by Nora Roberts
“I’m sorry, Matthew. He’s wrong taking it out on you this way. There was nothing you could have done.”
“I don’t know which he’s taking harder. The leg or the Marguerite.” Matthew moved a shoulder. “I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“He’ll dive again,” Ray stated and stroked a fingertip down the condensation on the bottle. “Doctor Farrge told me his physical recovery is ahead of schedule.”
“That’s one of the things I needed to talk to you about.” There was no way to put it off any longer, Matthew reminded himself. He would have preferred getting roaring drunk first, but that little pleasure would have to wait. “I’ve got the go-ahead to take him to Chicago. Tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Torn between pleasure and alarm, Ray set his beer down with a clack. “That’s so quick. I had no idea arrangements were already made.”
“Farrge says there’s no reason to delay it. He’s strong enough to make the trip, and the sooner he gets hooked up with this specialist, the better.”
“That’s great, Matthew. Really. You’ll keep in touch, won’t you? Let us know about his progress. Marla and I will take a trip up ourselves as soon as you think he’s up to it.”
“You’re . . . you’re the best friend he ever had,” Matthew said carefully. “It would mean a lot if you come to see him when you can manage it. I know he’s hard to deal with right now, but—”
“Don’t worry about that.” Ray spoke quietly. “A man lucky enough to make that kind of a friend, he doesn’t toss it away because times are rough. We’ll come, Matthew. Tate’s decided to start college in September after all. But I’m sure she’d like to go up with us on her first break.”
“She’s going back to college in September,” Matthew murmured.
“Yes, Marla and I are pleased she’s decided not to defer after all. She’s so down about this whole business right now that I can’t think of anything better for her than getting back into routine. I know she’s not sleeping well. Tate’s so young to have to face all we’ve had to face these last few days. Concentrating on her studies is the best thing for her.”
“Yeah. You’re right.”
“I don’t want to pry, Matthew. But I get the feeling you and Tate have had some sort of disagreement.”
“No big deal.” Matthew signaled for another beer. “She’ll land on her feet.”
“I don’t doubt it. Tate’s a strong-willed and sensible girl.” Ray frowned down at the circles of damp his bottle left on the bar. Rings within rings, he thought. “Matthew, I’m not blind. I realize the two of you were becoming involved.”
“We had a few laughs,” Matthew interrupted. “Nothing serious.” He looked at Ray, and answered the unspoken question. “Nothing serious,” he repeated.
Relieved, Ray nodded. “I’d hoped I could trust both of you to be responsible. I know she’s not a child anymore, but a father still worries.”
“And you wouldn’t want her to hook up with someone like me.”
Ray glanced over, met the cool derision in Matthew’s eyes with some surprise. “No, Matthew. I’d be sorry, at this point in her life, to see her hooked up seriously with anyone. With the right motivation, Tate would throw everything she’d hoped to accomplish to the winds. I’m grateful she’s not doing that.”
“Fine. Terrific.”
Ray let out a long breath. Something he hadn’t even considered had just jumped out and slapped him in the face. “If she knew you were in love with her, she wouldn’t be going back to North Carolina.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I told you we had a few laughs.” But the compassion in Ray’s eyes had him turning away, dropping his face in his hands. “Shit. What was I supposed to do? Tell her to pack it up and come with me?”
“You could have,” Ray said quietly.
“I’ve got nothing for her but bad times and worse luck. Once I get Buck to Chicago, I’m taking a job on a salvage boat off Nova Scotia. Lousy conditions, but decent pay.”
“Matthew—”
But he shook his head. “The thing is, Ray, it’s not going to be enough, money-wise. Especially at first. I can pretty well square things here. Back in the States with the fancy doctor and the fancy treatment, it’s going to be another story. Farrge worked it so they’d cut us a break. Buck’s kind of an experiment,” he added with a sneer. “And they’re talking about social security and Medicaid or Medicare or some such shit. Even with that . . .” He swallowed more beer along with his pride. “I need money, Ray. There’s nobody else I can ask for it, and I gotta say it doesn’t go down real good to have to ask you.”
“Buck’s my partner, Matthew. And my friend.”
“Was your partner,” Matthew corrected. “Anyway, I need ten thousand.”
“All right.”
The mild tone slashed like a blade across the throat of his pride. “Don’t agree so fast. Goddamn it.”
“Would it really help if I made you beg for it? If I outlined terms and conditions?”
“I don’t know.” Matthew gripped the bottle, fighting furiously the need to hurl it, hear it shatter. Like that pride. “It’s going to take me some time to pay it back. I’m going to pay it back,” he said between his teeth before Ray could speak. “I need enough to set Buck up for the operation, for the therapy and the prosthesis. And he’s going to need a place to live after. But I’ve got work, and when that job peters out, I’ll get another one.”
“I know you’re good for the money, Matthew, just as you know I don’t care about being paid back.”
“I care.”
“Yes, I understand that. I’ll write you a check on the condition that you keep me apprised of Buck’s progress.”
“I’ll take the check. On the condition that you keep this between the two of us. Just the two of us, Ray. All of it.”
“In other words you don’t want Buck to know. And you don’t want Tate to know.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re hoeing a hard row for yourself, Matthew.”
“Maybe, but that’s the way I want it.”
“All right, then.” If it was all he could do, he would do it as he was asked. “I’ll leave the check at the front desk for you.”
“Thanks, Ray.” Matthew offered a hand. “For everything. Mostly it was a hell of a summer.”
“Mostly it was. There’ll be other summers, Matthew. Other wrecks. The time might come when we’ll dive for one together again. The Isabella’s still down there.”
“With Angelique’s Curse.” Matthew shook his head. “No thanks. She costs too much, Ray. The way I’m feeling right now, I’d just as soon leave her for the fish.”
“Time will tell. Take care of yourself, Matthew.”
“Yeah. Tell . . . tell Marla I’ll miss her cooking.”
“She’ll miss you. We all will. And Tate? Anything you want me to tell her?”
There was too much to tell her. And nothing to tell her. Matthew only shook his head.
Alone at the bar, Matthew shoved his beer aside. “Whiskey,” he told the bartender. “And bring the bottle.”
It was his last night on the island. He couldn’t think of one good reason to spend it sober.
PART TWO
PRESENT
The now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
—James Joyce
CHAPTER 11
T HERE WERE TWENTY-SEVEN crew members aboard the Nomad. Tate was delighted to be one of them. It had taken her five years of intense year-round work and study to earn her master’s degree in the field of marine archeology. Friends and family had often worried, told her to slow down. But that degree had been the one goal she felt she could control.
She had it. And in the three years since, had put it to use. Now through her association with the Poseidon Institute and her assignment with SeaSearch aboard the Nomad, she was taking the next step to earning her doctorate, and her reputation.
Best of all, she was doing what sh
e loved.
This expedition was for science as well as profit. To Tate’s mind that was the proper and only logical rank of priority.
The crew quarters were a bit on the spare side, but the labs and equipment were state of the art. The old cargo vessel had been meticulously refitted for deep-sea exploration and excavation. Perhaps it was slow and unhandsome as ships went, she mused, but she’d learned long ago that an attractive outer layer meant nothing compared to what was within.
One summer of naive dreams had taught her that, and more.
The Nomad had a great deal within. She was manned by the top scientists and technicians in the field of ocean research.
And she was one of them.
The day was as fine as anyone could ask for. The waters of the Pacific gleamed like a blue jewel. And beneath it, fathoms deep where the light never reached and man could never venture, lay the side-wheeler Justine, and her treasure trove.
In her deck chair, Tate settled her laptop on her knees to complete a letter to her parents.
We’ll find her. The equipment on this ship is as sophisticated as any I’ve seen. Dart and Bowers can’t wait to put their robot to use. We’ve dubbed it “Chauncy.” I’m not sure why. But we’re putting a lot of faith in the little guy. Until we find the Justine and begin to excavate, my duties are light. Everybody pitches in, but there’s a lot of free time just now. And the food, Mom, is incredible. We’re expecting an airdrop today. I’ve managed to charm a few recipes from the cook though you’ll have to cut them down from the bulk necessary to feed almost thirty people.
After nearly a month at sea, there have been squabbles. Family-like, we snipe and fight and make up. There are even a couple of romances. I think I told you about Lorraine Ross, the chemist who shares a cabin with me. The assistant cook, George, has a major crush on her. It’s kind of sweet. Other flirtations are more to pass the time, I think, and will fade away once the real work begins.
So far the weather’s been with us. I wonder how it is back home. I imagine the azaleas will bloom within a few weeks, and the magnolias. I miss seeing them, and I miss seeing you. I know you’ll be leaving for your trip to Jamaica soon, so I hope this letter reaches you before you ship out. Maybe we can mesh schedules in the fall. If things go well, my dissertation will be complete. It would be fun to do a little diving back home.
Meanwhile I should get back. Hayden’s bound to be poring over the charts again, and I’m sure he could use a little help. We don’t have a mail drop until the end of the week, so this won’t go out until then. Write back, okay? Letters are like gold out here. I love you.
Tate
She hadn’t mentioned the tedium, Tate thought as she took the laptop back to the cabin she shared with Lorraine. Or the personal loneliness that could strike without warning when you were surrounded by mile after mile of water. She knew a great many of the crew were beginning to lose hope. The time, the money, the energy that was tied up in this expedition were extensive. If they failed, they would lose their backers, their share of the trove, and perhaps most important, their chance to make history.
Once inside the narrow cabin, Tate automatically scooped up the shirts and shorts and socks scattered over the floor. Lorraine might have been a brilliant scientist, but outside of the lab she was as disorganized as a teenager. Tate piled the clothes on Lorraine’s unmade bunk, her nose twitching at the musky perfume that haunted the air.
Lorraine, Tate concluded, was determined to drive poor George insane.
It still amazed and amused her that she and Lorraine had managed to become friends. Certainly no two women were more different. Where Tate was neat and precise, Lorraine was careless and messy. Tate was driven, Lorraine was unapologetically lazy. Over the years since college, Tate had experienced one serious relationship that had ended amicably while Lorraine had gone through two nasty divorces and innumerable volatile affairs.
Her roommate was a tiny, fairylike woman with a curvy body and a halo of golden hair. She wouldn’t so much as turn on a Bunsen burner unless she was wearing full makeup and the proper accessories.
Tate was long, lean and had only recently let her straight red hair grow to her shoulders. She rarely bothered with cosmetics and was forced to agree with Lorraine’s statement that she was fashion-impaired.
She didn’t think to glance in the full-length mirror Lorraine had hung on the door of the head before she left the cabin.
Turning left, she proceeded to the metal stairs that would take her to the next deck. The clattering and wheezing above made her smile.
“Hey, Dart.”
“Hey.” Dart came to a red-faced halt at the base of the stairs. Unlike his name, he was anything but slim and sharp. Pudgy, with all his edges softly rounded, he resembled an overweight St. Bernard. His thin, sandy-brown hair flopped into his guileless brown eyes. When he smiled, he added another chin to the two he habitually carried. “How’s it going?”
“Slow. I was going up to see if Hayden wanted some help.”
“I think he’s up there, buried in his books.” Dart flipped his hair back again. “Bowers just relieved me at Ground Zero, but I’m going back in a couple minutes.”
Tate’s interest peaked. “Something interesting on screen?”
“Not the Justine. But Litz is up there having multi-orgasms.” Dart referred to the marine biologist with a shrug. “Lots of interesting critters when you get down below a couple thousand feet. Bunch of crabs really got him off.”
“That’s his job,” Tate pointed out, though she sympathized. No one was fond of the cold, demanding Frank Litz.
“Doesn’t make him less of a creep. See you.”
“Yeah.” Tate made her way forward to Dr. Hayden Deel’s workroom. Two computers were humming. A long table bolted to the floor was covered with open books, notes, copies of logs and manifests, charts held down with more books.
Hunkered over them and peering through black horn-rims, Hayden ran fresh calculations. Tate knew he was a brilliant scientist. She had read his papers, applauded his lectures, studied his documentaries. It was a bonus, she thought, that he was simply a nice man.
She knew he was roughly forty. His dark-brown hair was sprinkled with gray and tended to curl. Behind the lenses, his eyes were the color of honey, and usually distracted. There were character-building lines that fanned from his eyes and scored his brow. He was tall, broad-shouldered and just a little clumsy. As usual, his shirt was wrinkled.
Tate thought he looked a bit like Clark Kent approaching middle age.
“Hayden?”
He grunted. As that was more than she’d expected, Tate took a seat directly across from him, folded her arms on the table and waited until he’d finished muttering to himself.
“Hayden?” she said again.
“Huh? What?” Blinking like an owl, he looked up. His face became quietly charming when he smiled. “Hi. Didn’t hear you come in. I’m recalculating the drift. I think we’re off, Tate.”
“Oh, by much?”
“It doesn’t take much out here. I decided to start from the beginning.” As if preparing for one of his well-attended lectures, he tapped papers together, folded his hands over them.
“The side-wheeler Justine left San Francisco on the morning of June eighth, 1857, en route to Ecuador. She held one hundred and ninety-eight passengers, sixty-one crew. In addition to the passengers’ personal belongings, she carried twenty million dollars in gold. Bars and coins.”
“It was a rich time in California,” Tate murmured. She’d read the manifests. Even for a woman who had spent most of her life studying and diving for treasure, it had boggled her.
“She took this route,” Hayden continued, tapping keys on the computer so that the graphics mirrored the doomed ship’s journey south through the Pacific. “She went into port at Guadalajara, discharging some passengers, taking on others. She pulled out on June nineteenth, with two hundred and two passengers.”
He pushed through copies of old n
ewspaper clippings. “ ‘She was a bright ship,’ ” he quoted, “ ‘and the mood was celebrational. The weather was calm and hot, the sky clear as glass.’ ”
“Too calm,” Tate said, well able to imagine the mood, the hope. Elegantly dressed men and women parading the decks. Children laughing, perhaps watching the sea for a glimpse of a leaping dolphin or sounding whale.
