The Last Treasure (6 page)

“You look thirsty.”

When the red cup appeared in front of her, Liv expected Sam Felder to be holding it. She drew back, finding the giant from the back row instead. His shaggy blond hair glistened, damp. He stepped close, smelling like hot pavement after a sudden summer storm.

She put up her hand to wave the cup away. “Thanks, but I'm here with someone.”

“What was that?” He bowed his head to hear her better, sprinkling her lightly with rain.

She reared up on her tiptoes and shouted into his ear, “I said I'm here with someone!”

He straightened but didn't step back—not that he could have. The kitchen had grown crowded. Liv could feel bodies behind her where none had been before, the gentle pressure of strange hips and elbows.

“Well,” he said, “if he left you alone for even a minute, he can't be worth your time.”

“He left to get me a beer, actually.”

“Oh.” He smiled, looking only briefly repentant before he held the cup out again. “Take it anyway. Anyone who can make the Great and Powerful Warner squirm in his Top-Siders deserves a beer—not to mention my undying respect.”

“I didn't make him squirm,” Liv said, still not taking the beer. The room was steamy and she'd worn too many layers. She wanted to abandon her coat but didn't dare put it down.

“Shit, don't be modest. Warner couldn't get off that stage fast enough after you took a bite out of him, the know-it-all prick.” He shoved out his hand. “Whit Crosby.”

She accepted his shake, his big palm damp from his cup. “Liv.”

“Just Liv, huh?” His mouth slid into a teasing grin. “What, like Cher or Madonna?”

“Exactly like that.” Where was Sam?

Whit Crosby leaned back to study her. “I've seen you in the archives, haven't I?”

Had he? She'd never seen him there. “I've been a few times.”

“But you're not a grad student.”

“So what?” She bristled at the accusation. “The archives are open to anyone, not just—”

“Hey, relax. I'm not here to bust your chops. I'm impressed.”

Liv pulled at her collar to cool herself—why had she worn such a thick sweater? She shifted, searching for Sam through the crowd behind Whit. “I should go look for my friend.”

She hoped Whit Crosby might take the hint and step aside to let her pass, but he leaned against the wall, blocking her in. “Are you free this weekend?”

“Excuse me?”

“How'd you like to come to Hatteras and dive Warner's top secret site with me?”

“Sorry for the wait.” Sam arrived with a red cup in each hand and cast a dubious look at Whit. “They had to tap a new keg.”

“Hope it's better than this one,” Whit said, scowling down at his cup, then looking back at Sam. “We're in class together. Whit Crosby.”

“Sam Felder.” He returned a quick shake, then gave Liv an apologetic smile. “We should go into the next room. There's a bunch of seats in there no one's claimed.”

They managed to lose Whit Crosby in the doorway when a blonde with pouty scarlet lips grabbed his sleeve and pulled him down for a kiss, nearly spilling his beer.

Sam pointed them to an empty love seat. “Figures you'd get cornered by that guy,” he said as they settled in.

“Do you know him?”

“Not really. He's in my conservation lab—and I know he's a total pain in the ass. Half the time he comes to class and won't shut the hell up. The other half he sits in the back and sleeps— Oh crap.”

Whit reappeared and swung around a folding chair to join them. He leaned forward and looked right at Liv, his eyes fierce and breathtakingly blue. A crescent of red lipstick stained his jaw. “So you're coming, right?”

“Coming where?” Sam asked.

Whit took a swig of beer. “Livy and I are going to Hatteras this weekend to check out Warner's wreck site.”

“What? No!” She stared at him, then at Sam, seeing his eyes darken with apprehension. “I never said that.”

Whit looked genuinely surprised. “I figured with everything you knew about the
Patriot
, you'd want a peek to see if Warner actually found her, that's all.”

Of course she did—but did Whit Crosby honestly think she would just run off with him for the weekend?

Sam broke in before she could answer. “You have no idea where the site is,” he said to Whit. “No one does.”

“The guy who took Warner out there first does, and he said he'd show me.”

“Yeah, but even if you find the site, you can't dive it. Warner obviously has the license.”

Liv might not have been a maritime studies student, but she knew enough about the politics of treasure hunting in North Carolina. So long as the wrecks were at least three miles from shore, treasure hunters could apply for licenses to
salvage them, though they'd still have to give a percentage of their yield to the state. But once a license was secured, the claim belonged solely to the salvage group or the individual salvor.

Whit, however, appeared unfazed by the point. “It doesn't mean I can't take a look.”

“And what do you plan to say if you actually find something?” Sam asked.

“That I was messing around with a friend's boat and came on it.”

“You're a grad student in the maritime studies program. No one would believe you weren't there on purpose.”

Whit sat back. “All explorers face risk.”

“That's not risk,” said Sam. “That's career suicide.”

“You think guys like Warner got to where they are playing by the rules?”

“Maybe not, but I plan to.”

Whit raised his cup in a mock toast. “Then I'll be sure to leave you out of the acknowledgments of my first bestseller.”

Sam scowled. “You do that.”

Liv looked between the two men, feeling like a referee at a tennis match. So much for thinking they were friends.

“Are you even sure you can trust this guy in Hatteras?” she asked.

Whit grinned. “I thought you didn't want to come.”

“I'm just curious, that's all.”

“He's an old friend of my dad's,” said Whit. “They go way back.”

“Way back, huh?” Sam glanced at Liv and she met his
eyes. Was she imagining the sparkle of interest in them? She didn't know him at all—was he agreeable to these kinds of plans? To doing something risky? He'd just admonished Whit for possibly trespassing on a claimed site—and yet Sam was a marine archaeology student too. There was no question the chance to see Warner's wreck up close was a remarkable opportunity.

“Of course,” Sam said, “we'd need a place to stay up there.”

“What do you mean,
we
?” Whit frowned at him. “I didn't invite you.”

“Then you
don't
have a place.”

“Of course I have a place,” said Whit. “A huge place, as a matter of fact.”

“So you have plenty of room.”

“That's not the point. I don't know you from Adam, man.”

“But you know
her
?” Sam pointed his beer at Liv.

“No,” Whit said, then grinned at Liv. “But she's a hell of a lot better looking than you.”

“Stop, please.” Liv raised her hands. “I appreciate the offer—I really do—but I can't go.”

Whit tugged his chair closer. “Oh, come on—don't let this guy scare you. I'm a total Boy Scout. I promise.”

“It's not that,” said Liv. “There wouldn't be any point.” She glanced between them, savoring one final moment of this ridiculous fantasy. She sighed. “I can't dive.”

“It's not a big deal to learn,” said Whit. “I could teach you in an hour.”

“No, I mean, I
can't
. I have asthma.”

Sam's eyes darkened with concern.

“I know guys who have respiratory problems and dive all the time,” said Whit. “It's not a problem.”

“My doctor wouldn't agree,” Liv said.

“Then you need to find yourself a new doctor.”

Easy for him to say. Five minutes with Whit Crosby and a person could see that he clearly breezed through life without a care in the world. He obviously didn't have a father who monitored his every move like—

Oh shit.
Liv pushed back her coat sleeve to find her watch. Eight fifty!

She grabbed her bag. “I have to go.”

“But we just got here,” said Sam. “And you haven't finished your beer.”

“I'm meeting someone.”

“Double-booked.” Whit winked at her. “Busy girl, aren't you, Red?”

Red?
She shot him a peevish look as she stood. Was he serious?

“Wait.” From his coat, Whit pulled out a pen and a crumpled receipt, flattened it on his knee, and scrawled down a phone number. He handed it to her. “In case you change your mind about this weekend.”

She took it, only to avoid any further delays.

Sam stood and pulled on his windbreaker. “At least let me walk you back to your car.”

She met his eyes, warm with understanding and possibility, but still the weight of disappointment sank in her stomach. So much for her dream date.

“It's okay,” she said. “I don't want you to leave on my account.”

But Sam was insistent. “It's too crowded. I don't mind taking off.”

“Me either.” Whit tugged a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shook one out. “I need a smoke anyway.”

•   •   •

C
hange, damn you, change.

Liv glared up at the unmoving traffic signal, her fingers tight on the wheel. Was there some kind of citywide conspiracy in Greenville tonight? Since racing out of the campus parking lot ten minutes earlier, she'd managed to hit every red light.

It was her own fault for cutting it so close—but being with Sam Felder, and even Whit Crosby and his exhausting sales pitches, had been worth whatever path her father was likely burning into the carpet in front of their bay window waiting for her to pull into the driveway. They'd welcomed her into their conversation, their circle—was it any wonder she'd lingered too long?

“Finally.”

The light flashed green and Liv sank the accelerator.

For as long as she could remember, Liv was always racing home to her father. From grocery stores or school dances, the post office or the beach. It seemed the one constant in her life, that charge of panic knowing she was going to be late—late for dinner, late for lunch, late to empty the dishwasher, late to fill it. Even before she had been the one behind the wheel. She
remembered how fast her mother drove them home from the aquarium, not wanting Liv's father to know she'd taken Liv out of elementary school to visit a shipwreck exhibit he'd prohibited them from traveling to see.

“It's two hours away, Liza. On terrible roads. And for what? To fill her hungry brain with ghost stories and superstitious nonsense.”

“It's hardly nonsense, Francis,” her mother had argued. “It's history.”

“If you're so bent on taking her to a museum, take her to Raleigh. There's a new exhibit on the feud between Newton and Leibniz.”

“She doesn't care about Newton and Leibniz.”

“She should. They're important.”

“Not to her.”

“And whose fault is that?”

So they'd gone anyway. Just two days after the argument, when Liv was deep and woefully lost in a fractions test, she'd looked up to see her mother in the doorway of her classroom. “A doctor's appointment,” Liza Connelly had said to Liv's teacher, Mrs. Wilson, without blinking. “She's been fighting this very stubborn cough lately and I'm worried.” Liv offered up a small hack, loud enough that Mrs. Wilson blinked with alarm. As she followed her mother back out to the parking lot, Liv's heart had raced, terrified they might be caught and dragged back. When they reached the flagpole, her mother's steady march had turned into a playful sprint. She'd hurried them inside the station wagon like escaped convicts. Revving the engine, she'd
turned to Liv and winked. “That cough at the end was a nice touch, sweetie.”

They'd stayed at the aquarium for nearly three hours. Poring over every display, every recovered artifact, every map, and every chart. They'd found the portrait of a dark-haired woman in white at the end of the exhibit and Liv was riveted by the woman's deep-set eyes. She'd scanned the label beside it, trying to pronounce her name. “Theo . . . Theodo . . .”

“Theodosia.” Her mother had arrived beside her. “It says she was on the
Patriot
when it disappeared. We read about that one, remember? The ship that was on its way to New York and never arrived?” She had leaned in closer and kept reading. “It says Theodosia lost her son to malaria when he was ten. The age you are now,” she had said, giving Liv's hand a squeeze. “No wonder she looks so sad.”

Liv wasn't sure she saw despair in her expression. Despite the faint smile on her face, the woman's eyes were hard, almost distrustful. As if she watched the artist as carefully as he watched her. But there had been another quality to her dark gaze.

Haunted, Liv had decided. The young woman had looked haunted.

“It says she was headed to New York to see her father after years apart. Apparently they were extremely close.”

“What about her mom?” Liv had asked.

“It says she died when Theodosia was a girl.”

“She doesn't look very old.”

“She wasn't,” Liza had said. “She was just twenty-nine when she boarded the
Patriot
.”

“And no one knows what happened to her?”

“No one knows what happened to any of them. Their ship was never found.”

Never found
. The news had crackled under Liv's skin like a rash, begging to be scratched.

Stopping in the gift shop on their way out, her mother had bought them a chart of the Outer Banks, a smaller version of the enormous map they'd lingered over in the exhibit. Back home before her father had returned from the college, they'd sat in Liv's room and made marks on the map with colored pencils, charting where the
Patriot
might have foundered, and where Theodosia had allegedly been spotted in the years following the ship's disappearance. Then they'd hung the chart beside Liv's bed and admired it for a long time before Liv had stored it safely in her bookshelf, hiding the evidence of their excursion.