The Last Treasure (7 page)

Liv had been so sure they'd sailed through their day of delicious deceit, until after dinner, when she was dressing for bed. Her father's voice growing downstairs, the unmistakable volume of his disapproval. He'd received a call from Mrs. Wilson, making sure that Liv was feeling better. When her mother had come in to kiss her good night, Liv could still see the shimmer of leftover tears coating her eyes.

“It's not fair,” Liv had whispered.

“It's not his fault, sweetie. People aren't always who you think they are. Sometimes they pretend to be someone else when you meet them, because they think you won't love them otherwise.” Liza had brushed back Liv's bangs, her eyes filling. “But I'm not sorry we ran away today. Not even a little.”

Was that what they'd done? Liv had thought they'd taken a trip—her mother had imagined it as so much more.

Then Liza had pressed her forehead against Liv's and kept it there. “We can't call ourselves explorers if we never go anywhere, can we?”

All explorers face risk. . . .

Lost in memory, Liv took several seconds to realize that the watery splash of blue twinkling in the leftover moisture on her windshield was parked outside her father's house, and blood rushed to her scalp. There were two cruisers, one in the driveway, another against the curb. Liv parked and dashed up the stairs, the sweat of panic already coating her upper lip.
God, let him be okay.

A middle-aged policeman, ruddy-faced and compact, marched out of the front door, palms up to slow her advance.

“I live here. Is my father—?”

“He's fine.” A second officer appeared, tall and fair-haired and brushing rain off his sleeves. “He thought he heard someone in the house. We checked around, didn't see any sign of entry.”

Liv swallowed hard to catch her breath. Between their shoulders, she could see her neighbor Mrs. Carlin poking out her front door and wearing a condemning frown. She'd be over the next morning, the nosy crow—Liv would put money on it—pretending to give a damn when all she wanted was gossip to share with the Vendells next door.

She waited until both cruisers had pulled out before she went inside. The sink light was on in the kitchen. The air smelled of lemon disinfectant. She walked carefully into the den and
found her father sitting in the dark, staring out the window onto the street.

She took a seat at the end of the couch and waited for him to speak. The rain had started again, drops clicking on the roof like tapping nails.

His eyes remained fixed on the glass. “I left you five messages.”

She closed her eyes. “I was in the library and I had to mute my—”

“What's the point of having a phone if you won't answer it?”

She rose, not wanting this battle tonight. “I'll make you something to eat.”

“Don't bother. I had a granola bar. It was the only way I could take my pills.”

“You didn't have to do that, Poppy. There was a box of frozen lasagna.”

“The plastic wrap had a small hole,” he said. “I couldn't take the chance.”

Of course not.

“There've been break-ins on this street, Livy.”

One, six months ago, four blocks away. Kids had opened an unlocked car and stolen two cases of Diet Coke out of the backseat. Liv might have pointed this out if she'd thought there might be any use in it. For a man so enamored of facts—and with such distaste for fantasy—her father confounded her with his twisted logic. Scared her.

She moved for the stairs.

“You reek of smoke.”

She stopped in the doorway, the flush of embarrassment burning her cheeks. “There were people smoking in the car next to mine in the parking lot.”

“Didn't you tell them you have asthma?”

“It's fine, Poppy.”

“You should have told them. You should have taken out your inhaler and used it then and there. Made them feel a little bit lousy. Selfish jerks.”

She sighed quietly. “I'm sorry I wasn't here.”

When he didn't answer, she walked to the stairs and began to climb.

•   •   •

L
iv undressed and slid under her sheets, raising the hem of her nightgown enough to let the cool cotton slide over her thighs and stomach. In the tree outside her window, a bird fluttered in the branches, rustling with alarm. Maybe she wasn't the only one in this suffocating night who searched for flight.

Her heart knocked around her chest like loose change. She closed her eyes, letting memories of the evening return. Losing herself in all those slides. Standing up in the auditorium, debating with Dr. Harold Warner, feeling so smart and fierce in that safe, quiet dark. Then the way Sam Felder had looked at her when the lights came up, the admiration in his warm brown eyes. He believed she was outspoken, freethinking. Maybe even bold when she wanted to be. What would he have thought if he'd seen her creep into her father's house like
a scared fourteen-year-old girl who'd missed curfew, not a twenty-one-year-old woman who should have been free to stay out for as long as she wanted, with whomever she wanted?

She rolled onto her back and stared up at the unmoving fan blades, shame washing over her.

At the party, she'd watched students drink and laugh and flirt without any concern for clocks or schedules. God, what was that like? Just the other day she'd met a junior named Amy who'd boasted of overnights at her boyfriend's off-campus apartment and the diner down the block where they regularly gorged on pumpkin pancakes at three in the morning.

Three in the morning.

Just the thought of it had made Liv's heart flood with envy.

She turned onto her side and listened to the familiar creaks of her father finally leaving his window post and climbing the stairs, the soft click of his door closing, then the hush of nothingness. Through her screen, the night crackled suddenly with sound, somehow louder now. She wasn't tired. Not even a little. Her pulse raced beneath her skin. Everywhere she touched, her neck, her hip, her knee, she could feel her heartbeat.

“All explorers face risk. . . .”

She could say she was going away with her class, that it was required for a grade. Yes, it was last minute, but she wouldn't be far and she'd have her phone with her, in case of emergencies. She could say whatever she needed to say to get away. Her father could manage for two days without her. Surely he could.

Yes. Yes, he could.

We can't call ourselves explorers if we never go anywhere, can we?

“No, we can't,” Liv whispered into the darkness.

When she'd come out of the party, she'd squinted into the misty night and felt the knot of dread twist behind her ribs not to see Sam and Whit right away, sure they'd changed their minds at the last minute and abandoned her, that this was what she got for pretending to be someone she wasn't.

Then she'd seen them, two figures just beyond the edge of the streetlight, and her fisted heart had unfurled. Sam Felder stepping inside the bright globe and waving to signal her, solid and sure. And behind him, Whit, a tall mass of black except for the tiny orange dot of a cigarette tip, glowing and fading with each drag. Blinking like a lighthouse beacon, Liv had thought. But God help the woman who steered her boat toward Whit Crosby's rocky
shore.

TOPSAIL ISLAND, NORTH CAROLINA

Wednesday

T
he remnants of overnight clouds stretch across the dawn sky, wispy and thinning like strands of cotton candy, and Whit is glad to see them.

He's slept poorly, but it's always this way the night before a dive. Excitement and anticipation race through his head like sugared-up kids stuck inside on a rainy day; his brain won't shut off. But it's not just his head that's hyperactive—his heart won't slow either.

He stops his pacing to rest awhile in the window seat. Across the enormous bedroom, he searches the darkness for their bed. It takes his eyes a while to adjust, but he can make out Liv's sleeping form, or maybe it's just memory filling in the blanks.

The first night he ever spent with her, he watched her like this, nursing a drink in the cramped blue-black of the berth, considering the beauty of her face, the slope of her body, parts covered and uncovered. He was in love with her even before that first day they met after the lecture when she'd corrected that asshole Warner, so much longer than she'll ever know. It had killed him to watch her and Sam grow close in Hatteras, knowing Sam Felder had already won her heart before Whit had even had a turn at bat. Finally getting to sleep with her had been like a dream you never wanted to wake up from.

Now here he is again, eight years later, afraid to fall asleep, afraid he might wake to find her gone. Just a dream.

A damp wind blows through the casement windows that box in the bedroom, tinged now with the heat of daybreak and the taste of salt. Even this far away, he can smell the soft vanilla of her skin. She hasn't moved much—is she having a good dream? Is he in it? Is Sam?

When Liv decided not to welcome Sam right away, Whit was relieved. Hell, he was thrilled. Then he interrupted their reunion in the kitchen and felt that confidence leak out. The way she looked at him when he blew in, the panic in her eyes that he might ruin this mission before they even got out on the water. Her lack of faith crushed him—but what did he expect? He hasn't always kept his promises.

She's out there and we'll find her.

He climbs to his feet, restless again, and walks to the stretch of windows that look out onto the water. They've got a good crew. He's worked with the older guys before—the others came recommended. One is very young, just twenty, and he'll make
a good deckhand. Whit saw the agreeable way he smiled at everything the other guys said at dinner, how loudly he laughed at their terrible jokes, how quickly he offered to get more beers, more food.

Whit rubs his face, his jaw. He just wants to get to the site, start bringing everything up so there can be no contention, no doubt. He just wants it to be six already. But no matter how many times he cuts his gaze to the sky, that one damn streak of pink seems frozen, determined to sit on dawn's rise for as long as possible. The surf keeps curling over the shore and retreating, the ticktock of its rhythm. He turns back to watch Liv as the even sound of her breathing matches it.

And in the seconds of quiet between the rise and crash of every wave, Whit swears he can already hear the gentle crack of her heart breaking.

•   •   •

A
flock of terns plunges to the water, their capped heads descending in unison, purple in the muted dawn light. Sam watches them from his seat on the sand, admiring their order and grace. He's always the first one up. He and the birds. His dreams were strange and chaotic, but what else would they be after seeing Liv and Whit again after so long? Liv
with
Whit. It doesn't make sense.
They
don't make sense. Not the way he and Liv had—that's for sure.

He wipes sweat off his neck with his T-shirt sleeve. Even after a hard run on the beach, he still feels amped up. He blames the house. All this space. A huge bed in a huge room. He's grown used to small quarters, come to crave them, frankly.
Too much wide-open space isn't good for a person—too much empty air needing to be filled with useless thoughts. Like his physical belongings, he believes in limiting his footprint too. But not Whit.

Typical Crosby, getting them something so outrageous.

He squints out at the water. They'll have a good day out there. No wind, no chop. They certainly celebrated well enough the night before. Sam remembers the wasteland of trash he passed on the deck as he left for the beach, empty bottles and crumpled napkins, paper plates still soggy with barbecue sauce and shrimp tails. Good to know Whit still leaves his messes for other people to clean up.

He should get coffee, get ready to go. Climbing the walkway back to the house, he sees a few of the crew wandering the deck with mugs. The house is waking. And somewhere up there Liv and Whit are also coming to—or maybe they've been awake for a while, restless as he is.

Sam had been so close to telling Liv about the diary last night. Looking into those mossy green eyes of hers, he'd felt the knot of his patience tugged hard, teased to the point where one smile, however small or short, and the rope he'd so carefully tied would have come undone in an instant.

Then Whit had crashed in—in that classic, infuriating Everybody-look-at-me way he always did, and the moment was gone.

Maybe it was better that he hadn't told her. Too fast, too soon. Too much.

He has time. After all, Whit will do something to blow this. Screwups are in Whit Crosby's DNA. Sam has no doubt
this mission won't last. Despite his claims to Liv, Sam doesn't give much of a damn anymore about treasure. He knows there's nothing of value in that blockade runner Whit's brought them all here to strip bare. But Sam isn't here for fortune.

His eyes drift to the second floor, to the tall bank of windows that belong to the other master suite, and an unwelcome cramp of envy twists his gut.

One good thing about so much space: He won't have to hear them screw.

•   •   •

“H
ey, Sleeping Beauty.”

Liv wakes to the delicious sensation of a soft breeze on her bare skin—or maybe fingertips. She isn't sure which until she opens her eyes and sees Whit, dressing on the other side of the room, pulling on a T-shirt. The curtains float and fall with the air off the water.

She sits up and pushes hair out of her face. “Did you sleep?”

He grins. “Shit, do I look that bad?”

“Don't joke. You don't dive well when you don't sleep.”

She's nagging him—as if they were an old married couple. Is that how Sam sees them?

Sam
. A flurry of apprehension snakes in her stomach. Sam is in the house with them this morning—Sam. Here. Back. So many years later, they are all roommates again—only this time, she is Whit's wife.

She hugs her knees to her chest, baring her spine to the breeze. “Whit?”

He stops in the doorway, turns to her, and the fluttering wings of her heartbeat settle. Maybe it's where he's standing, directly in the path of the early sun, his hair and jaw catching the boldest streaks of gold and apricot, or maybe it's the warm, oddly sweet breeze that passes between them—but she's filled with longing for him. The sort she used to feel when they'd be left alone, a dangerous possibility that he might be the one to allow her the escape she craved, the approval to seize her own needs without apology. He may have foundered, may have sent them spinning for a bit, but he's fixed it. He's righted their ship and put them back on course. And for the first time in weeks, she thinks:
We'll be okay
.

“I love you,” she says.

He grabs his shirt above his heart, grips it hard, and smiles. “I love you more.”

•   •   •

I
dling engines rumble in the driveway, doors slam, feet stomp up and down stairs. Departure. Liv loves every second. The energy of the first day on the water, the crackle of possibility that trails behind them all like a dog, tags jingling and tail whirling, who knows he is about to go for his walk.

But there is a calm to their frenzy too. No racing to the marina as they did their first go-round. Now the boat waits for them. Just a cup of coffee and Liv will be ready. There's some left in the pot, enough to get her started, and she empties it into a mug, then opens the fridge for cream. As she hunts, she hears movement in the foyer, the rush of air of the door opening and someone marching in. Whit, no doubt—having forgotten something.

She smiles as she turns. “What did you—? Oh.”

“Morning.” Sam motions behind her. “I just came back for waters.”

“Of course.” She steps aside to let him at the fridge. A memory flashes—their old apartment, making cappuccino on lazy Sunday mornings that were seconds away from becoming afternoons, the cloud of foam he could always coax from the machine for her, whipped and slightly shiny like meringue. How she'd loved the sound of the growing froth, hollow and even.

He nods toward the window and the view of supper's carnage. “I bet you're hoping the cleaning fairies will come and get rid of all that while we're gone, huh?”

“How did you know?”

“Wild guess.”

He's pulling at that part of her that used to crave order, that cleaned and neatened obsessively. When she and Sam lived together, she never went to bed with dishes in the sink. Now she wakes to a house in chaos.

Sam grabs a pair of tall bottles, wedges them under his arm, and smiles. “At least this time we won't be late.”

•   •   •

B
y seven, they are on the water, speeding out into the Atlantic in the taxi boat to where the
Aqua Blue
waits for them. Whit seems unusually restless, Liv thinks as she watches him pace the crowded deck. It isn't like him. This part of the mission is usually when her husband shines brightest, infecting the crew with his fierce optimism, like a football
coach rallying his team in the locker room before the big game. Instead Whit seems distracted, detached. She wonders if Sam has noticed.

The
Aqua Blue
is an older boat, spacious and a little creaky, but still Liv swears her pulse syncs itself with the rhythm of her engines, the hum of her propellers, when they finally board. Their captain is a wiry man in his fifties named JT who wants to give them an orientation tour as soon as they are settled. They chartered a much larger salvage vessel when they excavated the
Bella Donna
, but Liv prefers this scale. Too big scares her. Not unlike the house Whit has rented for them.

They convene in the cockpit, where Whit is preparing the map they will use to chart the debris field, cataloging where they find artifacts. Sam suggests they dig first before sending divers down, but Whit is adamant they all get to the bottom right away. The current is already kicking, he says.

Following the safety briefing, they suit up. They'll go in two groups, Sam decides, and begin to map the site by setting grid lines around the wreck, marking north, south, east, and west. Once the ropes are set, the survey can begin. He tells Liv that she will go in the second group, a plan that fills her with much-needed calm. As confident as she is in her diving, she likes knowing Whit will be below if anything should happen. Not that anything
will
happen.

Her wet suit on, she goes to find Whit. He's alone outside the bridge, slugging coffee as if it's last call at the pub.

“What's wrong?” she says.

Whit turns and looks startled, as if he's been found
sleepwalking. “We should have been down a half hour ago,” he says. “I don't like wasting time.”

“Safety checks aren't wasting time.”

“I'm not talking about safety checks.”

“What, then?” But she knows. “This is why we asked Sam, Whit. Because he does things the way they should be done—”

“By the book. I know, I know.” He bites his lip and stares hard at the men on deck. “Don't let Chuck use the metal detector,” he says. “I want Dennis. He's better with it.”

She studies him. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine, baby. Fine.” He flashes an unconvincing smile and leans in to kiss her. “Just ready to get into the old girl's pants, that's all.”

“You always did have a way with words, Crosby.” Sam appears, suited up. Liv can't help remembering the first time she saw them together in their wet suits and gear, how her breath had caught at the sight of them.

It does again.

“Are we good to go?” Whit asks.

“Not quite,” Sam says. “Dennis thinks he's bringing down the metal detector on our initial dive.”

“That's the plan,” says Whit.

“Well, I don't want one down there until the grid lines are set.”

Here we go,
Liv thinks. She shoots Whit an imploring look, pleading for him to back off and let Sam do his job.

Liv can see it takes all of Whit's control—which has never been much to begin with—to grit his teeth and agree. He gives her hand a quick squeeze and heads for the deck.

Sam comes closer. “He seems unusually wound up.”

“He didn't sleep well.”

She's making excuses for him—as Sam used to accuse her of doing—but now she has every right.

“Maybe he shouldn't dive, then,” says Sam.

“You try telling him that.”

Sam smiles. “You sure you don't mind going with the second group?”

“No,” Liv says. “But I can't help wondering if you're still trying to keep me topside.”

She means it as a joke, only to tease him, but his eyes flash with something so close to hurt that she adds, “I'm glad to go second, actually. I like to know there's a welcoming party waiting for me.”

His smile returns but only partially. “That was always the idea, Liv.”

•   •   •

W
hit, Sam, and two of the crew go down first. Liv watches them descend, her heart racing with a mix of hope and dread. She just hopes they can all survive down there. She's let Whit make so many decisions about this mission—even the ones usually left in her hands: securing the license and filling out all the necessary paperwork—and now it's making her nervous.