Page 10 of Finders Keepers

With each passing day, it becomes increasingly clear that I need to get back to Boston as soon as possible.

Or, if not Boston, somewhere else that has the infrastructure to help me locate Ambitious Nina.

I can’t linger in Catoctin, with its limited opportunities and reminders of the past. I love my parents to pieces, and I know that I am extremely lucky to have them both still alive and well—something I try not to take for granted, especially since Dad’s accident, which could’ve been so much worse.

But I can already tell that spending the next month or two doing nothing but applying to jobs I’ll never hear back from and hanging out with my mom and dad (mostly Mom, though, given Dad’s basement troll tendencies) is not going to be good for my mental health.

Priority number one is figuring out how to get enough money to cover a security deposit and first month’s rent.

Quentin’s proposal that we continue looking for the treasure clangs around in my brain. Five thousand dollars of reward money. That would be enough, or at least close to it. I wonder if there’s a way to make it more…

We agreed to hunt for Fountain’s treasure together, Nina. As far as I’m concerned, that agreement still stands.

And maybe I do owe Quentin this. Maybe I owe it to myself too.

Because, other than how it ended, that summer was an absolute blast. The best I ever had.

I always thought it was because we spent it exploring and doing research—ideal for a little nerd like me.

But now I think maybe what made it great was that, for those few months, we were a team.

Quentin and I stopped being two people competing to be the best at everything and started working together.

As much as I enjoyed him being my perpetual rival, I enjoyed having him as my closest confidant more.

Our nightly window conversations became deeper, more serious, the candid thoughts of two kids grappling with the world around them and their place in it.

Then there were the long walks through downtown and along the river.

The afternoons in the library’s special collections room trying not to piss off Mrs. MacDonald, the grumpy old archivist. The nights before his mom moved out, when Quentin’s parents fought too loudly and we’d sneak out to simply sit in silence side by side on my front steps.

Sunday mornings eating Mom’s homemade cinnamon rolls while we updated our map of Sprangbur.

It was the intimacy of knowing him, enjoying each other’s company. That’s what I mourned when he left and didn’t keep in touch. That’s what I missed and then eventually convinced myself to stop missing.

Is that something I could have again? Something I would even want to have again?

I’m really not sure. But it doesn’t matter because tonight, when my mother mentions over dinner that she saw the local steak house is hiring a hostess and also that she heard from a friend that her very nice, very handsome accountant is newly single, it acts as a double underline under the as-soon-as-possible part of my plans.

That’s why, the minute I’m finished doing the dishes, I hurry up the stairs to my room and throw the window open.

It once again does an impression of a distressed seagull.

Gotta see if Dad can fix that. At least it’s an easy way to alert Quentin to my presence.

His own window slides open a foot away, much more mellowly, and I’m annoyed by the jolt of relief I feel knowing he’s there.

I’m probably just glad I don’t have to sit with this stupid decision for too much longer.

Either he agrees to my terms and we do this, or he doesn’t and I can finally stop thinking about it.

“Hey, Moon,” I say, feigning more nonchalance than I feel as I fold my arms atop the windowsill and rest my chin on them.

“Bonjour, mon amie.”

“You know, I used to worry sometimes about the pane slipping and guillotining me, but now I think that, if that’s what fate has in store for me, at least it means never having to upload my résumé before manually reentering all of the details ever again.”

“Aw haw, Nina, zat is very dark.” He pauses. “But très relatable.”

The moon is large and perfectly round tonight, glowing bright and hanging heavy in the sky like it weighs more than usual. “This fullness is a good look on you.”

“Merci, mon amie,” he says. “I’ve been doing zee squats.”

The way he says “squats” forces me to cover my mouth for a moment so I don’t bark out a laugh.

It feels like giving him that will take away some of my bargaining power, and I’m going to need everything I can get; international business lawyers are probably better trained in negotiation tactics than eighteenth-century US history PhDs.

“Your hard work is certainly paying off.”

There’s a brief silence. I’m surprised that, when Quentin talks again, he’s already switched over to his normal voice. “Have you considered my proposal?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“I have an…amendment.”

Another pause. “Okay, shoot.”

“We only search for four weeks. If we don’t find anything by then, the agreement ends. And if we do find it, I want sixty percent of the reward.”

He scoffs. “What? How would that be fair?”

“Because…” This made a lot more sense when I was thinking about it while scrubbing pans downstairs. “You’d be paying for my expertise.”

“Expertise, huh?”

“Yes. Not only do I have a better sense of where we’ve already searched and what sources we’ve consulted, as you said, but I have an actual degree in this stuff.”

“Oh, did you study treasure hunting in grad school?”

If I thought about it for a while, I could probably make a decent case for how archival research and treasure hunting have quite a few similarities—including the inhalation of a surprising amount of dirt and dust. “Ha ha,” I say sardonically.

“I spent years learning how to find information as efficiently as possible. And I’m damn good at it. ”

I can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “I don’t doubt it.” There’s a hint of pride, of something like admiration, that feels like a quiet echo of the past. It sends an unwanted warmth to my cheeks.

“I’m just going to be blunt,” I say. “I could use the money, Quentin. And I need the potential payout to be worth enough to make fucking around with you a good use of my time.”

He hasn’t moved from his spot at his own bedroom window, but there’s a distance imbued in his tone when he finally responds. “Seventy percent and eight weeks.”

“What?”

“You can have seven thousand. But only if you commit to ‘fucking around with me’ for at least eight weeks.”

“Eight weeks! You want me to stay here until August?”

“Only if we don’t find the treasure before that.” He continues, “I also want to note that you only asked me for six thousand. I’m upping it to seven. You’re welcome.”

“But it’s double the time commitment!” I protest.

“That’s the offer, Nina,” he says. “Take it or leave it.” There’s a strength and a confidence in his words that make it easy to imagine him at a conference table, wearing that perfectly tailored navy suit, negotiating mergers or whatever the hell it is that international business lawyers do.

Best outcome if I accept? We find the treasure and we get to keep it, it’s worth a bajillion dollars, I never have to work again, and also maybe Quentin and I reconcile.

Worst? We don’t find anything, I’ve wasted eight weeks of my life, we wind up hurting each other again, and I walk away with nothing.

Most likely? The treasure doesn’t exist but we spend a week or two occupied, at least, while getting on slightly better terms and I find a real job in the meantime.

If I don’t agree to Quentin’s proposal, then the best outcome is that I immediately find employment and this is all moot.

The worst is that I spend the entire summer in bed, alternating between refreshing Indeed and sobbing into the too-bright comforter while my mother tries to set me up with every semi-attractive person she hears about while incessantly inviting me to read high-heat romance books with her and her friends.

Most likely? Well, that looks a lot like the worst, but maybe only through, like, the end of July.

Never in a million years would I have guessed that willingly taking part in an eccentric dead guy’s practical joke with someone who completely stomped on my heart when we were teenagers would seem like a smart way to spend my thirty-third summer on the planet.

But until I can find Ambitious Nina again, I’m in a sort of holding pattern.

And this at least will get me out of the house and away from my mom’s well-meaning smothering.

“Fine. I accept.”

“What was that now?” I know he heard me. He’s just being a shit.

“I said fine ,” I repeat, not bothering to hide my annoyance. He better get used to it because I plan on being very annoyed for the next few weeks. “I accept your terms. We’ll hunt for the stupid treasure.”

“Ah haw, ma chérie,” he says, taking up the Moon’s outrageous accent again. “C’est magnifique!”