Page 86 of Finders Keepers
“Well, my extreme discomfort aside, it’s well done, Mom. Good job.”
She beams. “Thank you, baby.”
“We’re going to have to head out, though,” I say. “We’re supposed to meet our realtor to check out another house.” Quentin and I are in the early stages of looking for a place of our own. At first we considered staying at 304 West Dill, and maybe eventually buying it from his dad. Wouldn’t that be fun, we thought, to turn the place into ours, to continue filling it with happier memories than the ones that lingered there from Quentin’s childhood? But after we moved the bed into the master bedroom at the front of the house and realized that our headboard would be sharing a wall with my parents’ headboard—meaning the possibility of them hearing us, or maybe worse, us hearingthem—we decided to see what else we could find in the area. Still close to my family, just not literally next door. In the meantime, we’ve still been living in our respective sides of the duplex. At least officially. In practice, he’s at my parents’ whenever he’s not at C. A. Howe, the local boutique law firm where he’s already making a name for himself in the field of tenants’ rights, and I’m over at his house pretty much every night. I have to admit, I’ve grown quite attached to sleeping with a curled-up Faustine snoring loudly beside my head.
“How exciting! Well, thanks for coming.” Mom stretches out her arms to encompass us both in her farewell embrace. Quentin lets out something almost like a quack as the air is squeezed out of him, but when we’re released he has a massive grin on his face. It is weird how much he and my mom adore each other, but also undeniably nice.
“Bye, Dad,” I say as Quentin says, “See ya, Dave.” My father’s hug is much looser, and he gives Quentin a firm handshake. But with the goodbyes out of the way, we’re free to leave.
I breathe in the late September air, enjoying the crispness of it. The community center is on a farm about fifteen miles south of Catoctin, and it’s beautiful out here. There’s a bonfire going somewhere nearby, and the warm, smoky scent feels like it heralds the arrival of fall. I forgot how much I love Maryland when it isn’t humid and sweltering. The last hot day, in fact, was the one when we met with Sharon, whose maiden name we were surprised to learn is Worman. Apparently, Louisa was her great-aunt. Considering the personal connection, she was particularly thrilled by the letters we found. Then she actually cried when we told her about the Edlo manuscript and gave her Eugene and Emily Aaron’s contact information. The puzzle box turned out to be nothing particularly noteworthy in her opinion, as it was a duplicate of another they already had in their collection; Fountain apparently had several made and often gave them as presents to friends and loved ones. So once we told her our abridged version of how we came to be in possession of Fountain’s treasure (omitting, of course, the trespassing and lying portions of the story), she suggested we keep the box as a memento. Mostly I think she was trying to get rid of us at that point, because she was eager to reread the letters and get in touch with the Aarons. Very understandable.
And we did get to do an interview with a local news outlet about our find, so that was cool.
“You know my mom is going to try to gift us that picture,” I say.
“Oh, I was hoping so,” Quentin says. “This house we’regoing to check out has a fireplace, and it would be perfect over the mantel.” I nudge him in the ribs with my elbow and he laughs. I’ve stopped cataloging his laughter over the last few weeks, because it’s no longer something that feels like it might one day be in short supply. There’s an abundance of it in my life, and I don’t count on that changing as long as we’re both around. Besides, now I spend my days reorganizing actual collections, and I don’t feel a particular need to take my work home with me.
The same cannot be said for Quentin, I guess, because as soon as we’re in the car, the light around us taking on a pinkish tinge as the sun begins to set, he’s checking his email on his phone. It’s true that, occasionally, his new job does have time-sensitive issues, but his paralegal is supposed to text him about those.
“Hey, what’s so important that—”
“Shh.”
“…I’m sorry, did you just shush me?”
Quentin flaps his hand, adding a dismissive gesture to the dismissive noise.
I narrow my eyes, a little offended.
But then I notice that his are growing wider by the millisecond. “Neen. Read this.” He passes the phone to me.
Dear Mr. Bell,
My name is Birch Norwood, Esquire—
“Birch Norwood. Ha. That’s a fun name,” I say.
“Keep reading,” Quentin urges, impatient.
I represent Mr. John Francis Bongiovi—
Isn’t that…?
It cannot be.
Shit.
“Is being mean to Jon Bon Jovi a crime in New Jersey?” I ask Quentin, the words coming out in a panicked hurry.
His eyebrows dive in confusion. “What?”
But I’m already back to reading.
…who recently came across a news feature online about your and Dr. Hunnicutt’s discovery of a new document belonging to industrialist Julius James Fountain. Is it true you still have the puzzle box in which it was contained? Please let me know if this is accurate. Mr. Bongiovi would like to discuss purchasing it for his private collection.
My head jerks up as the words on the screen register. “Does this say…that Jon Bon Jovi wants to buy Fountain’s puzzle box from us?”
“It…it seems so.” Quentin’s mouth quirks, bemusement and delight competing for dominance. “What do you think? Are you particularly attached to it?”
