by Nora Roberts
“Then let’s sit down and see how it tastes.”
But Tate wasn’t willing to let the matter drop. “Dad, do you know what he plans to do with that sword? He’s just going to sell it to some dealer.”
Ray sat and pursed his lips. “Most salvagers sell their booty, honey. That’s how they make a living.”
“Well, that’s fine.” Tate took the platter her mother offered automatically and chose her portion. “But it should be dated and assessed first. He doesn’t even care what it is or who it belonged to. To him it’s just something to trade for a case of beer.”
“That’s a shame.” Marla sighed as Ray poured dinner wine into her glass. “And I know how you feel, honey. The Tates have always been defenders of history.”
“And the Beaumonts,” her husband put in. “It’s the Southern way. You have a point, Tate.” Ray gestured with his fork. “And I sympathize. But I also understand Matthew’s side of it. The quick turnaround, the quick profit for his efforts. If his grandfather had taken that route, he’d have died a rich man. Instead, he chose to share his discovery and ended up with nothing.”
“There’s a middle ground,” Tate insisted.
“Not for some. But I believe Buck and I found it. If we find the Isabella or the Santa Marguerite, we’ll apply for a lease, if we’re not outside the limit. Regardless, we’ll share what we salvage with the government of Saint Kitts and Nevis, a term he agreed to reluctantly.” Ray lifted his glass, eyed the wine. “He agreed to it because we have something he needs.”
“What do we have?” Tate wanted to know.
“We have a strong enough financial base to continue this operation for some time with or without results. We can afford the time, as we agreed you could defer the upcoming fall semester. And if it becomes an issue, we can afford the equipment needed for an extensive salvage operation.”
“So, they’re using us.” Exasperated, Tate pushed her plate aside. “That’s my point, Dad.”
“In a partnership, one-half must have use of the other.”
Far from convinced, Tate rose to pour herself a glass of fresh lemonade. In theory, she wasn’t against partnership. From an early age, she’d been taught the value of teamwork. It was this specific team she worried over. “And what are they bringing into this partnership?”
“In the first place, they’re professionals. We’re amateurs.” Ray waved a hand as Tate started to protest. “However much I like to dream otherwise, I’ve never discovered a wreck, only explored those found and salvaged by others. Oh, we’ve been lucky a few times.” He picked up Marla’s hand, ran a thumb around the gold ring she wore. “Brought up trinkets others have overlooked. Since my first dive, I’ve dreamed of finding an undiscovered ship.”
“And you will,” Marla claimed with undiluted faith.
“This could be the one.” Tate dragged a hand through her hair. As much as she loved her parents, their lack of practicality baffled her. “Dad, all the research you’ve done, the archives, the manifests, the letters. The way you worked on the records of the storm, the tides, everything. You’ve put so much work into this.”
“I have,” he agreed. “And because of that, I’m very interested that a great deal of Buck’s research aligns with mine. I can learn so much from him. Do you know he worked for three years in the North Atlantic, in depths of five hundred feet and more? Frigid water, dark water. He’s salvaged in mud, in coral, in the feeding area of shark. Imagine it.”
Tate could see he was, the way his eyes unfocused, how his lips curved with dreams. With a sigh, she set a hand on his shoulder. “Dad, just because he’s had more experience—”
“A lifetime more.” Ray reached back, patted her hand. “That’s what he brings to us. Experience, perseverance, the mind of a hunter. And something as basic as manpower. Two teams, Tate, are more efficient than one.” He paused. “Tate, it’s important to me that you understand my decision. If you can’t accept it, I’ll tell Buck the deal’s off.”
And that would cost him, Tate thought, miserably. Pride, because he’d already given his word. Hope, because he was counting on the success of this new team.
“I understand it,” she said, tucking her personal distaste aside. “And I can accept it. Just one more question.”
“Ask away,” Ray invited.
“How can we be sure that when their team goes down, they won’t keep whatever they find to themselves?”
“Because we’re splitting the partnership.” He stood to clear the table. “I’ll dive with Buck. You’ll dive with Matthew.”
“Isn’t that a nice idea?” Marla chuckled to herself at her daughter’s horrified expression. “Who wants a piece of cake?”
Dawn spread over the water in bronze and rose streaks that mirrored the sky. The air was pure as silver and deliciously warm. In the distance, the high bluffs of St. Kitts awoke to the light in misty greens and browns. Farther south, the volcano cone that dominated the little island of Nevis was shrouded in clouds. Sugar-white beaches were deserted.
A trio of pelicans skimmed by, then dived with three quick, nearly soundless plops, shooting the water high in a cascade of individual drops. They rose again, skimmed again, dived again, in comical unity. Wavelets lapped lazily against the hull.
Slowly, beautifully, the light strengthened, and the water was sapphire.
Tate’s mood wasn’t lifted by the scenery as she suited up. She checked her diver’s watch, her wrist compass, the gauges on her tanks. While her father and Buck shared coffee and conversation on the foredeck, she strapped her diver’s knife onto her calf.
Beside her, Matthew mirrored the routine.
“I’m not any happier about this than you are,” he muttered. He hefted her tanks, helped her secure them.
“That brightens my mood.”
They attached weight belts, eyeing each other with mutual distrust. “Just try to keep up, and stay out of my way. We’ll be fine.”
“Really.” She spat into her mask, rubbed, rinsed. “Why don’t you stay out of my way?” She plastered a smile on her face as Buck and her father sauntered over.
“Set?” Ray asked her, checking her tank harnesses himself. He glanced at the bright-orange plastic bottle that served as a marker. It bobbed quietly on calm seas. “Remember your direction.”
“North by northwest—just like Cary Grant.” Tate pecked his cheek, sniffed his aftershave. “Don’t worry.”
He didn’t worry, Ray told himself. Of course he didn’t. It was just rare that his little girl went down without him. “Have fun.”
Buck hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his shorts. His legs were stubby trunks knobbed by prominent knees. Covering his bald pate was an oil-smeared Dodgers fielder’s cap. His eyes were masked by tinted prescription glasses.
Tate thought he looked like an overweight, poorly dressed gnome. For some reason, she found it appealing. “I’ll keep an eye on your nephew, Buck.”
He grinned at that, his laugh like gravel hitting stone. “You do that, girl. And good hunting.”
With a nod, Tate executed a smooth back roll from the rail, and headed down. She waited, as a responsible partner, for Matthew’s dive. The moment she saw him enter the water, she turned and swam toward the bottom.
Sea fans the color of lilacs waved gracefully in the current. Fish, startled by the intrusion, darted away, a colorful stream of life and motion. If she had been with her father, she might have lingered to enjoy the moment, that always-stunning transition between being a creature of the air, and one of the sea.
She might have taken the time to gather a few pretty shells for her mother, or remained still long enough to coax a fish to glide over and inspect the newcomer.
But with Matthew closing the distance between them, Tate was struck less by the wonder of it than by a keen sense of competition.
Let’s see him try to keep up, she decided, and kicking hard, skimmed westward. The water cooled on descent, but remained comfortable. It was a pity, she thoug
ht, that they were far from the more interesting reefs and coral gardens, but there was enough to please the senses—the water itself, the sway of fans, a flashing fish.
She kept her eyes peeled for lumps or discolorations in the sand. Damned if she’d miss something and let him surface in triumph again.
She reached for a broken piece of coral, examined it, discarded it. Matthew swam by her, taking the lead. Though Tate reminded herself the change of lead was basic diving procedure, she fretted until she could once more take the point.
They communicated only when strictly necessary. After agreeing to spread out, they kept each other in view. As much, Tate thought, in suspicion as safety.
For an hour, they combed the area where they had found the sword. Tate’s first sense of anticipation began to wane when they discovered nothing more. Once she fanned away at sand, her heart thumping as she caught a glint. Her visions of some ancient shoe buckle or plate faded when she uncovered a twentieth-century can of Coke.
Discouraged, she swam farther north. Here, suddenly, a vast undersea garden of brightly patterned shells and coral with darting fish feeding. Lovely branched coral, too fragile to survive the wave action of shallow water, speared and spread in ruby and emerald and mustard yellow. It was home to dozens of creatures that hid in it, fed on it, or indeed fed it.
Pleasure slid through her as she watched a volute with its pumpkin-colored shell creep its laborious way along a rock. A clown fish darted through the purple-tipped tentacles of a sea anemone, immune to their stinging. A trio of regal angelfish glided along, a formation in search of breakfast.
Like a kid in a candy store, Matthew thought, as he watched her. She was holding her position with slow movements, her eyes darting as she tried to take in everything at once.
He’d liked to have dismissed her as foolish, but he appreciated the sea’s theater. Both the drama and comedy continued around them—the sunny yellow wrasses busily cleaning the demanding queen triggerfish, devoted as ladies-in-waiting. There, quick and lethal, the ambushing moray darted from his cave to clamp his jaws over the unwary grouper.
She didn’t flinch from her up-close seat of instant death, but studied it. And he had to admit she was a good diver. Strong, skilled, sensible. She didn’t like working with him, but she held up her end.
He knew that most amateurs became discouraged if they didn’t stumble across some stray coin or artifact within an hour. But she was systematic and apparently tireless. Two other traits he appreciated in a diving partner.
If they were going to be stuck with each other, at least for a couple of months, he might as well make the best of it.
In what he considered a gesture of truce, he swam over, tapped her shoulder. She glanced over, her eyes bland behind her mask. Matthew pointed behind them and watched those eyes brighten with appreciation when she spotted the school of tiny silver-tipped minnows. In a glinting wave, they veered as a mass barely six inches from Tate’s outstretched hand, and vanished.
She was still grinning when she saw the barracuda.
It was perhaps a yard off, hovering motionless with its toothy grin and staring eyes. This time she pointed. When Matthew noted that she was amused rather than afraid, he resumed his search.
Tate glanced back occasionally to be certain their movements didn’t attract their audience. But the barracuda remained placidly at a distance. Sometime later when she looked back, he was gone.
She saw the conglomerate just as Matthew’s hand closed over it. Disgusted, and certain only her inattention had kept her from finding it first, she swam another few yards to the north.
It irritated her the way he seemed to work in her pocket. If she didn’t keep her eye on him, he was practically at her shoulder. In a gesture of dismissal, she kicked away, damned if she’d let him think his misshapen hunk of rock interested her, however promising its pebbly surface.
And that’s when she found the coin.
The small spread of darkened sand drew her closer. She fanned more from habit than enthusiasm, imagining she’d probably unearth someone’s pocket change or a rusted tin can tossed from a passing boat. But the blackened disk was barely an inch under the silt. She knew the moment she plucked it up that she was holding a legend.
Pieces of eight, she thought, giddy with discovery. A pirate’s chant, a buccaneer’s booty.
Realizing she was holding her breath, a dangerous mistake, she began to breathe slowly as she rubbed at the discoloration with her thumb. There was the dull sheen of silver at the corner of the irregularly shaped coin.
With a cautious glance over her shoulder to be certain Matthew was occupied, she tucked it into the sleeve of her wet suit. Smug now, she began to search for more signs.
When a check of her gauge and her watch indicated their time was up, she noted her position, and turned toward her partner. He nodded, jerked a thumb. They began to swim east, ascending slowly.
His goody bag was laden with conglomerate, which he pointed out to her before gesturing to her own empty one. She gave him the equivalent of a shrug and broke the surface just ahead of him.
“Bad luck, Red.”
She suffered his superior smile as they headed in. “Maybe.” Gripping the ladder of the Adventure, she tossed her flippers up to where her father waited. “Maybe not.”
“How’d it go?” Once his daughter was on deck, Ray relieved her of her weight belt and tanks. Noting her empty bag, he struggled to mask disappointment. “Nothing worth bringing up, huh?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Matthew commented. He handed Buck his full bag before unzipping his suit. Water dripped from his hair, pooled at his feet. “Might be something worthwhile once we chip away at it.”
“The boy’s got a sixth sense about these things.” Buck set the bag on a bench. His fingers were already itching to start hammering at the conglomerate.
“I’ll work on it,” Marla offered. She was wearing her flowered sun hat and a sundress of canary yellow that set off her flame-colored hair. “I just want to get some videos first. Tate, you and Matthew have a nice cold drink and something to eat. I know these two want to go down and try their luck.”
“Sure.” Tate pushed her wet hair back from her face. “Oh, and speaking of luck.” She pulled the wrists of her wet suit. A half dozen coins fell jingling to the deck. “I had a little myself.”
“Sonofabitch.” Matthew crouched down. He knew by the weight and the shape what she’d found. While the others erupted with excitement, he rubbed a coin between his fingers and looked up coolly into Tate’s self-satisfied smile.
He didn’t begrudge her the find. But he sure as hell hated that she’d managed to make him look like a fool.
“Where’d you find them?”
“A couple of yards north of where you were harvesting your rocks.” She decided the way annoyance narrowed his eyes almost made up for the sword. “You were so busy I didn’t want to interrupt you.”
“Yeah. I bet.”
“Spanish.” Ray stared down at the coin nestled in his palm. “Seventeen thirty-three. This could be it. The date’s right.”
“Could be from the other ships,” Matthew responded. “Time, current, storms—they spread things out.”
“They could just as easily be from the Isabella or Santa Marguerite.” There was a fever in Buck’s eyes. “Ray and me, we’ll concentrate on the area where you found these.” He rose from his crouched position, held out a coin to Tate. “These’ll go in the kitty. But I figure you ought to keep one, for yourself. That sit right with you, Matthew?”
“Sure.” He shrugged his shoulders before turning to the ice chest. “No big deal.”
“It is to me,” Tate murmured as she accepted the coin from Buck. “It’s the first time I’ve ever found coins. Pieces of eight.” She laughed and leaned forward to give Buck an impulsive kiss. “What a feeling.”
His ruddy cheeks darkened. Women had always remained a mystery to him and mostly at a distance. “You hold on to it—that fe
eling. Sometimes it’s a long stretch before you have it again.” He slapped Ray on the back. “Let’s suit up, partner.”
Within thirty minutes, the second team was under way. Marla had spread out a drop cloth and was busily chipping away at the conglomerate. Tate postponed lunch to clean the silver coins.
Nearby, Matthew sat on the deck and polished off his second BLT. “I tell you, Marla, I might just shanghai you. You sure have a way of putting food together.”
“Anybody can make a sandwich.” Her hammer rang in counterpoint to her molasses-drenched voice. “You’ll have to have dinner with us, Matthew. Then you’ll see what cooking’s all about.”
He was sure he heard Tate’s teeth gnash. “Love to. I can run over to Saint Kitts for you if you need any supplies.”
“That’s very sweet.” She’d changed into work shorts and an oversized shirt, and was sweating. Somehow she still managed to look like a Southern belle planning a tea party. “I could use a little fresh milk to make biscuits.”
“Biscuits? Marla, for homemade biscuits, I’d swim back from the island with the whole cow.”
He was rewarded by her quick, infectious laughter. “Just a gallon will do me. Oh, not this minute,” she said, waving him back when he started to rise. “Plenty of time. You enjoy your lunch and the sunshine.”
“Stop trying to charm my mother,” Tate said under her breath.
Matthew scooted closer. “I like your mother. You’ve got her hair,” he murmured. “Her eyes, too.” He picked up another section of sandwich, bit in. “Too bad you don’t take after her otherwise.”
“I also have her delicate bone structure,” Tate said with a clench-toothed smile.
Matthew took his time with his study. “Yeah, I guess you do.”
Suddenly uncomfortable, she shifted back an inch. “You’re crowding me,” she complained. “Just like you do on a dive.”
“Here, take a bite.” He held out the sandwich, nearly plowing it into her mouth so that she had little choice but to accept. “I’ve decided you’re my good-luck charm.”
