Page 10 of Finders Keepers
“Oh. I see.” He turns around and tucks his hands into his pockets. “You’re still mad at me.” His tone is casual, like someone noticing that they’ve run out of milk.
“I’m not mad at you!” Good job, Nina. Shouting about not being mad is a surefire way to convince someone you aren’t mad. “But if I were, wouldn’t I deserve to be? I mean, you were my best friend and then you—”Almost kissed me but didn’t, even though I really wanted you to, and…Nope. Let’s just skip ahead, why don’t we…“—disappeared from my life! And now you’re hanging out with my parents and asking me to go treasure hunting like we’re fifteen again.”
I take a step back. Having to look up to meet his eyes makes me feel like such a child.Allof this makes me feel like such achild. Why can’t I control my emotions anymore? It’s like I left all of my coping skills back at that rest stop in Jersey.
Stupid Bon Jovi.
“Nothing is going right for me,” I say. “Nothing. Not even this. I was supposed to at least be able to come back home to lick my wounds, but instead you’re here tearing open old ones.”
My voice is too loud, too raw. But hey, at least I’m not crying again. Yet.
“I’m not trying to tear open old wounds, Nina. I’m trying to heal them.” That look of surprise and contrition from last night is nowhere to be found on Quentin’s face. His lips are a flat line, and his cheeks are flushed. “Do you think you were the only one who was hurt that summer? That you’re the only one hurting now?”
The emotion in his voice manages to pull me out of my pity spiral. I blink, and suddenly standing before me is my old friend, a little boy trying to make everything into a challenge, into a game, so he doesn’t have to confront it head-on. He’s going through it just as much as I am. And this—the treasure hunt—must be something of a coping mechanism. It’s like in 2008, when we spent those long days researching at the library, making the map at my dining room table, exchanging theories late at night over AIM, exploring Sprangbur’s grounds over and over again as if the X that would mark the spot might magically appear if we were persistent enough.
We wanted to find Fountain’s riches, of course. But I always suspected that it was about more than that for Quentin. That he was using the hunt as a distraction. One that got him out of his house, away from his parents’ ice-cold silence and the moving boxes that reminded him that everything was about to change. In that light, it’s easier to understand that his proposal to resume the search may not be the provocation it felt like a moment ago.It may be him grasping for a way to navigate another challenging period in his life.
Or a way to make amends.
“You know I’ve always had my doubts,” I say, finding myself willing to be gentler. “We did enough research on Julius James Fountain to know that he was…whimsical.”
Quentin snorts. “Sure, let’s go with that.”
True, it’s a gross understatement. Fountain existed somewhere beyond whimsy. He was like a turn-of-the-century Willy Wonka, minus the child endangerment. A man known for his shrewd business sense but also for doing things purely because he found them amusing. Quirky, original, a little bit annoying. Sort of a manic pixie dream industrialist.
“So what makes you believe he actually hid a treasure at Sprangbur?” I ask. “Wouldn’t he have equally enjoyed the idea of everyone searching for something that never existed? We know he loved pranks. Remember the thing in the oral history interview about him always trying to scare the shit out of visitors by blending in with his furniture?”
He frowns, considering. “I hear you. I just don’t think he was the sort of person who would lie about something like this.”
“But hewasthe sort of person to hide something of immense value somewhere on his property and construct an elaborate treasure hunt for strangers to find it?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I shake my head. We’re talking about someone who claimed to be the monarch of a pretend kingdom and was notorious for breaking into pig latin at board meetings just to keep his employees on their toes. Not hiding a treasure and hiding one do seem equally in character. “Okay, yes, he probably was that sort of person,” I admit. “But then why hasn’t anyone cracked this yet? Doesn’t it seem more likely that it isn’t actuallythere than that no one has managed to find it over the last eighty-whatever years? We know we aren’t the only ones to ever search for it. Not even the only ones this century. There were plenty of people who looked after the reward was announced.”
Quentin shrugs. “Not that many, though, and who knows how seriously they took it. We know that even back when Fountain died, most people thought it was nothing but a silly legend. And they still do. Mr. Long definitely did.”
Our tenth-grade social studies teacher assigned us a short research project about local folklore and used an overhead projection of the original newspaper article reporting the unusual contents of Fountain’s will as an example of a primary source we could use. Somehow, in a class of twenty-two bored teenagers, Quentin and I were the only ones who latched onto the idea that a hidden treasure might actually exist in our hometown.
Or, rather, Quentin latched onto it. Then persuaded me. Not completely dissimilar to what is happening right now.
He takes a step closer, and the honeysuckle in the air mixes with that clean, soapy smell I picked up while hugging him last night. I have to admit it’s certainly an upgrade from the Axe Body Spray he (and most of the other boys at school) used to wear like a heavy jacket. There’s something about the scent of him that makes my bones feel like they’re made of pudding.
“Isn’t it tempting?” he asks, and it takes me a moment again to realize we haven’t switched topics. “An item ofimmense value, according to someone who was one of the wealthiest men in the United States. We could be talking thousands, hundreds of thousands,millionsof dollars! Split fifty-fifty, I assume that kind of cash could be very helpful at this particular moment in your life.”
“Would we even have the legal right to keep somethingdiscovered on someone else’s property?” I ask. “Or would we have to turn over whatever we find to the Sprangbur Conservancy anyway?”
“I actually have no idea,” he confesses happily.
“Aren’t you supposed to be a lawyer?”
“Good lawyers admit when they need to do some more research. And, believe it or not, this isn’t exactly a straightforward situation.” He pauses. “But I can see a world in which someone would be able to make a case that ‘finders keepers’ applies here.”
“ ‘Finders keepers,’ ” I repeat. “And that’s an official legal term?”
He grins. “Surprisingly, sort of yes?”
I place my hands flat, palms up, as if about to shrug. “So, I could spend my time looking for a new job and a place to live that isn’t my childhood bedroom,orI could go on a fool’s errand with you that has a half of a percent chance of helping me out if the treasure actually exists, if we can find it, if it’s actually worth something, and if the law happens to be on our side.” Perhaps it’s a bit much, but I make a show of it before settling the look-for-a-new-job hand up toward my ear and the go-treasure-hunting one somewhere near my waist. “Yeah, sorry, no, I will not be doing that.”
My smile is tight-lipped as I turn to go back inside.
Quentin’s hand comes to my upper arm, gently stopping me in my tracks. A delicious tingle dances along my skin where his fingers rest. “Neen. Wait.”
