The Last Treasure (20 page)

He lays his hand on the back of her neck, not even sure why he does, but the instant his palm covers her skin, her eyes
close and her head falls back. He finds the top of her spine with his thumb and makes even circles around the small rise, growing in pressure until her hands drift upward to rest against the glass. He knows his gesture has filled her with expectation, but he doesn't know what to do about that. Nothing about this moment, this day, has been safe or well thought out, which is the way he's always liked it. From the moment he heard Whit's voice crackle back at him on that message three weeks ago, Sam has known his ordered life would be thrust into disarray and he has embraced that fact. Beth's shoulders drop back. Sam can see down the front of her shirt, the thin fabric pulsing with her rapid breathing, her collar yawning and closing like a mouth. Thoughts of undressing Liv have crashed in and out of his brain all day—he hasn't tried to drive them away or even push them down—and his own craving has become nearly unmanageable, so he draws his hand slowly down Beth's spine and watches gooseflesh rise along her neck.

“I'm glad I came,” he says, low.

He releases his hand from the middle of her back, and a faint sound slips from her lips, his name, he thinks. Or something close to it.

•   •   •

N
ow what?

The question floats in the truck the instant Liv climbs inside beside Sam and watches him start the ignition. Out the passenger window, Liv sees Beth in the foyer of the museum, waiting for them to pull out of the parking lot, her silhouette against a tall window. Liv is sure she will wave,
but Beth turns to go, disappearing back into the museum. Sam's gaze is fixed on the road, both hands on the wheel.

The silence in the cab is startling. Liv was so sure the minute she and Sam were alone again, the excitement of the diary would spill out of them like an overfilled tub. Instead the air is choked with uncertainty. Liv rolls down her window, desperate for a rush of wind to stir it, but there's hardly a breeze. It seems the whole earth is determined to be quiet.

Sam turns to her. “Are you okay?”

She pulls in a deep breath and lets it out. “My heart's beating a mile a minute.” She smiles. “Maybe it's the Prosecco.”

“Or maybe it's the company.”

Liv is sure Sam is teasing, but his gaze is hooded and heavy. A weight lands in her stomach.

She turns to the view and swallows. “I keep waiting for it to sink in. To be real.”

“It is real, Liv. It's done. We know the truth now. You and me. Like we always wanted.”

“Then why don't I feel like it's really over?”

“Maybe because you don't want it to be.”

“It's more than that,” she says. “Something in that diary felt . . . I don't know . . . false.”

“Just because she miscounted a few windows?”

“I know what my gut is telling me, Sam.”

“You heard what Beth said. It's Theodosia's book.”

“Then why didn't I get goose bumps too?”

“What?”

She holds out her arm. “Every single inch of skin on my body should have erupted in gooseflesh, Sam, but it didn't—”

“Liv—”

“—and the only explanation I can think of as to why is that the entries weren't—”

“Weren't what?” Before she can respond, he turns them off the road to the shoulder and shoves the truck into park, hard enough to lock the strap of her seat belt and snap her back. “First you tell me you've given up on all this, and now suddenly you're all in again? Which is it?”

The harshness of his voice startles her. “Why are you so angry? I'm just being honest with you. I'm just telling you I don't feel in my heart that it's—”

“In your heart?”

“Yes, my heart. I thought you of all people would understand.” She looks out the window, feeling tears mount.

Sam releases a heavy breath and flexes his hands on the wheel. “I'm sorry. This is a lot to take in. And we're both exhausted. Maybe we shouldn't try to get back tonight,” he says. “It's been a long, crazy day. There are plenty of places we could stay.”

“At the height of the season? We'll never find a room.”

“It can't hurt to look, can it? Besides, there's not much point in driving to Hatteras in the dark.”

The Hatteras house? Is that the excuse he wants to use to stop for the night?

Flutters of uncertainty push against her ribs. When she glances back at him, his eyes are soft. “I know why you're doing this, Liv.”

“Doing what?”

“Making excuses about the diary, about why it's not real
or true. Trying to find the red herring so you don't have to believe it's really over.”

She opens her mouth but can't decide what to say.

Sam's smile is tender now, all impatience gone. “I know Whit wanted it to be the two of you solving this, but it wasn't—and I'm not going to apologize for that. And you shouldn't either. You've spent too long searching for answers. You're entitled to celebrate this. We both are. It's not like this wasn't a huge part of my life too, you know.”

She nods. “I know. But, Sam—”

“No buts.” He reaches across the seat and lays his hand on her knee, the heat of his palm burning up her leg. “Let's just celebrate this, okay?”

His hand remains, heavier now, his fingers gently pressing. Possibility swims through the cab, charging the space between them like the air seconds before a savage summer downpour brought on after too many days of unrelenting heat. So many hours on the road, maybe this heat too has to break. She hasn't wanted to think about this fact—or any of the other facts she's been blissfully ignoring, like her phone humming again, the vibration thrumming against her thigh through her purse. The fact that Whit thinks Sam has left. The fact that her skin hasn't cooled to its normal temperature since she stepped across the threshold and saw Sam standing in front of the bookshelves yesterday.

Now he's telling her they need to get a hotel room. That in the morning they can drive by the house in Hatteras, just to see.

You're entitled to celebrate this.

We both are.

“It
is
late,” she says.

And that is true.

Sam lifts his hand from her bare thigh, peels it off slowly as if he's applied a temporary tattoo to her skin and wants to be sure it will take. Then he settles his fingers over the gearshift, tugs hard, and turns them around.

•   •   •

C
rossing into Wilmington, Whit picks up his cell and taps the screen for Liv's number. He wedges the phone under his jaw so he can turn down the radio. This will be his sixth message; he's been keeping count. He's made a dozen calls but only left half that many messages.

He's going to tell Liv he's on his way home with news. Forget the
Siren
. After stalking every pub, every dock, every fish fry shack in Little River, he's got a lead that could be worth twice as much as the
Bella Donna
. Gold coins off Oak Island. Okay, so it's not exactly on their doorstep, but it's not the moon either, right? Sure, it'll take some work relocating the team, finding them new housing, a new boat—but he's made magic in less time before. He's not worried.

The rings continue. He stares hard at the road. “Pick up, Red. Pick up. . . .”

“Hi, you've reached Liv Connelly. I'm not here right now, but if you—”

He hangs up—deciding he's near enough that he'll just save his good news for when he sees her, when he scoops her up into his arms and kisses the breath out of her.

He glances at the dashboard clock. He's making good
time. If the roads stay clear, he should be back at the house by nine. He'll stop at Wharton's and pick up a bottle of champagne. He and Liv will take it down to the water and drain it under the stars. Then they'll screw like teenagers. Sam will be long gone and they'll start fresh—make believe Sam was never there. He'll scrub the place clean of all traces of Felder. Make it theirs alone. Make it all right. And when this is over, when they're home and flush, they'll get back to their search for the
Patriot
. He'll find Theodosia for her. He'll keep his promise, dammit. Because it's the only one that really matters.

So close now, he'll do whatever it takes.

•   •   •

T
here are many motels, so many more than Liv even recalls from her last visit to Nags Head. Sam drives them slowly down Beach Road so they can read the signs, as if there might be something telling in their descriptions, when they all offer the same things: free Wi-Fi, ocean views, cable TV.

Sam points. “That one has rooms.”

The Sundowner is a classic seaside motel: faded brick with white plastic Adirondack chairs flanking each door. The Vacancy sign blinks invitingly, the first one they've seen for several blocks. Liv can already imagine the interiors as they park: the thin bedspreads, the thin walls, the grit of leftover beach sand in the tub. The man at the front desk is young, so young that Liv isn't even sure he has ever grown out a full beard. The stubble around his chin is faint and uneven, reminding her of
the feathers on a baby bird. A TV plays local news in the lobby. There's been a boating accident in Avon. One person still missing.

“How much for a room?” Sam asks.

When the attendant answers, Liv isn't sure if it's the high price or Sam's request for a room—
one
—that makes her heartbeat hasten. He glances at her expectantly. She knows what he's thinking: that at this time of year they are lucky to find even one room available, and that if they are fortunate enough to find two, it would be a sinful amount of money to waste.

“It's not like we haven't shared a room before,” Sam says with a smile. “But it's your choice.”

Her choice.

“We'll need two,” she says. “If you have two.”

“Got three if you want three,” the clerk says.

Sam's smile is tight. “Two's plenty.”

Liv searches the small rack of toiletries that sits behind the desk, remembering that they have nothing with them. “And one of those travel toothbrush packs, please.”

“Better make that two,” Sam says, pulling out his wallet.

When they have their key cards and are back outside, Liv feels a rush of regret, and the overwhelming need to explain. “I just thought—”

“It's fine.” His smile is patient. “It's the right thing.”

The right thing. Everything always came down to that for him, didn't it? So why had he tempted her to do the wrong?

Maybe
I don't play by the rules anymore. . . .

“This is you.” He stops them at room number seven. His is farther down.

“Why don't you get settled and we can meet back outside?” he says. “It's a beautiful night. Be a shame to waste a room on the water without a walk on the beach.”

He's right. The air is smooth and warm and teasing, and her mind is racing—the last thing she needs is to sit inside a motel room and stare at the walls.

“Fifteen minutes enough?” he says.

“Plenty.”

•   •   •

T
he back side of the motel sits right on the sand. Liv looks down the long stretch of deck and finds Sam waiting for her, shirtless and barefoot, leaning against one of the posts that flank the steps to the beach. His body is as trim and fit as she remembers, maybe even more so.

“I thought I might go for a swim,” he says. “It's so warm.”

I dare you to jump in. . . .

Liv rubs her arms, cold suddenly.

“Do you want to put on something else?” he asks.

“No. It's fine.” And it is, really. The chill isn't from the air. The breeze is tepid, muggy.

I got goose bumps the first time I read it. Absolute chills. I'm sure you did too, Liv.
 . . .

They walk toward the sound of the surf, unable to see its curl and strength, only able to hear it. Liv draws in a quick breath, startled by the volume and the power. The sand feels silky under her feet, pressed beneath her toes. And then they are at the edge of the waves, and with the next crash, a foamy
curtain stretches out and slides up her ankles, frothy and soft, before it retreats.

“Loud, isn't it?” Sam says.

“I'd forgotten how strong the surf is here, how hard it hits the sand. The canal is always so still, so calm.” Even in the dark, she can feel Sam staring at her. She lifts her face and searches the stars. “Even the sky seems bigger out here. It always did.”

“I remember when you said you thought being underwater would look like the night sky. Floating in all that nothingness.” He smiles. “So, did it?”

“In a way,” she says. “Everything feels so far away when I dive. Like another universe. And I feel truly free.”

“You know I never meant to make you feel any other way, Liv.”

“I never said you did.”

He sweeps his foot through the surf. “I look back and wonder when we first started to fall away from each other.”

“We didn't fall away, Sam. You left.”

“You stayed.”

“It's not that easy. . . .”

“I think it is.”

She doesn't know what they're doing and she can't blame the Prosecco—its winding buzz has long left her. Her thoughts are sharp now, too sharp.

The waves crash again, hard enough to make her jump. She feels the tide in her bones.

She turns back to the motel, the strip of porch lights like Christmas tree bulbs, and all she can think of is Theodosia,
standing on the deck of the
Patriot
, seeing the glow of those false Banker lanterns, and how her heart must have soared, so certain she was going to be saved.

Was that really how it ended for her? That bleak, that hopeless?