The Last Treasure (8 page)

She distracts herself by double-checking her straps, her tank, her regulator, hoses where they need to be, belts tight.

She needs to relax. They're here, on the water. They've made it.

Now they just have to find the start of the treasure trail. And it is a perfect day, she decides when she looks out at the water.

And just like that, the thrum of excitement begins to build behind her ribs. She thinks she will never recapture that first time on a salvage boat, that first taste of treasure and the possibility of what lies beneath the waves, and somehow she always
does.

GREENVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA

Thirteen years earlier

L
iv told herself she would wait two days before she called the number Whit Crosby had scrawled on the gas receipt he'd pulled from his pocket at the party.

She barely waited one.

“I knew you'd change your mind,” Whit said when he picked up the phone, winded as if he'd just come off a sprint.

“Is this a bad time?” she said. “You sound like you're trying to catch your breath.”

“Or maybe you leave me breathless, Red.”

“If I go with you this weekend, you need to stop calling me that. Is Sam coming too?”

“Him and his truck,” Whit said. “Turns out I needed a new muffler. “

She smiled against the receiver, this news squelching the ever-growing bloom of regret that continued to bubble up the longer she stayed on the phone.

“We should leave around noon,” Whit said. “Have time to get settled. We can pick you up. What's your address?”

Panic charged down her arms. “I live a ways from campus,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. “Why don't I meet you at the library instead?”

To her relief, Whit agreed. She spent the next four days in a fog of equal parts excitement and terror, appeasing her growing guilt by spending as much time at home with her father as she could, filling the freezer with pasta dinners and whole pies. The lie she crafted to explain her departure was a sound one. A literary tour of North Carolina, and only the top students were invited to participate. She wasn't sure if she'd get a chance to call much but she'd try. Assuming there was cell service, assuming he wanted her to take valuable time away from her studies.

When Saturday arrived, Liv was sure the cloudless blue sky was the universe's blessing, or maybe even forgiveness, for her charade. She climbed into Sam's truck, wedging herself between him and Whit Crosby, and watched the landscape shift as they traveled the Albemarle Highway, dotted with crumbling old barns and swaths of cotton fields. She'd been to the Outer Banks twice before, but it looked different to her this trip. The bridge over the Alligator River seemed longer; the wall of sand dunes that flanked their truck just outside Avon seemed taller, smoother. When they passed through Buxton and Frisco, Liv began to wonder if Whit meant to drive them to the
very tip of Hatteras. Then, just before the road split from the lane to the Ocracoke Island ferry, Whit directed them to the last stretch of homes that faced the Atlantic.

“Welcome to the end of the world,” he said.

“Jesus,” Sam whispered, squinting up at the enormous house they'd arrived at. “I hope it comes with a map.”

“Not too shabby, huh? The owner's son and I are old friends.”

“And they don't mind us staying here?” Liv asked.

“It's off-season. No one's around.”

She scanned the row of equally giant homes to their left, their driveways empty, their porches bare of furniture, their enormous squares of glass dark. Liv thought of the bags of groceries they'd bought on their way, the baby red potatoes and littleneck clams, the sticks of butter softening in the bed.

“Just give me a sec to turn off the alarm.” Whit took the front steps two at a time, disappearing around the porch.

Liv had seen pictures of interiors like the one they stepped into, on television and in magazines. Windows two stories high, living rooms that looked like hotel lobbies, and ceiling fans with blades as wide as ship propellers. The kitchen was as big as her father's whole house.

Her father
. A wave of doubt slowed her quick steps through the downstairs, but she tamped it down. For two precious days she would be every bit as free as any of the students she shared classes with, students who took their independence for granted, who never had to suffer the third degree if they wanted to drive to the store for a new shampoo, but couldn't because there was a pileup on the freeway, or a prediction of rain . . .

Liv closed her eyes, a flush of shame blooming at her throat.
Glancing back to find Sam and Whit still touring the first floor, she clapped her palm reflexively to her neck to hide the color, her excitement waning, twisting to regret. Who was she fooling? She didn't belong here. Sam and Whit were real treasure hunters. They were gold coins—she was a dull penny. They'd clearly been raised to believe in wonder, to demand joy and possibility. They'd never known how quickly life's glory could be pinched out, like a candlewick between two fingers. Snuffed.

They couldn't know how good it felt to run away. Even for a day.

Waiting outside for Whit to find the keys, she'd stolen a look at her cell phone and felt a mix of guilt and relief to see there was no signal this far out. She couldn't have called her father even if she wanted to—which, God forgive her, she didn't.

She walked across the living room to the deck door and used both hands to open the heavy slider, allowing in a sliver of cool, malty air. The ocean roared beyond the whiskers of dune grass, building its strength and curling before it crashed against the sand, exploding in sizzling foam.

Prickles of gooseflesh erupted along the back of her neck. The beauty and violence of the sea always gave her chills.

Welcome to the end of the world
.

Yes.

Now if only she could stay forever.

•   •   •

A
n hour later, the fragrance of chopped garlic and rosemary filled the downstairs.

Waiting for the rice to cook, Liv watched Whit take down
a pair of faded seascape paintings from the wall beside the stone fireplace and lean them against a chair.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Making room,” he said.

“For what?”

“This.” He unpacked a long cardboard tube and dumped out the contents, unrolling a massive map over the couch. “Give me a hand, will you?” She gave him thumbtacks and he secured the corners. It was a nautical chart, a larger version of the one her mother had bought from the aquarium. Liv recognized the familiar curves of the North Carolina coastline and the even polka-dot pattern of soundings showing water depth. It was just strange to see one so big and so clean.

She scanned the area Whit had already outlined, near treacherous Diamond Shoals, where he claimed Warner's team had been searching.

Sam, back from a run on the beach, joined them. “Where did you get that?”

“I borrowed it from the department office,” Whit said, driving in the last tack and stepping back. “We'll use it to keep track of where we dive tomorrow and what we find.” He marched to the kitchen for a bottle of wine and opened it, cracking the cork in his impatience. “This calls for a toast.” He filled three glasses and handed them out, chunks of cork bobbing merrily on the surface of each one. “To the
Patriot
—and to the Outer Banks' newest band of treasure hunters,” he said, knocking his wineglass against Liv's and then Sam's, hard enough to send liquid sloshing up the side.

Liv turned her glass to Sam and smiled. “Cheers.”

“And to new friends,” Sam added, tipping his wine to hers.

Friends. Liv looked between them as she took a sip, feeling deliciously conspiratorial as the wine slid over her tongue, as if she were part of some clandestine plot that could change lives.

Sam surveyed the plates of food they'd already produced. “If we eat all this, we won't need our weight belts to keep us down tomorrow.”

“You'd think this was our last meal on earth,” Liv teased.

Whit ambled over. “For all we know, it is.”

Liv frowned. “Don't say things like that. It's bad luck.”

Whit split a littleneck shell and popped its tender meat into his mouth with a relishing grin. “Only for the clams, Red.”

•   •   •

T
hey took over one end of a twelve-person trestle table that looked out onto the dunes, and feasted while daylight melted down the sky, the only noises in the high-ceilinged room the clinks of their empty shells tossed into the trash bowl, the crackle of a torn baguette.

First to finish, Sam pushed his plate aside and leaned forward for his wineglass. “We should talk about tomorrow.”

“What's to talk about?” Whit reached between them for the last piece of bread. Liv watched him gut the end of the baguette with his thumbs and drag it through the leftover broth puddled at the bottom of his plate. “We meet Lou at the marina at dawn, suit up, go down.”

“First we need to set some ground rules,” said Sam.

Whit folded the sopping bread into his mouth and mumbled around it, “Here we go. . . .”

“I'm serious. We have to agree not to disturb the site.”

Whit looked at Liv. “You agree with Saint Felder here, Red?”

Liv put up her hands. “I'm not diving, so I don't have any opinion on all this. I'm just happy to be here.”

Whit lunged forward, his blue eyes flashing playfully. “Come down with us.”

“She can't dive,” said Sam. “Don't harass her. And don't change the subject.”

“Who's harassing? I'm just saying I've known divers with asthma. They don't go as deep, but they still dive.” Whit drained his wine and poured himself more, adding some to Liv's and Sam's glasses. She marveled at the speed of his drinking. Did he really mean to dive tomorrow after so much wine? But they were all growing warm from the wine, she saw, all of their faces—cheeks, foreheads, noses—flushed in the dusky rose of sunset and the glow of candlelight.

Liv leaned over to collect their plates. “We should clean up.”

“Leave it for later,” said Whit, climbing to his feet. “Let's take the rest of the wine down to the beach and light a bonfire like good drunk sailors.”

“I'm not sure you can have fires on the beach anymore,” Sam said.

“Maybe not, but look around,” Whit said, gesturing to the darkened homes. “Who's here to rat us out?”

Sam cast a quick look at Liv.

“He has a point,” she said.

•   •   •

A
rmed with blankets and the last bottle of wine, the three abandoned their shoes at the top of the boardwalk and followed the path of weathered wood through the fluttering sea grass to the water.

The sand felt cold and hard underfoot and the air was crisp with a cool breeze. Liv was sure if she raised her arms, she'd take flight. They collected driftwood, enough for Whit to get a fire started. He blew hard on the smoking embers until they caught and crackled loudly over the smashing surf.

They dropped to the sand and sat around the growing blaze. Above them, the sky sparkled with stars and three quarters of a buttercream moon.

“All we're missing is a good ghost story,” Sam said. He smiled at Liv. “Know any?”

She smiled back. “Maybe a few.”

“I'll bet there are ghosts all along this beach,” Whit said, swinging the bottle toward the water. “The hundreds of wrecks out there? I bet it's a real party some nights. All that ghost rum.” He took a swig of wine and handed the bottle to Sam.

Liv hugged her knees to her chest. “People near Bald Head Island say they've seen the ghost of Theodosia running through the dunes in a white dress, chased by a headless pirate.”

“That'd be something to see,” said Whit.

“No, thanks.” Sam took his turn with the bottle and handed it off to Liv. “You don't believe in all that, do you?”

“Which part?” she asked.

“Ghosts.”

She shrugged. “Even if I did, I refuse to believe Theodosia is spending eternity outrunning a headless pirate.”

“Personally,” Whit said, “I think this night calls for something a little saltier than ghost stories.”

She sipped, meeting Sam's gaze as she swallowed. Crescents of firelight reflected in his dark eyes.

“What about truth or dare?” he said.

Whit grinned. “I like how you think, Felder.”

Sam took the wine and Liv watched him drink, ripples of anticipation fluttering. The thought of his confessions thrilled her. The thought of him craving hers thrilled her even more.

Now all she had to do was make some up.

Sam handed her back the bottle. “I'll even go first.”

“A volunteer. Good man.” Whit retrieved a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket and pointed them at Liv. “Will it bother you if I smoke?”

She shook her head. She'd be fine out here.

Whit knocked out a cigarette and tossed his pack on the sand. “Truth or dare—pick your poison,” he said to Sam.

Sam looked at Liv. “Truth.”

“Truth, huh?” Whit squinted as he lit up and exhaled over his shoulder. “Okay, Felder. How old were you the first time you had sex?”

Sam winced. “Going right for the jugular, aren't we?”

“Jugular is asking the first time you had
anal
sex, my friend. Missionary's completely PG.” He grinned. “I'm going easy on you to avoid embarrassing our pure little undergraduate here.”

“And what makes you think I'm so pure?” Liv asked. The smooth heat of the alcohol was winding its way through her, teasing her thoughts, loosening her inhibitions, making the night seem closer, warmer. Even Whit Crosby's bluster was growing on her. He had an undeniably gorgeous mouth. Lips in constant motion, framed by two deep dimples. He was probably a voracious kisser. One of those men who grabbed your face and inhaled you.

“I was fourteen,” Sam announced.

Liv was certain her awe was bald on her face.

“Fourteen?” Whit snorted. “Amateur.”

Sam scooped up a fistful of sand and pitched it at Whit, smiling as he reached over to snatch the bottle from his hand. “How the hell old were
you
, asshole?”

“Sorry, not my question.” Whit leaned back on his hands. “I've never been very good at truth, so I pick dare.” He grinned at Liv. “Got one for me, Red?”