The Last Treasure (9 page)

She needed something shocking. She wanted them to think she knew far more about the world of sex and men than she really did. She, who'd only had a handful of dates in her life—none of them lasting long enough to turn into relationships. Boys who'd complimented her looks, who'd called her irresistible and then managed to resist her just fine when her father's constant supervision grew unbearable. There'd been one or two suitors, boys she'd met in high school, who'd tried to stick it out, sure she could be worn down, lured away from her father with passionate kisses and promises of devotion, like biscuits held out to soothe a skittish dog. She'd slept with only two of them, hoping the act would empower her in some way, shrink
her father's hold, but all it did was leave her feeling more alone and fragile.

But not this, not now.

In this moment, she'd never felt more included, or more daring, in her whole life.

The crash of waves rumbled behind them in the darkness, building her courage like cheering fans at a ball game.

“Look, Red, if this is too hard—”

“I dare you to jump in,” she said.

Whit took a swig of wine and scoffed. “If you want me to get in the water, at least dare me to do something impressive, like swim to Ocracoke and back with steaks strapped to my legs.”

Why did she believe he just might if she suggested it?

Sam reached out and snatched the bottle from Whit's hand. “Points deducted for stalling.”

“All right, all right.” Whit climbed to his feet, unsteady in the sand. He flicked his cigarette into the fire and began to free his shirt buttons. “Personally I think Red just wants to see my junk.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” she said. Still she felt a blush burn across both cheeks, her skin already pink from the fire. “Besides, I didn't mean for you to skinny-dip. The water's freezing.”

“Too late.” Whit unbuckled his belt and snapped it out like a whip. “Don't write checks you can't cash, lass. You're playing with a pro here.”

“Oh, you're a pro all right,” Sam said with a snicker.

“Listen to sour grapes.” Whit yanked his shirt over his
head and chucked it at Sam. “It's not my fault you were too much of an old lady to take a dare.”

“And it's not my fault when you miss a week of classes because of pneumonia.”

Sam caught her eyes and she smiled.

Whit was down to his boxers now, and the definition of his body surprised her. The solidness of his muscles, a trail of copper down that disappeared below his navel. He puffed out his chest. “Now, if only I had some chum to take out with me—make it a man's dare.”

“Jesus, are you going in or not?” Sam said.

“Watch my fire. I may need it to find my way back.” Hands fisted and arms out, Whit charged toward the surf. It was fully dark now; Liv could see him for several seconds before the night swallowed him up.

“I can't believe he's really going in,” she said.

“Can't you? Ten bucks says he was the kid on the playground who ate worms because someone dared him to.”

She laughed. In the next instant, Whit's yell rose from the surf.

Sam smiled. “I think he's in.”

The fire sparked and hissed. Sam tossed on another log and prodded it with a piece of driftwood. Liv watched his profile in the flare of light, admiring the places where his cropped brown hair clung to his neck. She wondered if it curled the same way down his stomach, and if it was the same leathery brown. Craving burned through her, suffocating her fears—fears that she'd let her father down, fears that he would think poorly of her for lying to him, for choosing this night over him.

But now that she had done so, she wouldn't waste it. There was no going back. Tonight, she could be whoever she wanted. Out of range, out of sight. Pancakes at three in the morning, as many as she could eat. The possibilities made her dizzier than the wine.

She raised her face to the moon. The sky and water blended into one giant inky pool, shapeless and forever. She felt the weight of vertigo land in her ankles, like someone yanking her back from the edge just in time.

“That's what I like to imagine it looks like underwater,” she said, searching the roof of twinkling velvet. “Vast and silent. Floating free in all that nothingness.” She turned to Sam. “Is it?”

“It can be.” Sam took a swig and handed her the bottle. “Some days the water is as clear as a bath. Other days you can't see your hand in front of you.”

She sipped, grateful for the heat of the alcohol, and gave the wine back to him. The sound of splashing was growing farther away. A prickle of concern pierced her thoughts. “You don't really think he means to swim to Ocracoke, do you? He's been drinking. Quite a bit.”

“He's a big guy. I think he can handle it.” Sam tipped the bottle to his lips and considered her as he swallowed. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Heat bloomed across her face. That he'd asked, just like that. “No.” She smiled. “Are you?”

“I was.” His eyes fell to her mouth and rested there. “Not anymore.”

Someone in his program? Someone from home, wherever that was? Suddenly Liv wanted to know everything about him.

“You look cold.” He snapped open one of the folded blankets and draped it around her. So close, she caught a whiff of him rising from the gap in his jacket collar, the heady smell of body heat and damp denim. She wondered what it would be like to take a shower with him, to have him press her against one of the home's huge marble stalls and wash off all her worries.

Splashing grew in the distance, then a loud hoot. Liv scanned the darkness, waiting for Whit to appear. When he did, he gleamed with seawater, his boxers plastered to his body like a second skin.

“Jesus, that's freezing.” He dropped beside them, a cold steam floating off him. Water dripped from his hair and jaw. He grabbed the other blanket and pulled it around his shoulders.

“So how was Ocracoke?” said Sam.

“Far.” Whit reached his hands to the fire, palms out. Sam handed him the wine. “Thanks,” said Whit, swinging it high and draining it. He screwed the empty bottle into the sand and lay down, grinning as he tugged the blanket tighter around his chest. “I say we sleep out here. Under the stars like shipwrecked pirates.”

“Be my guest, Blackbeard—but I prefer sheets and a mattress,” said Sam, rising. He brushed sand off his seat and reached out his hand to Liv. “Ready to go back up?”

“Don't jump ship yet,” Whit said. “The night's young. And Red hasn't had her turn yet.”

“She's cold,” Sam said.

“So get closer to the fire.”

Liv stood. “We'll see you back at the house, okay, Whit?”

He turned his face to the sky and closed his eyes. “Fine, then, you lousy mutineers. Go.”

“Come on,” said Sam, taking her hand and steering her back up the sand toward the house, the maze of the first floor lit up, blazing like the fire she could still hear crackling in their wake.

•   •   •

“I
t is a cool chart. I'll give him that.”

Crossing through the living room, they slowed to admire the massive map Whit had hung earlier.

“My mom and I had one like it once,” Liv said. “Just not nearly as big. We used it to figure out what might have happened to Theodosia. We scribbled all over it, places where people had claimed to see her, where the Bankers might have taken her captive after they seized the
Patriot
. Everything.”

“What happened to it?”

“I don't know,” she said, which wasn't entirely true. She'd looked for it after her mother died and not been able to find it where she'd always kept it in her bookshelf. She suspected her father had found it and thrown it away—not that she planned to tell Sam that. Not that she planned to tell him anything more about her father than she already had done.

She walked to the chart and drew her index finger wistfully along the coastline, recalling all the notes she and her mother had crammed into their miniature version. How tiny she'd had to make her letters to fit.

Possibility tore through her, a spark of defiance with it, not so unlike the confidence she'd felt in the lecture hall, raising her hand, then her voice.

She glanced over her shoulder to find Sam watching her expectantly.

She smiled at him. “I don't suppose you have something to write with?”

•   •   •

S
he made her first mark near Nags Head, the yellowed paper releasing a dry, powdery smell as she pressed the tip of the pencil against it. P
ORTRAIT
, for where the painting of the woman in white believed to be Theodosia was found in an old woman's cottage, then another
PORTRAIT
for where the old woman's suitor had supposedly stolen the painting off a ship that had washed ashore.

Other labels returned quickly:

D
ETAINED
, for the place where the British fleet had allegedly stopped the
Patriot
for inspection before allowing her to continue to New York.

B
ANKERS
, for where the pirates were believed to have lured the
Patriot
into the shoals to her doom.

C
APTURE
, where Burdick had claimed on his deathbed to have taken part in the seizure of the ship, and her passengers—adding a star beside the word, just as she and her mother had done years earlier.

When everything was labeled as she remembered, Liv stepped back to survey her work.

She glanced at Sam, pleasure rippling through her at the serious way he scanned the path of her marks.

She smiled sheepishly. “I told you I was obsessed.”

“Not obsessed—passionate. Passion's good.”

Did he really think so? The salty, buttery smells of their meal still hung in the air—Liv was ravenous again. Could he see how much she wanted him to kiss her, to wipe her mind free of worries for just one night, to put his hands on her body and never take them off?

“I know a grad student over in art history,” he said. “Beth Henson. She volunteers at the Maritime Museum. Maybe she could help us find more clues.”

Us
. Liv searched his face, hoping the interest she saw there wasn't only from the wine. “I'd like that.”

They turned back to the chart and considered the spread of her notes, the intersecting lines and labels.

“I suppose I have to erase it all now, don't I?” she said.

“Why? It's not like Crosby ever intended to give it back.” Sam took the pencil from her hand and set it on the table. He stepped closer.

She swallowed. “Did you know Theodosia lost her mother when she was young too?”

Sam threaded his fingers through her hair. “I didn't know that.”

“And that her father made her his whole world afterward?”

He searched her eyes. “God, you're beautiful.”

“Not really.”

“Yes, really.”

She caught another whiff of his skin, warmer now. Her pulse hastened.

“I'm not who you think I am,” she whispered.

He took her hand and squeezed hard. “No one is.”

•   •   •

T
hey wandered in and out of the bedrooms like prospective home buyers, turning on lights and opening closets.

In the farthest bedroom, its tall walls a satiny blue, Liv tested a canopy bed with a cloud of comforters and a wall of pillows two deep. “I feel like Goldilocks.”

Sam flung open windows, letting in the roar of the surf and the wet smell of the tide. She closed her eyes and spread her arms out like a child making snow angels. She thought about her phone in her coat, useless and blessedly quiet. She thought of all she hadn't confessed to Sam Felder—the truth of her father's demands, how deeply she wanted to break free of him, but how scared she was that to do so would devastate him, that the guilt of abandoning him would devastate her even more.

A gust of wind pushed at the sheers, snapping them wildly.

She remembered Whit Crosby, still out there on that lonely sand.

“Are you sure he's all right? It'll get cold later.”

“He's fine,” Sam said. “He's probably already on his way back by now.” He came beside the bed and looked down at her. “You're tired.”

“I'm not,” she said.

“There are plenty of beds. If this is too soon.”

If he knew how long she'd waited for freedom like this, he'd know it wasn't soon enough.

“Stay,” she said, reaching out for him. “Just for a little while.”

When he came over her and spread her out, unrolling her
like a tightly wound map, Liv felt her body sink. His mouth was warm and sure, guiding hers. He bared her neck and marked a trail of kisses from her chin to the hollow of her throat, his lips and tongue doing as her pencil had done, connecting one place of significance to another, flesh to more flesh. When his hair brushed the tops of her breasts through her shirt, she thought fleetingly of Whit Crosby again, the several times she'd caught him staring at her during dinner; then she squeezed her eyes shut and willed her mind to empty. She felt as unsteady as a dinghy tossed in a swell, so she wrapped herself around Sam and held on, afraid of falling off this perfect mountaintop, wanting Sam Felder to carry her far away to a place not on any chart, a land impossible to pierce with a tack.

•   •   •

“H
ey, wake up. We overslept.”

Whit's voice, grainy and rough, pricked Liv's dream like a needle. She blinked against a wall of sun. Sam stirred behind her, the weight of his arm still around her waist. She rolled over, meeting his bleary eyes and warm smile.

“We fell asleep,” she said.

“So we did.”

He unearthed them from their cozy cocoon and disappeared into the bathroom. Liv sat up and rubbed her eyes, her whole body pinched and swollen from sleeping in her clothes. Daylight streaked across the bed, undulating like a school of spooked fish. The air was cold. They'd never closed the windows.