a strong diver up to fifty feet below.

The balcony slider opened and Sam stepped in, shirtless and smelling of sand. Almost two years after they'd moved in together, she still loved the sight of him in the morning.

“Make you a cappuccino?”

She stepped aside to let him at the espresso machine that occupied nearly half of the galley kitchen's short counter.

“So, what's the story with today's group?” she asked.

“Insurance reps here for a conference. Two guys and a woman.” He shot her a knowing look as he snapped the filter into place. “One guess who Whit'll buddy up with.”

Liv smiled. “We do what we can to keep him around.”

Every few months, Whit would talk about leaving for far-flung seas, offers of jobs on giant salvage vessels headed for Australia and beyond, but his grand plans would always crumble at the last minute. “He's never pulling out,” Sam would always say. “We'll leave this business before he does.”

Not that they had any plans to do so. They'd made enough
money to hire two deckhands for larger groups, even taking on overnight trips. Liv almost always stayed behind, fearful of being away from her father, whose demands were growing increasingly impossible for her to manage. She'd grown used to the fits of paranoia—but lately he'd been forgetting things, finding himself disoriented, even in his apartment. His own father had suffered from Alzheimer's—it had never been far from her mind, nor had her promise to not put him in a home. But the other day, waiting for him at his doctor's appointment, she'd picked up a brochure on a nearby assisted-living facility called Sunset Hills and felt equal parts relief and guilt as she'd fingered the glossy pamphlet, the pictures of smiling residents waving over their flower boxes. The exhaustive list of activities: yoga, trivia, and, for the very ambitious, glass blowing! What would her father do with any of it?

She finished her cappuccino, wiping the side of the mug with her index finger to catch the last sweet streaks of foamed milk.

Sam leaned over and she fed him her catch. He sucked her finger clean.

“We better get to the boat,” he said.

•   •   •

T
heir three clients were already there when Sam and Liv pulled into the marina's parking lot at eleven. The two men, Frank and Doug, looked to be in their forties, both well tanned but slightly soft. The woman, Shannon, at least ten years younger than her male partners, was trim and pretty, shiny brown hair melting down her back like
hot fudge. No wonder Whit had been grinning like a clown when Liv boarded the boat.

While the customers suited up, Sam, Whit, and Liv gathered at the bridge and bent their heads over the chart.

“They want to go deep,” Sam said, running his finger up and down one of their most popular channels.

“That stretch is pretty well picked over,” said Whit, “but it's an easy dive. Thirty feet max.”

“Which is why I think we should try here.” Liv watched Sam's finger drift to the right, the sounding's depth well beneath her cutoff for safe diving.

She swallowed her disappointment.