The Last Treasure (29 page)

When he set down his mug and moved to embrace her, she stepped away, shaking her head. “Please don't do that.”

All around her, the sounds of their everyday lives singed the air like sparks, impossibly loud and fleeting—water gurgling through the pipes, the cardinal letting go his plea from his perch
on the railing, the whir of a neighbor's lawn mower. She wanted to capture each moment, preserve them like lightning bugs in a jar. And meanwhile, Sam filled the back of his truck and came in one last time to say good-bye.

Only after she watched the truck swallowed behind the corner did she turn back to face the room, nearly containing all it had held the night before, and yet emptied of so much.

Her eyes caught on the wall between the kitchen and the living room, bare now. Shock and sadness tore through her. She thought for sure she was mistaken, that perhaps he'd only moved it, only hidden it, but there was no other explanation.

He'd taken their
chart.

OUTER BANKS, NORTH CAROLINA

Thursday

H
ow could Liv have worried she wouldn't recognize the house? It looks just as enormous and ostentatious as it did when the three of them pulled up to it thirteen years earlier. Only this visit, the homes that flank it are brimming with activity: crowded driveways, crowded decks, towels draped over railings, surfboards leaned against stairwells. No one would ever believe they'd arrived at the end of the world today. Their weekend of anonymity had been a rare gift.

Sam slows as they near the house. The breeze soothes her face as Liv studies the exterior, her eyes swollen from crying. They had spent only one night here, and yet she is certain she recalls tiny details of the place as if it were her childhood home—the smooth, cool curve of the railing under her fingers when
she followed Sam back up the steps to the house, the salty smell of clam broth that hung in the air overnight, circling her arms over that satiny duvet.

“Look.” Sam points to a Realtor sign stuck in the grass. “It's for sale.”

“You should call—I'm sure we could afford it,” Liv jokes.

Sam pulls out his phone and begins to tap in numbers.

Liv stares at him. “Sam, I was
kidding
.”

He raises his cell to his ear and smiles as he waits. Liv lunges to take the phone from him, but he rears back, out of reach.

“We're on our way somewhere,” she says. “We don't have time to—!”

Sam raises a finger to quiet her. “Hi, I'm calling about the property on South Beach Drive. Is it still available?” He stares at Liv as he listens, his dark eyes hooded with an unfamiliar mischief. “That's right . . . Uh-huh . . . We're here now, actually.”

Is he out of his mind? Still her pulse races at the thought of what they're doing, the possibility of getting inside again, the lie he's constructing.

Sam, making up a story? It doesn't compute.

She whispers urgently, “What are we supposed to tell her?” but Sam won't be derailed.

“A half hour?” He grins at Liv. “Sure, we can wait.”

•   •   •

W
hit doesn't know how long he's been sitting in this empty parking lot, only that he can't wrap his head around the diary. That all the years he and Liv searched, in one sitting, thirty minutes, he knew everything.

It was pirates, just like we always believed. You and me, Red. We were right all along.

What had Liv thought of the truth? Had she found her legs wobbly when she tried to stand, had she cried, had she smiled? What?

And Simon. The man in the center of Theo's crumbling, strange world. All the years she'd put up with her father's demands and mania, and at the end of her days, she had finally found someone who made her his world.

Had Liv celebrated that news? Whit wonders. Or did she just mourn that Theodosia left this world much in the way she'd inhabited it? A captive, held for a different kind of ransom?

But she hadn't been alone. Because despite his crimes and his savage associates, Simon had been there for Theodosia, remaining at his post and protecting her when her captors had abandoned them. He'd made good on his vow to keep her safe, and free of fear or doubt. He'd never let her down, not even at the end.

The regret chokes Whit: Even a lawless pirate was a better man than he is.

He leans his head against the seat.

He should have been there when Liv read those entries, should have seen the sparkle of discovery in her eyes flashing back at him.

All she's ever wanted from him was his honesty. That night so many years ago when she let him crash on her bed, the night he nearly kissed her, bloody lip and all, she told him he was good enough as he was, worthy enough, so why has he never believed it? She is the only woman he's ever wanted to impress—and the irony bites down on his bones: To impress her, he had
only to be himself. Could he have been so damn lucky all these years?

He squints out at the morning. The sun is hot and fierce and unforgiving. He knows how many hours behind the two of them he is, how futile this race has become. Sam isn't the reason he will lose her; Whit understands that now. Sam was never the danger. Not then, not now. Whit has been so busy blaming everyone else. All these miles up and down the coast, he's been chasing the ghost of his own mistakes—and there's just no catching up to that truth.

His lids hurt, the weight of fatigue too much for them. All they want to do is fall and stay shut. Jesus, he needs sleep. And a shower. All the windows down and he can still smell himself. He'd risk a quick nap right here, but there's a police car parked at the diner next door. He's not even sure he knows which direction he's going, not sure he even cares anymore. He pulls out and takes a right, through Kill Devil Hills and into Kitty Hawk. He could stop at the water for a while, if he can find a parking spot. He scans the road, looking for a place to turn, his tired eyes drifting over the stretches of strip malls, the stores and restaurants, all nautical-themed. Soundings' Café, Blackbeard's Books, the Porthole Pub, Barnacles and Brass Galleries—

Barnacles and Brass
.

The name cuts through the thick fog of his tired brain. He lifts his foot off the gas reflexively. Why does it strike him as familiar?

Think, dammit.

Then it arrives.

“Sam and I are planning to go out to Kitty Hawk to see a man with an antique shop . . . Barnacles and Brass Antiques . . . Goofy name, but he specializes in old letters. . . .”

Whit spins the van into the first parking lot to turn himself around, so abruptly the SUV behind him shrieks out an angry horn. Sure, he's in Kitty Hawk, but so many years later, the chance that it's the same place, that it's any connection at all is slim. Still, he's just exhausted enough, just desperate enough, that he'll check to be sure. The Open sign hangs in the window above a pair of watercolors; big, bold paintings that belong in the big, bold homes that line the coast—homes like the one he snuck them into years earlier.

Even before he steps inside, Whit knows this is a foolish chase, but he's already in, and frankly he's grateful for the fresh, cool blast of air-conditioning. The woman at the counter is young and pretty, and he can see she is trying desperately hard not to appear disappointed when he arrives. He hardly looks the type to be making large purchases of art. When she smiles, he decides that if nothing else, he will buy something from her. He scans the wall and chooses a woodcut of terns. It doesn't matter how much it costs.

“I love this one too,” she says, ringing him up. He smiles, thinking that she must be a student, that she's got so much ahead of her, and that she probably thinks it can't come soon enough. “Is this your first time visiting us?” she asks as she runs his credit card and hands it back to him.

“No, I just . . .”
What the hell?
he thinks.
Tell he
r. “I was
driving by and the name reminded me of a place I'd heard about a long time ago.”

“This used to be an antique store. Maybe that's what you're thinking of?”

Whit's fingers slow as he takes the card from her and slips it back into his wallet. “I think so, yeah.”

“That was my grandfather's store. My mom took it over when he died and she changed the last part of the name. He sold nautical memorabilia. Maps and letters. It wasn't really her thing.”

“He specializes in old letters. You never know. . . .”

Don't quit now.
“Cool,” he says casually, conversationally, as if his heart isn't racing, as if his whole world doesn't hang on the answer to his next question. “So, what happened to it all?”

“The maps went to a collector, but there's still some boxes in the back with other stuff. My mom keeps meaning to call the Historical Society to get it all. She said she wouldn't feel right just chucking it. All that work he put into it, those years of history. It's important, you know?”

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

She hands him his purchase, and the tug of chance keeps him standing there, keeps the stupid grin plastered on his face. It's not as if he hasn't made an ass of himself already today, already asked the impossible and been given it.

“I don't suppose you kept any of the old letters he might have collected?”

“I could go back and check,” the young woman says. “He labeled everything.”

“I'm kind of a history buff. I'd love to get a look at them. I'd be glad to pay whatever you wanted.”

The bell on the door jingles, signaling a new customer. A pair of older women wearing visors and Outer Banks T-shirts. They
ooh
and
aah
at a huge canvas of the Bodie Island Lighthouse.

The young woman's eyes return to him, flashing with hesitation. “I'm the only one in the store right now, so I have to stay up front,” she says. “But my mom should be here in a half hour if you can wait.”

Whit smiles, the best one he's got in his arsenal. The one he's been told makes his eyes turn a little turquoise, and his dimples sink all the way down his jaw.

At least, that's what Liv used to tell him.

“I can wait,” he says.

•   •   •

“T
his must be Diane.”

Sam points to the silver Mercedes that slides up into the driveway. A middle-aged blonde who looks only faintly like her glossy portrait on the sign steps out and waves to them where they have been waiting on the steps.

“I can't believe we're doing this,” Liv whispers as the woman approaches. “She'll know we're not serious.”

Sam slides his hand into hers and holds on. “Which is why I'll tell her we're a couple. It'll carry more weight.”

Before Liv can argue, the woman arrives and extends her hand, a stack of gold bracelets colliding at her wrist.

“The property has only been on the market for a few weeks, but there's been a great deal of interest,” Diane says as she opens the front door and ushers them in. “I'm surprised it's still available.”

The smell is different—that's Liv's first thought as she follows Sam into the house. Cleaning spray. The grassy smell of new sisal rugs. And they've painted the taupe walls vivid shades of terra-cotta and mustard and teal.

“I'm not crazy about the palette,” Diane says chummily, “but paint's an easy fix. Everything else is in great condition. It's move-in ready. And what a time of year to move in, right?” She steers them through the kitchen, pointing out the gourmet appliances she doesn't know they once used, the Sub-Zero fridge they once filled with far too much food, and they smile with appropriate awe. Liv glances at Sam, wondering if he's changed his mind about their charade.

“Wait until you see the view from the deck,” Diane practically squeals. “It's worth the price alone.”

When they are outside, Sam finally admits, “We stayed here once. A long time ago.”

Diane turns to them, her blue eyes wide. “And here you are, back to possibly buy it.” She passes a smile between them. “How romantic is that?”

Diane leads them back inside to the kitchen, stopping at the polished granite counter they piled their groceries on years earlier. It had seemed so much bigger to Liv then.

You'd think this was our last meal on earth.

“I just have to make a quick call,” Diane says, holding up her phone, “but there's a master suite and four additional bedrooms upstairs. Feel free to go on up and look around. I won't be long.”

They watch Diane exit onto the deck and wait until she's on her phone before they turn to each other.

“Told you she'd buy it,” Sam says.

Because she hopes we will,
Liv thinks as she circles the island.

“It looks the same, doesn't it?” he says.

“Not to me.”

Sam comes around the counter to where she stands. “What's different?”

“I'm not sure exactly.” A safe answer, she thinks. But Sam's gaze is level with hers and unrelenting.

“You heard Diane.” He takes her hand. “We should see the bedrooms.”

•   •   •

W
alking up the stairs, Liv doesn't dare look down. It doesn't matter that the walls are newly painted, or the smell of clam broth is no longer thick in the air—doesn't matter that she insisted the space seemed different to her. In this moment, as she's following Sam to the second floor, time has turned back and everything is as it was that night.

And just like that night, they wander down the hall, in and out of rooms, until they reach the very last door.

Sam steps back to let Liv cross the threshold first. The bed is in a different place. No longer against the wall, it sits in the center of the room. Liv can't imagine why anyone would set it there. She moves to the window instead, wanting to be as far from the bed as she can, as if it is a mountain lion curled up but not asleep. It terrifies her. But not Sam. He circles it close, like the mattress is a roaring fire, offering heat on a cold night. She wishes he'd move away from it.

“We're back where we started, Liv.”

She flattens herself against the windows. “Where we all started.”

“I'm not talking about the three of us.”

He comes toward her. The memory of his kiss invades her thoughts, flashes every time she blinks like a bulb stared at too long.

The last time they were in this room together, she'd pleaded with him not to go, not to leave her. Is he waiting for her to ask the same thing again? His gaze is level, even, familiar.
That's
the Sam she remembers. Controlled and calm. Not the Sam who concocts wild stories and fantasies for a Realtor—who is he?

She's sure he'll come beside her, but he slows several feet away, taking in the view. “He's not here, Liv.”