Page 15 of Finders Keepers

There are two ways to get up to Sprangbur on foot.

Sometimes Quentin and I would take the same route we would have in a car, following Main Street all the way up to where it forks, turning right onto Carmichael Chapel Road, and then eventually right onto Riverview.

It’s kind of the long way round, though, and the sidewalk stops for a long stretch on Carmichael Chapel, so we were forced to walk single file on the narrow shoulder with cars zooming past (there is, notoriously, no posted speed limit, which, according to local legend, means that the limit does not exist; the police occasionally beg to differ).

Then there’s the more direct route through Riverside Park.

It’s a mile-long stretch of trail that starts downtown and ends at the base of Sprangbur, copying the curve of the Monocacy River.

Despite the prime real estate, it’s never been particularly scenic; the county often neglected maintenance on the bordering land, so the view was mostly overgrown grass and invasive trees growing between the path and the water.

Or, at least, that’s how it was the last time I was here.

When Quentin and I approach the unassuming trailhead, a few minutes’ walk from Best That You Can Brew, I look at him like Is this right?

Did we take a wrong turn somewhere? Because Riverside Park is nothing like I remember it.

Instead of hard-packed dirt, the pathway is now paved with dark, fresh asphalt.

More surprisingly, the area to the left is freshly mowed grass dotted with benches and a picnic pavilion, while to the right is a lovely unobstructed view of the water and the forested land on the opposite bank.

“Whoa, they made this nice,” I say.

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees. “The lady behind me in line at the post office was telling me about it the other day. She said they’re putting a bunch of big new houses where the old middle school was, and the builder wanted to advertise proximity to the park as an amenity.

So the company gave the city a big donation to be used toward ongoing upkeep. ”

“Oh. That’s good, I guess.”

“Not according to the post office lady. She wasn’t particularly happy about it, or any of the other changes happening around here. She was there to mail a letter to the county disputing her property tax increase.”

“I wonder if my parents’ has gone up,” I say, swallowing hard.

Mom hasn’t mentioned anything about that, but I suppose property tax increases will likely affect them too, if they haven’t already.

There’s a small lurch of fear, supported by the memory of overhearing my mother on the phone with the mortgage company after Dad’s accident left him unable to work, begging them to give her a few months to catch up on payments.

The piles of bills marked with big red overdue stamps that sat on the dining room table for most of my junior and senior years.

But, no, things are different now. They have the settlement money.

This won’t make or break them. Which is good, since I’m in no position to help them out.

“Probably. Ours is ten percent over the next three years.” Quentin pauses before continuing, “That’s one of the reasons Dad agreed to let me get the house ready to sell.”

I almost trip as I take my next step but am thankfully able to play it off as avoiding a small puddle leftover from last night’s thunderstorm.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were,” I say. But that doesn’t sound right, so I add, “Doing that.” Which doesn’t sound right either.

I try again. “That…that’s why you…with the flooring and stuff.

” Geez. A bunch of high school debate championship ribbons, thirteen conference presentations, three job talks, and a dissertation defense under my belt, and yet, in Quentin’s presence, I can’t even string together a coherent sentence.

It was never like this before. I blame his forearms.

“Yeah, that’s why I with the flooring and stuff,” he says with an infuriating slight smile.

“Figured it would be a productive way to spend my time between jobs. Help get more money for the place, give me a roof over my head and something to focus on that isn’t directly related to the horrible crushing despair of existence. You know.”

“I do know, yes.”

Something heavy shifts around in my stomach as we continue forward.

At first I assume it’s my body rejecting my lunchtime salad, but then it becomes clearer that it’s not related to anything I ate.

No, it’s a response to the thought that whatever Quentin and I manage to rebuild between us won’t matter, because he’ll be leaving again.

And I’ll be leaving too. At least we are mutually leaving this time, and I know what to expect.

Or rather, what not to expect. In a way this is great news; less pressure to get things right.

It’s also an important reminder: I can’t let myself get too comfortable with him.

Definitely can’t get invested . We might be living in the same houses we used to, hunting for the same treasure, but so many things have changed.

The town has changed. We’ve changed. Everyone and everything has moved on, and this is hopefully just a summertime pit stop on the way back to regularly scheduled programming for both of us.

We’re mostly quiet then as we stroll along the river.

There must’ve been a good amount of rain here this spring, because the water flows a few inches below the bank, and everything is lush and verdant.

A hawk takes flight from a Caution Blind Curve Ahead sign, and by the time it disappears into the woods across the way, I notice that Quentin has stopped walking.

Because now that the county has cut down the massive half-dead oak tree that used to be near this part of the trail, you can actually glimpse Sprangbur from here.

It’s just the top of one of the Castle’s octagonal turrets, but even that hits me in the heart the same way Boston’s skyline used to when I’d be driving back from somewhere outside of the city and see it up ahead in the distance.

This loosens something in me I didn’t realize had been tightened, almost as much as stepping inside my parents’ house and sitting down to banana bread the other day.

Quentin lets out a little chuckle that sounds almost like a “huh.” I find that one in the mental catalog—the same wonder-filled sound he made the first time I ever beat him at chess—before I can think better of it.

And the incredible ease with which I can still recall that annoys me enough that my hands find their way to my hips.

Mom’s advice pops into my head. She was right that holding grudges isn’t going to help us find the treasure.

It will only make this not-entirely-comfortable joint venture feel more interminable.

Now is as good a time as any to clear the air.

Or rather, cover up the worn linoleum of our old friendship—and all of its highs and lows—with almost aggressively neutral faux wood that will give us a blank canvas. A fresh start.

“I think we should declare a truce,” I say.

My words interrupt the step he’s about to take, and he comes to a stop again. “Are we…at war?”

I throw my hands up in frustration that he doesn’t know exactly what I mean. “A truce, a clean slate, whatever you want to call it. I think we need to agree to keep the past in the past if this is going to work.”

“Our past, or like, the entire past? Because I don’t think we can find a dead guy’s treasure if we pretend he never existed.”

“You know what I mean. Everything that went down between us was ages ago. It basically happened to other people. We’re different now,” I say. “Grown adults. So let’s just forget it all and move on, okay?”

“?‘Different now,’?” he repeats, as if he might be skeptical. After five seconds of intense eye contact that feels much longer, he says, “Okay,” and holds out his hand. “Clean slate, then.”

“Clean slate.” I take his hand and shake it. The warmth of his palm against mine is subtle, a few degrees’ difference from the surrounding early summer air; I can’t help but notice it nonetheless. How would it feel to have that hand cupping the back of my neck, or sliding up my thigh…

No, no, no. No thoughts like that.

Although letting myself lust a tiny amount, while clearly some sort of irrational mental rebound from the recent end of my relationship with Cole, certainly would help keep me in the present. Remind me of all the ways we are different now. Very, very different…

“Nina?”

“Hm?”

Quentin looks from my face to our still-joined hands and back again, amusement dancing in his eyes.

I release him and turn abruptly in the opposite direction. “Oh. Sorry. I got distracted by…a bird,” I say. “I think it flew that way…”

“Ah,” Quentin replies, clearly humoring me.

We continue along the trail, and I keep my eyes locked on the turret’s spire poking up from the trees along the edge of the crag to avoid noticing Quentin’s every movement.

“Oh, hey,” he says, and points to an old brick warehouse up ahead, on the other side of the grassy area. “Is that where Hanako’s bar is?”

It’s basically as close to being waterside as local zoning will allow.

I bet the large patio with its assorted seating and globe lights is absolutely packed in the evenings and on weekends now that it’s warm.

A sign for the complex indicates there’s also a burger place, an upscale Italian restaurant, and an interior design studio in the same building.

The offshoot path toward the big, expensive new houses Quentin told me about is right nearby. “Dang. Really great location,” I say.

“Should we see if it’s open on our way back?”

“I’m not a big day drinker,” I say. Which I’m not; it mostly makes me sleepy now that I’m in my thirties.

I am also still reluctant to commit to spending even more non-treasure-hunting time together.

Despite our recently declared clean slate, who knows how this will actually play out once we return to the scene of the crime. Literally.

Because we were definitely trespassing when we went to Sprangbur that night in 2008.

(I more so than Quentin, if we’re being technical.) That we got sent home with nothing but a few stern words from the deputy sheriff is thanks purely to luck, privilege, and Quentin’s father being a state prosecutor who was owed a favor by someone high up in the Catoctin City Police Department.

My parents were out of town for their anniversary that weekend, trusting me to stay home alone overnight for the first time, and as far as I know they still have no clue I was ever—however briefly—on the wrong side of the law. I plan to keep it that way.

We finally reach the downside of traveling through Riverside Park to reach Fountain’s estate: The last leg of the trip is up a steep stone staircase built into the side of the hill.

Think the Exorcist steps in DC, but like, narrower, and with a single railing that leaves your hands smelling like iron if you use it.

Quentin and I attempted to race up it exactly once—the first time we explored Sprangbur that summer.

It ended with me having an asthma attack and him throwing up in Technicolor thanks to the two bowls of Trix he’d had for breakfast. Which is why when he turns to me at the base of the stairs and suggests we see who can get to the top first, all I have to do is glare at him to send him into a fit of laughter.

It’s boisterous and unrestrained, and I find it in the catalog filed under When we were six and he bet I couldn’t jump over a huge ditch full of mud and it turned out he was right .

He concludes with a fond sigh. “You know, I have not eaten fruit-flavored cereal since that day,” he reminisces. “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling pretty old and tired lately. Last one to the top wins.”

And with that he moves ahead of me and leisurely ascends toward Sprangbur.