The Last Treasure (15 page)

“I can't believe you wanted to throw it away,” Liv said.

Whit glanced at her and chuckled faintly.

She frowned, confused. “What?”

“Sam told me we forgot it at the house.”

“He said that?”

Whit waved his hand. “It doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it does,” Liv said. “You should have it back.”

“I want you to have it, Red. It's the least I can do for ruining your towel.”

“It's just a towel.”

“It's just a map.” He lowered himself carefully down to her mattress, resting his head on her pillow. “I promise not to bleed on your sheets. I just want to close my eyes for a second, okay? Just a second . . .”

She rescued the seltzer from his hand as the bottle began to tip and capped it. She could sleep on the couch in the common room. Covered with one of her clean sheets, she'd never have to touch any of the sticky residue of late-night cram sessions, the stains of pizza grease and spilled beer. She reached carefully past his head for an extra pillow and paused briefly, her hand suspended over his temple, and a stretch of thick, wild waves. Her fingers trembled as they dropped, sinking briefly into his hair and sliding upward, deep enough that she could feel the heat of his scalp against her fingertips. When he stirred, she straightened, deciding she'd go without a pillow and take a blanket from her shelf instead. At the door, she stopped and turned back, finding him fast asleep, one leg falling
off the side of her bed. A swell of tenderness and something else—something charged and hopeful—rose inside her. A longing she couldn't quite grasp.

She hugged the blanket to her chest and whispered, “Good night, Whit.”

Then, flicking off the light, she stepped out into the glare and soft silence of the hall and shut the door.

•   •   •

S
he woke to the nutty smell of coffee and then the brief weight of Sam's mouth on hers, teasing her lips awake. Disoriented, she blinked until the common room came into view beyond his shoulder, looking dusty and unpleasant in the piercing light of morning.

She sat up and pulled at her twisted shirt.

“A peace offering.” He held out a to-go cup with a curl of steam.

She eyed it, then him. “A cup of coffee? That's your peace offering?”

“I'm sorry about last night. I was pissed at Whit and I took it out on you by not spending the night.” He smiled. “How'd you like to come to Chicago with me for winter break?”

Ripples of excitement shuddered behind her ribs. “Are you kidding? Of course!”

“I know you can't leave your dad for the whole time, but at least part of it.”

Her father. Right.

A student lumbered in and grunted something as he retrieved
a textbook off the coffee table. She and Sam came apart, sharing a sheepish smile.

“Is there a reason we're not having this conversation in your room?” he whispered.

Whit
.

Walking down the hallway, Liv grappled with how to prepare Sam for the strange news that Whit Crosby had invaded her room in the middle of the night, that he'd arrived in a stupor and that she'd let him in. How could she, when their truce was still fresh, as tacky as a new coat of paint, and she was about to smudge it all to hell when she opened that door?

“Sam, last night—”

But he'd already opened her door for her, already stepped in, and when she did after him, Liv felt a rush of relief leave her throat. Her bed was empty and crudely made up, the towel she'd let Whit use hanging off the back of her chair, speckled with constellations of dried blood. She darted toward it, hoping to hide it, but Sam reached for the towel first.

“Is this blood?” he asked.

“It's nothing—I cut myself on that stupid plastic packaging they put everything in these days,” she lied.

“Jesus, are you okay?”

“I'm fine.”

“Look, there's even some on your shirt,” he said, sliding his thumb over her sleeve.

“Oh God, really?” She looked down in a panic, startled to see drops of dark brown below her shoulder.

“Better get this in the wash,” he said, already hooking his
hands under the hem and sliding the fabric up her body. She lifted her arms and let him ease the shirt over her head, let him slip it through her hair and away.

His eyes held hers, darkening with desire. “You started to say something about last night?”

She rolled her lips together, panic surging. This was it. If she told him Whit had spent the night, if she said it now, it would be easily washed off, maybe even laughed about—
that screwup Crosby
—but to say it later, even ten minutes later, after they'd made love and wound their flushed bodies together, would make it something secret, something shameful. People only lied when they felt guilty. What did she have to feel guilty for?

Her eyes flicked toward the chart as she remembered Whit's claim, Sam's lie. She'd bring it up later—she'd have to. But then Sam coaxed her underwear down, covering her bare skin with the curve of his palms and digging his fingers possessively into her flesh. When his hands slid between her legs, Liv told herself there was nothing to confess. Just friends being friends. Stealing a sliver of the night together. For all she knew, for all it mattered, she might have just dreamed it all. Whit in her doorway, his stream of confessions. Blood on a towel, an empty bottle of seltzer in her wastebasket.

And just like that, the guilt was gone—and Sam was inside her, rolling her over sheets that smelled faintly of old smoke.

It was only when he slipped out to use the bathroom afterward that she saw the small package on her desk, an unfamiliar crumple of newspaper that fell away when she turned it over in her hands to reveal a key, the kind used to open old padlocks, spots of leftover sediment dotting the thick shaft.

The concretion. Had Sam uncovered it to surprise her?

She turned the key under her lamp, running her fingertips lightly over the prickly brass, and then her eyes caught on a slip of lined notebook paper that must have fallen out.

Red:

You dropped this in the Student Union, so I took the liberty of cleaning it off for you. Hope that's okay. Amazing what treasure you can find when you scrape off years of crud, isn't it?

WC

OUTER BANKS, NORTH CAROLINA

Wednesday

T
here's so much she's forgotten. Crossing over the Alligator River, passing the seagull sentries along Warner Bridge, Liv can't believe she's back on the Outer Banks again. And it's Sam beside her. Sam, taking her to what might be the answer she has been searching for all these years.

We'll find her . . . I promise . . .

Not Whit. Sam.

She has forgotten too how built up Nags Head has become, the many chain stores and restaurants that line the North Croatan Highway when they veer left after crossing the sound, away from Hatteras and the untouched stretch of the National Seashore. She longs to be steered toward Beach Road, but the museum is on the main drag, on the edge of Kill Devil Hills;
the name, so deliciously sinister, used to fill her with possibility. She is pleased to find it does still.

The Outer Banks Shipwreck Museum is a stark, modern building—long and square and chalk white. The parking lot is empty but for two cars, and Sam pulls the truck between them. The sign at the head of the tidy gravel path claims the museum closes at five, but Sam assures her Beth has stayed late for them, and indeed the wide glass door surrenders when he pulls on it. The slick, soapy scent of fresh paint and recently polished floors blows at Liv the moment they step inside. It is a huge space, bright and clean and new. All around her, artifacts and photographs, the malty odor of history and secrets, all born of the sea. Realization shudders through her again, knocking her slightly sideways:
Theodosia
. Memories swirl and collide—at the aquarium with her mother, walking the beach with Sam, waking up on
Theo's Wish
with Whit . . .

She's back in the swell of this wave, maybe finally about to crest. And it is as if she's never been gone.

Sam touches her arm, steadying her, bringing her back.

He smiles. “I'll go find Beth.”

•   •   •

T
he receptionist must be a college student, Sam thinks as he approaches the rounded information desk and sees her bright, wide face. Maybe not much older than Liv was when Sam first met her. The young woman offers to call Beth, and Sam steps to the side while she does so, admiring a row of black-and-white photographs: portraits of
lighthouse keepers, from Cape Hatteras and Bodie Island, the creases in their weathered faces in sharp contrast to the unblemished taupe wall they hang from. They all look desperately haunted. Even the ones trying to hold a faint smile. He's spent plenty of time visiting lighthouses and studying the stories of their devoted keepers; he knows the loneliness behind their unblinking eyes. It's not a job for the faint of heart, certainly wasn't then. A few times in his life, Sam considered such a post for himself, but the position is changed now—no more cathartic marches up and down stairs to trim wicks and lower blinds. Everything is automated.

He doesn't regret being here with Liv; he's not sorry he encouraged her to come. Not even a little sorry he let Whit think he meant to leave. All those years Sam forgave Whit his lies. So he changed his mind and decided to stay—so what? It wasn't a lie, certainly not of Whit's caliber. As he paces up and down the exhibit, hands deep in his pockets, Sam wonders if Liv has stolen around a corner to call Whit. Once Whit had the power to talk her out of things, to confuse her good sense with his crazed antilogic, but Sam isn't so sure anymore. He knows it isn't even about being here with him, Sam, but it's about Theodosia. Sam would like to see Whit convince Liv to leave this opportunity, like to hear him try.

“Thanks, Jenny.”

Beth's voice sails across the floor and Sam glances over to find her at the reception desk. The life of a museum director suits her. She looks crisp and modern, even sexy, in slacks and a fitted top, and for a moment the nearness of her overwhelms
him, the strangeness of this reunion. After so many years away from that life, that he should find himself reunited with Liv, and now Beth Henson.

When they are close enough, she reaches for him, the unmistakable gesture of invitation, and Sam receives her hug, taking in a whiff of her citrus perfume. When she steps back, her eyes are shiny.

“How many years has it been?” she asks.

“Too many.”

She smiles. “You look great.”

“You too.” He gestures to the displays. “This is quite a place.”

“We're still in the process of raising funds to complete the permanent exhibitions,” Beth says. “The diary will bring in some much-needed exposure and donations. We're quite excited.”

“You should be. It was nice of you to let me know.”

“Like I said, you popped right into my head as soon as we received the journal.” When Beth turns to steer them away from the desk, her gaze slows and Sam sees she has spotted Liv across the floor, circling a glassed-in model of the
Priscilla
. “Is that . . . ?”

“Liv Connelly,” Sam says. “Do you remember her?” Beth's smile drops the tiniest bit; Sam catches the shift before she repairs it. “Liv and I are working together on a salvage project just down the coast.”

“Together? But I thought you and she had . . . ?”

“We did.” He meets her eyes, nearly as dark as his own. “She married Whit Crosby.”

“Oh.” Beth's smile resurrects itself, higher now. She steps closer and another gust of perfume drifts toward him.

Liv has seen them and starts walking, waving as she nears.

•   •   •

B
eth has let her hair grow. It falls to her shoulders now and her bangs are gone. She looks softer, Liv thinks. Or maybe it's just that they've all softened with age. Liv rubs her palms down the front of her shorts as she walks behind Sam and Beth, feeling as wrinkled and incidental as a used fast food wrapper.

Beth leads them into the conference room and closes the door behind them. The diary is the only thing on a long table that fills most of the room, the cover olive green under the fluorescents. Liv can practically feel the soft leather under her fingertips, practically smell the nutty, salty paper beneath. A box of white gloves sits beside it. Waiting for Sam to find Beth, she'd felt unglued, unmoored, unsure of what she was doing here. Now, as she is staring down at the journal, any doubt has vanished. Her ribs tighten with anticipation; her hands tingle.

In an instant, the stretch of years devoid of this obsession folds in like a fan. It's as if she never stopped hunting.

Liv advances on the book first, fastest, slowed by the pair of chairs that sit in front of it like a gentle fence. Beth joins her and remains close, as if Liv is a child in the glassware section of a department store. Liv has to remind herself not to take it personally. This is, after all, Beth's work. To allow them this viewing must have required special allowances from the museum board. Or maybe Beth hasn't told them.

Liv wants to assure her that she won't scoop the book up and run out the door with it—maybe ten years ago she might have seriously considered it—but when Liv turns to Beth, Beth's attention is focused solely, fiercely, on Sam.

“You understand, I'll have to stay in the room with you,” Beth says. “As much as I'd like to let you have time alone with it, let you turn the pages yourself, I just can't—”

“No need to explain,” Sam says. “We know the drill.”

Liv frowns down at the journal, marveling at its length. She recognizes its distinctive shape. “It's a logbook.”

“Correct,” Beth says. “The first half of the entries were made by a lightkeeper. We suspect that's why no one noticed it before. A person has to wade through a great deal of weather reports and repair notes. Theodosia used the blank pages in the back.”

“But where would she have gotten a lightkeeper's logbook?” Liv asks.

Beth smiles. “You'll see when you read it. Or would you rather I just give you an overview first?”

Not on your life,
Liv thinks. Two decades of study and searching and waiting—no one will spoil this ending for her.

When she looks over to meet Sam's eyes, they darken in agreement.

Beth tugs out a pair of gloves and pulls them on. “I thought I might stand and turn the pages from here,” she says, moving to the other side of the table.

Sam gestures for Liv to take a seat first. A warm, woody smell rises when Beth eases back the cover, despite the plastic
sheet that encapsulates it. Beth has marked the beginning of Theodosia's entries and opens to the exact spot, carefully removing the tissue sheet so they can begin.

Liv presses her hands into her lap, needing to keep her fingers occupied for fear she might reach out and fondle the page Beth has just bared to them. How badly she wants to slide the faded paper between her thumb and forefinger, as if Theodosia's pulse still remained in the fibers, the delicate edges scalloped with age and wear, stained the pale brown of an egg.

When she swallows, the sour-sweet flavor of anticipation coats her tongue, then the quickest blast of bitterness.

Forgive me for not waiting, Whit.

Sam reaches for her hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze, as if they are pilots taking their first flight.

They lean forward together, and Liv has to remind herself to breathe.

January 6, 1813

Papa, there is so much I want to tell you, and yet I know not where to begin. Or how.

It is now seven days since the
Patriot
left Georgetown, seven days since I took to the sea carrying the promise of our reunion like a shiny coin in my purse, the sole glimmer of hope left in my sorrowful heart.

Now I sit in a bare and drafty room, watching a giant man with wild red hair march up and down the
stretch of beach beyond my prison's only window. I know not what he waits for, or perhaps who, any more than I know if I've been delivered to an island or simply a bleak finger of shore still connected to land.

We arrived here together three days ago, he and I, though not by choice—at least, not for me. As for his preference in this crude arrangement, I can't be certain. What I am certain of is that in a few hours, he will cease his relentless watch and climb the dunes to this cottage as he has done the previous evenings. I will hear the door below give with a groan and then his boots will fall hard on the crooked steps to my room. He won't bother to knock and I won't bother to grant him entrance. He will set a bowl of watered cornmeal just inside the door frame and leave me with it, and I will do my best to pretend it doesn't exist for several hours until my hunger wins out and I lick the bowl clean. Then I will take to my bed—a term I use loosely, as would you, Papa, were you to witness the sour, stained mattress I have been provided—and I will wait for sleep to come.

Aren't I the sharp one? you are thinking, Papa. Seven days and she's learned the routine of her prison! But then, there is so little to it. After all the years I organized your household, Papa, keeping the clockworks of our estate's rigorous schedules in constant order and polish. Now I have only the responsibilities of swallowing gruel and staring at a man who stares at the sea. What a pair we are.

If not for this logbook I found, and the blessed empty pages it contained, I would not have the company of my words, and a record I will keep of this horrific journey only to preserve my history in the event that I forget it, if such a blessing is possible, not because I fear it will be my legacy. For I am sure that any day now, Papa, you will submit their ransom and I will be free to come to you at last.

January 7, 1813

I have solved the mystery, Papa. My captor waits for a boat.

Shortly after dawn, a rowboat slid into the inlet and a man unloaded several baskets to the flame-haired giant (would that he might tell me his name). It did not occur to me to feel dread or fear, only hope. Surely he came with news of my release? The man in the boat pushed off as soon as she was emptied and I waited for my captor to make his way to my room, sure he meant to inform me that you had supplied the ransom and that we are to be reunited. But there was no announcement with my evening's rations. Before my captor took his leave, he cast a wary look at my book and I fell upon it, clutching it close. He asked what I write and I told him plainly, my Last Will and Testament, of course, and that he is due to become a very rich man indeed. Fine
worn shoes and this waste-stained dress. Won't he be the envy of all his pirate friends?