by Amy Olle
“Rachel brings us back to the treasure.”
“Was the treasure hers?”
“I believe so. When we started to analyze the items found in the wood box, a couple of things stood out. There was a silver hair comb commonly worn by Native Americans at the time as a status symbol and a gold-plated brooch engraved with the Welsh dragon, which also appears to be authentic.”
A deep frown pulled at the corners of her mouth.
“Rachel’s family name was Pryce. A Welsh surname.” He pressed his fingertips to the file folder, as if recalling the contents. “And the maker’s mark on the chest traces it to a well-known furniture craftsman located in Virginia.”
“Where Rachel grew up.”
“That’s right. Given these facts, I suspect she amassed the hoard. It’s possible she and Adam built it together, or maybe she kept it hidden from him. Either way, I suspect she played a key role in its existence.”
“So, you’re saying my four-times-great-grandmother was a pirate, too?”
He shrugged. “Why not?”
She made a sound that might’ve been a laugh or a sob and rubbed her forehead.
“I’m sorry to spring all this on you right now, but I wanted to be the one to tell you.”
Her cheeks flushed dusty rose and brightened her eyes to cornflower blue. “Thank you.”
Warmth curled through him. “You’re welcome. You’ll be relieved to find out Adam cleaned up his act. He went to work for the U.S. Marshals—fighting piracy on the Great Lakes, of all things.”
An incredulous laugh burst from her. “You’re kidding.”
His own smile knocked loose. “Not even a little. After that, the Winslows went legit. Adam’s son turned the family operation into a lawful shipping company. His grandson built a logging empire, and your house.”
Her gaze shifted to the wall behind him, as though the house might be visible beyond, and then slid to the computer screen, where the airline’s web page was still displayed.
The air seemed to suck from the room.
She tugged on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “When do you leave?”
Noah pulled the laptop shut. “I can stay.”
Her gaze swung to his face and she studied him for many long moments. Then she shook her head. “No, you can’t.”
The word slashed at his battered heart and he dropped his head.
She took his head in both her hands and kissed the top of his hair. “You need to work. It’s important work, and you’re so good at it.”
He reached for her hand and laced his fingers through hers.
She squeezed. “I need a little time, I think. Go, please.”
He lifted her other hand to his mouth and pressed his lips into the heart of her palm. As much as it hurt, he understood. He wanted to curse with the frustration of not being able to take away her pain. To take up the fight and put an end to her torment.
“I’ll miss you,” she said. “I love you.”
His throat closed at her easy declaration. He tried to swallow but couldn’t.
“I’m going to talk to someone,” she said in a small voice. “I think it will help. I hope it will. I don’t know.”
He captured her eyes with his. “It’s time to stop this war with yourself, a chuisle.”
Her chin trembled. “I wish I knew how.”
“You’ll find a way.” He brought her fingers to his lips. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
With a bitter grunt, she rolled her eyes.
“I’m serious.”
She searched his face with doubt-filled eyes. “I don’t feel strong.”
“I know you don’t, but trust me on this one.”
Just as he’d trust her to make her way through the darkness, alone.
And pray her path might one day lead back to him.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The day of her first therapy appointment, Mina threw up twice before she left the carriage house and once in the restroom at Dr. Smallwood’s office. When she returned to the waiting room, an attractive woman with a warm smile and calming demeanor greeted her.
Probably in her thirties, Dr. Smallwood insisted Mina call her Chloe. Mina liked her almost immediately.
Chloe led Mina to a cozy office awash in neutral tones and textured fabrics and gestured Mina to an overstuffed armchair before lowering herself into an adjacent chair. She placed a bottle of water in Mina’s hand and eased back in the chair.
“So, Mina, tell me why you’ve come to see me today.”
The first minutes of that first session were torturous for Mina. She struggled to string together even two or three sentences on her reasons for making the appointment. She stammered and stuttered, until Chloe leaned forward in her chair and grasped Mina’s hand.
She didn’t speak but just held on to Mina’s hand.
Until the tears came. They streamed down Mina’s cheeks while Chloe explained that she, too, was a survivor of sexual abuse, and that her abuse was the reason she made it her life’s work to help women like herself. Like Mina.
She described the grief process and gave a lengthy explanation of post-traumatic stress disorder. Mostly, she talked about patience. Patience with the process. Patience with herself.
Trauma to the soul, she explained, took time to heal. Whether the trauma had occurred recently or fifteen years before, as it had with Mina, the healing process was much the same.
She didn’t stop talking until the hour had ended. All the while, Mina’s tears flowed. She couldn’t stop them. She emptied a box of Kleenex and muttered a humiliated “thank you” when Chloe handed her a new box.
Chloe scheduled Mina to meet with her three times a week. “Just for a little while,” she said. “To get you through the next month or so. Until you’re ready to do it on your own.”
At times during those weeks, Mina suspected she’d descended into a certain kind of Hell.
She cried. She yelled. She despaired and regrouped, only to start the shame spiral all over again. Under Chloe’s direction, she didn’t deny any of the feelings that came up. She accepted them all, letting them wash over her, experiencing each one fully. The pain, the grief, the guilt, the humiliating degradation, and the devastating sorrow. The anger and loss.
Chloe assured her the hurt would lessen in time, and she helped Mina grapple with the darkest questions in her soul. Had she done something to bring about her rape? Had she done enough to prevent it? Was she going crazy? Would she feel this way for the rest of her life?
They talked about Noah, and Mina confessed her fear. “I’m afraid I’ll let him down.”
“How so?”
“Sometimes I don’t want to... I don’t like... I have bad days, and the memories are so real. I don’t want to be around anyone. I don’t want to talk about it, and I don’t want to be touched. I can see that hurts him,” Mina finished, her cheeks burning.
Chloe gave her a reassuring smile. “In time, and with love and trust, you’ll seek intimacy, and when you’re ready, you’ll find a way to communicate your needs to him.”
Mina worried her bottom lip. “What if he gets tired of waiting for me to get over it? Or comes to resent me?” The way Drew had.
Chloe eased back in her chair. “I don’t believe rape is something you get over,” she began carefully. Emotion swirled in her gray-blue eyes, but the warmth and gentleness Mina had come to rely on remained. “It stays with us, but it doesn’t have to control us. It’s a part of who we are, but it’s not all that we are. We can move past trauma. I’m proof of that and so are you.”
“I don’t want to disappoint him,” Mina said.
“You won’t disappoint him beyond the normal disappointments every couple experiences in each other. You’re growing stronger every day, and soon you’ll be able to articulate to him what you need, when you want intimacy, and how, and when you just need to be by yourself.”
In between counseling sessions and crying jags, Mina kept Shea’s accounts up to date and
worked on the house. Done with the heavy construction and repairs, they moved into the finishing phase.
Mina painted every inch of every room, including untold miles of trim and molding, while Sam and his men installed cabinetry and fixtures and laid tile in the kitchen and in all seven bathrooms.
Maybe it was the long winter slog, or impatience with her gloomy thoughts and moods, but Mina’s decorating choices favored light and airy over dark and traditional. She chose warm creams and beiges for the walls, white cabinetry, and bright tile.
So while she tried to preserve the home’s integrity, every day the house appeared more and more like a beachside resort.
Finally, one day in mid-March, winter relented. The ice cover on Lake Michigan began breaking up with sharp, thunder-like cracks and deep rumbles.
Mina fled the cramped confines of the carriage house and plunged toward the beach. She retreated indoors, out of the harsh cold and biting winds after a few short minutes, but over the next weeks, temperatures climbed steadily, and she escaped outdoors whenever she found the chance.
The lake raged as it swallowed the melting snow. Ice gave way to slush, which collected in ruts and channels, and soon the rich, loamy scent of earth clung to the air, so thick she could almost taste it on her tongue.
Her rubber boots squished in the mud as she ventured out. She raised the hood on her coat for protection against the snapping wind and aimed for the shelter of the grove. Her breathing increased with the exertion, and she pushed on, relishing the burn of fresh air in her lungs.
At the far edge of the woods, she spotted a lone crocus pushing up through the snow, and stopped. She stared down at the tiny flower, the first sign of life to emerge after the long winter slumber.
Just a stumpy little thing, standing a few inches off the ground, its deep violet color brilliant against a backdrop of snow and mud. She pulled the glove off one hand and crouched down to stroke a soft petal.
A smile teased across her lips.
She continued her walk through the woods and then rounded back to the north edge of her property, where the remains of Adam and Rachel’s home sat overlooking the expanse of Lake Michigan.
With Noah’s guidance, she’d applied for a historical marker. One day, she hoped to find the funding for a memorial or an exhibition to allow visitors to view the ruins and learn about life on the island for the early settlers.
Wandering through the site always made her feel closer to Noah. Though he was never far from her mind, here, his presence was strongest, as if he’d left a part of himself behind to protect and defend that which was irreplaceable and precious to him.
In the months since he’d been gone, their busy, erratic schedules, rural locations, and the time-zone difference all conspired to make regular communication a challenge for them.
Three days ago, he’d called her in the afternoon, but she’d missed her phone’s ringing to the wail of the wet saw the crew used to cut tile for the kitchen backsplash. He’d called her again just after midnight, which was five o’clock in the morning in Ireland, but after a particularly grueling session with Chloe, Mina had fallen into bed and slept through the call.
When she’d woken, she’d dialed him back right away, but an automated message had told her he was out of the service area, which meant he was out in the field, at his new site somewhere in the Irish countryside that lacked reliable cell phone service.
She then tried sending him a text. How are you?
His reply didn’t come through until late that night. I miss you. Tell me you’re okay.
I’m okay. I wish you were here.
More than twenty-four hours had passed since then.
After her walk, she changed into her paint clothes and set up in the ballroom. She painted until the end of Noah’s workday neared. Then she put down her paintbrush and pulled her cell phone from the back pocket of her blue jeans.
With shaking hands, she scrolled through her contact list and selected his name. She sat cross-legged on the floor while the first ring sounded in her ear.
She inspected her handiwork with satisfaction. The fresh paint brightened the room and enhanced its opulence.
A memory came to her, of that rainy day last summer when she’d stood alone in this darkened room, feeling lost and lonely.
The day Noah had walked back into her life.
On the third ring, her call went to voice mail. A computer-generated voice rattled off instructions, and at the beep, Mina started talking. She left a rambling message full of awkward missteps, restarts, and prolonged silences. She even dropped the “I love you” bomb before disconnecting mid-sentence.
Her groan of mortification echoed around the empty ballroom. She smacked the cell phone to her forehead and then let her head fall back against the wall with a soft thud.
That was probably going to freak him out.
She didn’t know if Noah loved her. He hadn’t said as much. If pressed, she’d say he cared about her. But what if, now that he was away from the island and away from her, he was happier? What if the darkness inside her was too much for him? If the choice was hers, once free from the cloud of sorrow, she might choose to stay away and never return.
One meticulously restored elfin cherub floated overhead. The glint in his baby-blue eyes mocked her.
Silly, stupid girl, he seemed to say.
“I know, I know.”
Noah had done it again.
Caleb stared at him, wide-eyed. “I can’t believe it. Another royal. That’s two in five years. It’s insane.”
It was like winning the lottery twice. Three times, if you counted the Thief Island treasure hoard.
“You have the most amazing luck.” Caleb’s triumphant laughter rang in Noah’s ears. “You’re going to win Archaeologist of the Year again.”
There were worse things that could happen for his career, though the possibility of receiving the field’s top honor didn’t particularly appeal to Noah. His goals had shifted, turned upside down and jumbled all out of order.
Rather than accolades, he craved the satisfaction of turning on a young mind.
The friendship of a brother.
The love of a good woman.
When had it happened? He couldn’t say exactly. Probably about the time he’d fallen in love with a sad, sweet woman.
Noah shook himself. He kept doing that, thinking of them when he should be focused on work.
He arranged his features into a smile. In the last twelve weeks, he’d perfected the fake smile. It was a useful tool. One that masked the constant ache in his chest where his heart gasped and strained without them. It hurt, dammit.
“Don’t go booking your airfare just yet,” Noah said. “There’s a lot of work left to do.”
“Not tonight, though.” Caleb closed his laptop and slid it into a black leather case. “Catch you at the pub later?”
Noah didn’t want to go to the local tavern with Caleb and the rest of the research team. He wasn’t in the mood. He was never in the mood.
“Sure,” he said.
With a parting nod, Caleb ducked his head and slipped through the tent flap.
Noah stared down at the sixth-century artifact and tried to turn his mind back to work.
He’d been right to leave, he reminded himself. The time away, alone, had been good for him. It’d given him a little distance. Perspective.
He’d begun to remember his father without fear and anger, the dark memories not nearly so dark. He even recalled some good times. For all his faults, Daniel had loved his wife, and when fate had taken Fiona Nolan from them too soon, it might as well have taken Daniel with it. A tragedy within a tragedy.
He might never fully forgive his father for his weaknesses, for being unable to love a child the way a parent should, but he understood a fraction of a fraction of the devastation that had warped Daniel’s mind and corrupted his heart.
If Mina were lost to him forever, could Noah honestly say he’d handle it better than Daniel had? Wh
o knew? Sometimes life’s sadness broke people. The way it’d broken Daniel.
What if tragedy had broken his Mina, too?
Weariness tugged at him, and for the first time, Noah considered that, though his anger at Daniel was justified, it might be all right to let it go. Lord knew he was tired of carrying it around all the time.
With a sigh of surrender, he packed up his gear and left the site to head back to his hotel room. By leaving early, he might have time to catch a nap before heading out to the tavern, where he’d fake his way through another night of socializing and pretending everything was fine.
It was exhausting, the pretending. He pretended a lot.
Pretended he wasn’t lost and uncertain, and that this separation from Mina wasn’t a tear that’d hang inside his soul forever.
He pretended to move on, like all the other times. In reality, he was undone. Out of sorts.
Away from them, he was bereft.
He was homesick.
Fuck.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Sunlight streamed through the oversized windows and spilled across the gleaming black-and-white marble tiles of the foyer floor.
“So,” Sam said. “This is it.”
“This is it,” Mina said.
Their gazes soaked in the transformation, from the smooth, ivory walls to the rebuilt twin staircases and antique crystal chandelier Mina had found at a flea market and rewired.
It’d taken eleven months, hundreds of gallons of paint and stain, and her life savings.
But it was done, and it was beautiful.
No longer a hopeless ruin.
Sam bent and plucked his contractor belt off the floor. He slung the heavy tool belt over his shoulder and pulled open the front the door.
“On to the next job?” Mina said.
Sam turned from the archway, a gleam in his brown eyes. “We’re finishing the basement in a 1970s ranch. Place feels like a shack after this.”
Her laugh sounded rusty from lack of use.
She thanked Sam and wished him well on his next project.
