Page 19 of Finders Keepers

“Oh, I can’t believe I forgot to mention! It’s one of my favorite facts. The Star Parlor was redecorated in 1917 as a birthday present for Mr. Fountain’s niece. The constellations reflect those in the sky on the evening she was born.”

“Wow, what a sweet gift,” I say lightly despite the increasing heaviness in my stomach at this confirmation that I hadn’t been onto anything at all when I broke into this place, thereby fucking up my closest friendship.

“Yes, Mr. Fountain could be very thoughtful when he wanted to be.” Sharon smiles affectionately at a portrait visible through the open library doorway, hanging over the mantel.

The glint in his eyes and the seltzer bottle tucked into the crook of one arm mark him undeniably as Julius James Fountain, but it was painted when he was much younger than I’m used to seeing him.

His hair is slicked back and dark, his face clean-shaven.

He bears only a passing resemblance to the wild white-haired and mustached man I know mostly from twentieth-century photos.

“Interesting portrait,” Quentin says, reading my mind.

“Wasn’t he a handsome one?” Sharon asks. “I’ve always been surprised he never married.”

It isn’t particularly surprising to me; Fountain was shockingly open about his reasons.

Sure, he didn’t use the terms or labels we might use today, but he was clear that sex and romance were not high on his list of priorities in life.

I’m not about to “well, actually…” the deputy director of the foundation keeping the man’s estate running, though.

Nor do I want to publicly declare that Fountain was a babe, even if he sort of was (in this portrait at least).

So instead I say, “It’s a very striking painting.

Lovely…” I search the recesses of my mind for the art history intro course I took in undergrad and settle on “composition,” even though I don’t fully remember what it means.

“Yes, I’ve always thought so,” Sharon agrees. “An interesting story behind it too. It was a gift from a friend of Mr. Fountain’s, a Canadian painter named John Claude Whale. His father was—”

Quentin cuts in before I can. “I’m sorry, what was that name again?”

“John Claude Whale,” she repeats, over-enunciating each part as if trying to give important information over the phone.

My eyes find Quentin’s quicker than two magnets in sudden proximity.

Whale! I mouth as Sharon’s attention is focused in his direction.

“As I was saying, his father was much more well-known. He painted a very famous version of Niagara Falls. It actually helped lead to conservation efforts. I read a great book—”

“Sorry to interrupt,” I say. Under other circumstances, I might be interested in the book recommendation, but not right now, with excitement whirring through my veins like it’s being powered by tiny turbines.

“We have to get going, but before we do, I’m really fascinated by the way the Conservancy worked to restore this place so authentically.

How you decided what to keep, knew where to put things.

Like the portrait. Has it always hung there above the fireplace in the library? ”

Sharon’s face transforms from confused and slightly irked by my obtrusion to overjoyed to share more of her knowledge. “Oh, no, I don’t believe this is where it was during Mr. Fountain’s time.”

“Do you know where it would have been originally?” Quentin asks when it becomes obvious she isn’t going to share the information unprompted.

“I haven’t a clue,” she says slowly, almost as if she can’t believe we’ve asked about something she doesn’t know.

“A contractor found it wrapped in a sheet inside an armoire up in the attic.” A cell phone rings, the tune echoing strangely down the hallway as if the walls themselves find the technology unfamiliar.

“Oh, that’s mine! Excuse me, I have to get this.

Sorry I can’t show you out, but thanks for visiting!

” Sharon calls behind her as she hurries toward a door by the dining room marked Office .

With wordless looks, Quentin and I agree that we can’t linger here.

Nor would it do us much good without having any idea where the Whale portrait hung at the time of Fountain’s death.

So he drops a ten-dollar bill into the donation box sitting on a table in the foyer, and we head back outside into the slightly sticky late afternoon air.

At the bottom of the steps, where Quentin whispered in my ear and took my hand only an hour and a half ago—really, that was quite the thorough tour Sharon gave us—he puts his hands on his hips and tilts his head back, his eyes closed, letting the sun shine down on his face. He lets out a long, pensive sigh.

I let out one of my own, though it comes out as more of a groan. “I can’t tell if that was productive or not.”

“I would say so. We now know the Star Parlor has never had the Cetus constellation on its walls, so signs point to the treasure not being in there. But there is a portrait painted by a man named Whale, which is a huge lead.”

“Yes, but we have no idea where the portrait was at the time of Fountain’s death. Unless it was in the attic even then?”

“Maybe it’s like some sort of reverse Dorian Gray situation where Fountain aged normally and his portrait remained youthful,” he remarks.

“That’s…just how normal portraiture works,” I say.

“Oh. Right.” Quentin stretches his hands high toward the sky.

I do my best not to stare at the sliver of stomach that’s appeared between his T-shirt and shorts.

But it’s like my eyes can’t resist. There’s that trail of hair again, barely visible in the small gap, but I know it’s there now.

I know it’s there, and where it would lead and—

“Nina? Did you hear me?”

My eyes jump to Quentin’s, as if I can mislead him into thinking that’s where they were directed all along. “Huh?”

“I said I have a plumber coming tomorrow morning to give me a quote on a few things, but we could probably go to the library in the afternoon if the special collections room is open.”

“Yeah. Um, sure.” Why are we going to the library? Exactly how much did I miss while ogling him?

“Wow, you really weren’t listening, were you?” he asks with an affectionate smile—the kind you might give a small child with ice cream all over her face.

“Sorry, I was just…thinking. About how hot it is. Outside. In the environment.”

“Only June too. Probably going to get a lot worse,” he says, sounding endearingly like an old man making small talk with a grocery store cashier.

“What I was saying was that we should go to the library to look through those photos they have of the Castle, see if we can spot the portrait in one of them.”

“Oh. That’s a good idea.”

“I do have one on occasion,” he says. The lift at the corner of his mouth turns into a full-blown smile, but the not-quite-right one that makes me feel like I’m looking at a version of Quentin that someone tried to “fix” with AI.

I suppose it’s also possible I just don’t know Quentin anymore.

Like, it would be absurd if he was still the same boy who incessantly quoted Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby .

He has a law degree. He’s lived overseas.

He was going to marry someone. Is it really so impossible that he’s actually grown to be as charming as he now seems?

No, not impossible. But dangerous. My subconscious is probably trying to protect me by making me suspicious that it’s all an act because it knows a genuinely magnetic Quentin would be way too much for me to handle in my fragile state.

“Library tomorrow afternoon,” I agree.

I’m still not convinced this treasure exists. But for my sake, I hope it does and that we find it as soon as possible. That way I can stop dwelling on Quentin at all.