The Last Treasure (28 page)

His phone chimes and Sam's sure it's Liv, but it's just a text
from Michael, complaining about their mother and can he call the insurance agent about the roof?

Jesus.

Sam tosses his phone on the nightstand and falls back onto the mattress, training his eyes on the beams of headlights that slide across the ceiling every few minutes. So much traffic. Where is everyone going at this hour? Are they like him? Trying to turn back time, contemplating ruining marriages by dawn?

Tomorrow he will drive Liv to the house in Hatteras, the place where he first held her heart in his hands. He has no doubt that when she sees the cottage, whatever uncertainty she's been fighting since they left Topsail will float away and she'll surrender to him again. She'll confess what he's been hoping to hear: that she's sorry she chose Whit. That she misses the order of him, Sam, the boundaries of rules.

This certainty is what keeps him in this room—when every ounce of him wants to step out into the night and knock on her door, wants to break her down, break her apart, just to be the one to put her back together.

•   •   •

E
very few hours, Liv wakes in the blackness, sure Whit is standing in the doorway, dripping wet, that he's found her, that he wants to crawl into bed with her like any other night, but when she scans the dark, the door is closed, the room is hushed, and she feels alternately swells of relief and deep disappointment. How she hates the uncertainty of night, how nothing makes sense in the dark—even things that
light can easily assign logic to. After her mother died, Liv remembered her father coming into her bedroom and sitting at the foot of her bed for hours, leaning in to make sure she was breathing. Sometimes in her dreams she is still afraid her lungs will forget how to work.

The digital clock by the bed shines. Five thirty-five. No point in trying to get back to sleep now.

She tugs the blanket free from the bed, wraps it around herself, and steps outside. The concrete deck is damp and prickly with sand, so she settles into a plastic chair and draws her knees to her chest to cover her bare feet. Warm now, she can savor the faint chill in the air as she watches slivers of pink and copper cut through the horizon, slices of brilliant color signaling a day she has never known before, a day she can never get back.

Every dawn is a finger without a print
.

The memory of the diary floods her, the shock and disappointment raw again. She'd been so sure in the morning she'd feel relief, closure. Absolution.

“You're entitled to celebrate this. We both are.”

She glances down the row of doors, wondering who sleeps behind each one. Have they, like her, come here and unraveled in the night?

Sam kissed her.

The recollection returns with fresh shock. And she'd stood there, stunned and numb, as if she'd approved. Had she?

A tremor of guilt sends gooseflesh up her arms. She pulls the blanket tighter.

“Still worried it was all a dream?”

She turns to find Sam walking down the deck toward her, his dark eyes slightly puffy from sleep.

It takes her a second, but then she blinks at his bare face. “You shaved.”

“So I did.” He drags a hand along each side of his clean jaw, testing the smooth flesh.

The change unsettles her. Now he looks like the old Sam, the Sam she used to wake up next to, the Sam she used to love.

He takes the other plastic chair beside her door and drags it next to hers. “I know the mattresses are uncomfortable, but please tell me you didn't sleep out here.”

She laughs. “No, but maybe I should have. Maybe I wouldn't have had such awful nightmares.”

“Did you call Whit?” Sam asks.

“I tried. . . . I got his voice mail.”

He leans back, the molded plastic creaking with his weight, and squints out at the horizon. “We can go back, Liv.”

Back where?
she wants to ask.
Back to my husband? Or back to the past?
She searches Sam's profile, seeking her answer, but his eyes just burn out at the view. Maybe he isn't sure which either.

And suddenly she's crying. The kind of tears that spring up too quickly to be swallowed or blinked away, and she is wholly unprepared for how to contain them, so she doesn't. What's the point? These tears have been patient—God knows how long she's made them wait to surface.

She stands and moves to the edge of the deck, tempted to rush down the steps, to run to the water and fling herself into those cold, unforgiving waves to snap herself out of whatever strange world she's fallen into.

“I'm sorry.” She covers her face with her hands. “I just didn't expect this.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. This mess with the
Siren
. Us back here together. And the diary. That I would ever find out the truth. I'd just given up and maybe that was better.”

Sam's risen too; Liv can feel the heat of him behind her, closing in.

She wipes her eyes with her fingers. “And I know I'm supposed to feel this huge wave of relief because I finally know what happened to her, because it can be over and I can stop searching. But all I feel is lost.”

Now he comes around to face her. His palm slides under her hair and cups her face, turning her toward him, and she doesn't resist.

“I don't know what I'm doing here,” she says, meeting his eyes. “I don't know what I'm
doing
.”

Sam makes two swipes with his thumb to dry her cheeks. “Then let me take you somewhere where you will.”

Nine years earlier

L
iv raised her coffee to her lips and scanned the view of the living room. The first time she'd entered this apartment, Sam assured her they'd be moved out in six months, a year at most. Three years later, it was home.

The wall chart looked noticeably fuller, new notes having been added through the winter, their continuing search efforts no longer shuffled to the back of their to-do list. They'd traveled north in February to New Jersey to visit the Hermitage Museum where Aaron Burr had married Theo's mother, Theodosia Prevost, in 1782, then to the New-York Historical Society, where they'd read through letters and deeds. Liv had returned with renewed confidence in their search. In all, it had been a productive winter, the low season in their business. Quieter months used for much-needed repairs and planning, filing paperwork
that was always shelved in the swirl of their busy summer schedules—a sluggishness only tolerable thanks to Sam's added hours at the marina and Liv's at the restaurant.

But now summer was nearly here, and her bones shivered with excitement. Back to the water, back to the freedom of diving. The day's mail sat on the counter, fanned out where she'd left it, too thrilled to find one of Whit's postcards in the pile to bother with bills or bulletins. His hopeless handwriting scrawled across most of the blank space, bleeding over into the address box. It was always a miracle the cards ever arrived. They'd received the first one two months after Whit left for Australia, and then one every month after that. Liv had grown accustomed to the unspoken schedule, finding herself noting the passage of weeks between them and growing increasingly expectant of each new one, and the unofficial itinerary they revealed. Mexico, Italy, Greece.

This one had come from Scotland.

Sniffing around for gold and finding mostly glass. Be good. WC—which, by the way, is the abbreviation for
toilet
in these parts. Insert joke here.

She heard the sputter and crunch of the truck pulling in as she diced an avocado for their salad. When Sam came inside, she pointed him toward the pile. “Postcard from Whit.”

He scanned the card quickly and tossed it back on the counter. “I don't know why he bothers sending them. It's not like he ever leaves a return address where we can write him back.”

“Maybe he just wants us to know how much he misses us.”

“From the sound of those postcards, I'd say he wants us to know how much he
doesn't
.”

He pulled a beer from the fridge and snapped the tab, releasing a loud hiss in the quiet.

“Your father called,” she said. “He said you'd know what it was about.”

Sam came behind her and offered her a sip.

“I really hate when he does that,” she said. “Acts as if everything is code-red top secret. We've been together over four years now. He can feel free to stop treating me like some girl you got conned into taking to the prom.”

She glanced up at Sam, waiting for him to agree, or even add his own words of outrage, but his gaze was elsewhere, weary. Days at the marina were grueling and relentless; she didn't doubt he was exhausted. She knew he craved returning to the sun and excitement of their charters as much as she did.

She tore open a bag of spring greens and emptied it into the salad bowl, then wiped her hands on her rear. “So what
is
it about?”

Sam considered his beer. “He's coming for a visit.”

“When?”

“This weekend.”

Prickles of dread raced down her spine. She skirted around him for the fridge and pulled out a tomato, determined to ignore her nerves. “Good,” she said with a confidence she didn't feel. “We've got that group from Atlanta lined up. What better way to show him how well the business is doing?”

•   •   •

R
obert Felder arrived an hour early and sat on the very edge of their couch as if he was expecting a fire drill. Liv had never seen anyone look so uncomfortable in her life. Years after their introductions, she still felt as edgy around Sam's father as she had that first dinner in Chicago. For Sam's sake, she'd tried her best to close the gap Robert Felder seemed determined to force between them—making sure to always have his favorite wine, to compliment his ties, even keeping up with Bears and Cubs standings—but his regard, never mind respect, remained elusive. She knew he blamed her for Sam's pursuit of treasure—for entering into the charter business in the first place—and she could live with that. Although she wasn't always sure Sam could.

“Want a beer, Dad?”

“No, thanks.” His father glanced around. “I thought you were moving out of this place.”

“We plan to. Eventually.”

Liv hurried around the kitchen, glad to be out of sight but not out of earshot. She'd decided on a simple menu—lamb and potatoes—and was pleased with the results. Even the rosemary biscuits she'd been sure she'd ruined had emerged perfectly browned.

Robert Felder checked his watch and stood. “We should really get going.”

Sam looked up at him. “Go where? Liv made dinner, Dad.”

“And I made reservations.”

•   •   •

T
o make sure they had time to show Sam's father their whole operation, Liv and Sam arrived at the marina at eight the next morning. Robert Felder rushed through the tour, saying little and wearing an expression of mild disdain.

When nine arrived and their clients still hadn't, Liv offered Sam an encouraging smile. “They're just running late,” she said, loud enough that his father might hear.

By noon, they had to admit defeat.

“What a foolish way to run a business,” his father muttered as they followed him back to his rented Cadillac. “No wonder you're drowning.”

Later at dinner, coming back from the restroom, Liv overheard Sam and his father and slowed her approach to their table.

“And what about her father? Who's paying for his care?”

“He is,” Liv heard Sam say. “He has savings. He gets royalties.”

“Royalties from what?”

“A book he wrote. A textbook.”

“He can't possibly live off that.”

“Liv says he does.”

“But for how long?” Sam's father demanded. “You do realize if you marry this girl, he's your problem too. You'll be responsible for paying for him. God only knows how long he could stick around. Son, do you honestly want that burden?”

Liv resumed her steps and swung around the corner, sure her fury blazed hot on her face as she took her seat.

As they were walking out, all she wanted was to sprint for the car, but Sam caught her by the elbow and slowed her pace. “I'm sorry,” he said, coming beside her. “I didn't mean for you to hear that.”

“That's why you're sorry—because I heard it? Not because he was a jerk for saying it?”

“He is who he is, Liv. I'm not apologizing for my father. Any more than I'd expect you to apologize for yours.”

But my father can't help his actions,
Liv wanted to say as she watched Robert Felder march across the parking lot and slip into his car.
It's not the same thing.

•   •   •

A
week later, nearly recovered from their guest—and feeling flush with two more charter reservations—Liv was boiling lasagna noodles in the kitchen when Sam came in and said, “Save those. I'm taking you out. I've got news.”

The last time Sam had announced “news” he'd informed her the
Phoenix
needed a new propeller. Still Liv changed into a fresh linen sundress and tied her hair back into a low ponytail, hoping for something more romantic.

Only when they'd taken their seats and the waitress had left with Sam's order for a bottle of wine did Liv think his big news might be a proposal. She'd grown so tired of waiting for the words, she'd trained herself to quiet the possibility, but glancing over the top of her menu at Sam's expectant eyes, she felt a rumble of curiosity moving within her. His father's visit had been especially trying, but they'd survived it—and maybe
doing so had allowed Sam the freedom to finally make the commitment she'd been waiting for. If not marriage, then what could tonight's news be?

A waiter passed, carrying a pair of dinner plates. The smell of sautéed onions floated in his wake. Liv couldn't remember ever being so hungry.

When she looked back at Sam, his expression was stony. Prickles of dread raced up her arms.

She hoped she might be wrong.

“So, what's this great news?” she asked cheerfully.

“I never said it was great.” He blew out a hard breath and looked around the floor. “Maybe we should wait for the wine.”

She swallowed. “Should I be worried?”

“
Are
you worried?”

“I hate when you answer my question with a question.”

He sighed. “Liv, I've given this a lot of thought. I need you to know that—”

“Oh God, just say it,” she pleaded. “Whatever it is, just say it.”

He set his hands down on the edge of the table. “We need to close the business.”

All the blood in her body sank to her ankles. Liv allowed herself to feel its awful weight for only a moment before she sprang into her argument. “But it's just the start of the season. It's always tough at first—you know that. You get discouraged and then suddenly we're so busy we can't keep up. We just had two new reservations!”

“It's different this time, Liv.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't want to do this anymore.”

She sat back, his admission like a flaring fire. Her cheeks burned with the heat of it.

Sam dragged his hands down his face. “I'm going to law school. My dad secured me a spot in the fall at the University of Chicago.”

The waitress returned with their Zinfandel, offering Sam a small sip to approve before filling both of their glasses. Numb, Liv watched him offer her a pleased smile. He'd ordered a bottle of wine as if this were some kind of celebration. Was that what he thought this was?

“What exactly were you planning to toast?” she demanded when the waitress left. “Breaking my heart?”

Sam leaned in. “I told you when we started, Liv. We talked about this way back at school. If this charter business didn't work out—”

“But it
has
worked out!” She lunged forward, uncaring that her voice was rising, that eyes and chairs had turned her way. “We're just going through a rough patch right now.”

“A rough patch? Liv, be real. We are underwater—and that's not a pun. That's the truth.”

She knew they were sinking financially, of course she did, but was folding the only answer?

He reached across the table for her hand. “Come with me to Chicago.”

“And do what? Be your maid?”

Now it was his turn to sit back, scorched by her words.

“My work is here, Sam. Everything I've worked for—everything
we've
worked for.”

He took a hard sip of wine and set his glass down.

“And what about my father?” she said.

“He can come too. There are places we can put him.”

“
Put him
? Sam, he's not a goldfish in a plastic bag. I can't just keep moving him around. And why do you have to go back to Chicago? There are law schools right here in Wilmington.”

She watched a flicker of hesitation cross his tight features. Why had she bothered to ask a question she already knew the answer to? These were his father's terms. Robert Felder wouldn't pay for law school in Wilmington, only in Chicago.

The waitress arrived to take their orders. Liv shook her head. “I'm not hungry.”

“We'll both have the snapper,” Sam said, handing back their menus and watching the young woman leave. “This hasn't been an easy decision, Liv.”

“What about the
Phoenix
?”

“We'll have to sell her, obviously.”

“You have to tell Whit. He should have a right to buy her.”

“He's halfway across the world.”

“Still.”

But she knew he wouldn't reach out. Then again, how could he? As Sam had pointed out just days earlier, Whit's spirited postcard greetings never included a return address.

Back home, they spent the rest of the evening on the couch, taking turns staring at each other and the stack of magazines on the coffee table between, as if waiting for a solution to blow in through the open screens. But there was none. Sam was determined to go, and Liv was determined to stay.

Just before two in the morning, they rose and made their way to bed, rolling toward each other in slow motion.

Unable to sleep, Liv watched the outline of Sam's back in the milky night, an ache swelling in her stomach, rattling her chest like a chill.

•   •   •

I
t was decided that Sam would stay for the rest of the month, that they'd need that time to untangle themselves from their partnership—both personal and professional, though Sam seemed to give more attention to the dissolving of the business end of things. To keep herself sane—and solvent—Liv took on extra shifts at the restaurant and filled out paperwork to enroll in classes at UNC Wilmington for the fall. The admissions officer felt confident she'd be able to apply all of her earlier credits and that she could complete her degree in just a year; Liv's fingers were crossed.

On the day Sam moved out, thin clouds stretched across the sky, wispy as spider silk. There were boxes already lining the hall when Liv stepped out of the bedroom into a weave of sunlight. Sam was in the kitchen, drinking coffee.

“I'll call you when I get to Chicago, okay?”

Tears burned up her throat. She didn't bother wiping at them anymore. She'd cried herself to sleep for weeks now. She'd grown accustomed to waking up looking as if she'd been stung by a swarm of bees.