Page 22 of Finders Keepers

Ipull up the Sprangbur Conservancy website on my phone.

I have to say, the modern iteration is much easier to use than the old version that was hosted on Geocities and involved a lot of too-large text and rotating word art.

Now there are a few photos of the Castle’s current decor to entice people considering it as an event venue—how I assume they pay the bills, since I’m sure the suggested donations from tours don’t go very far.

It really is such a gorgeous place and an exemplary house museum.

The Conservancy has done an incredible job keeping Fountain’s distinctive aesthetic while including enough modernization for practical use.

I click on a photo of a woman wearing a crown of peonies and a sleek ivory satin gown, leaning ethereally against the curve of a Syrian arch.

The next shot in the slideshow was taken in the library, with a man in a white tuxedo sitting in a hot-pink paisley chair with his elbows on his widespread knees, smoldering at the camera.

Then there’s one of the couple together in the Conservancy, smiles lighting up their faces.

To think, that could have been me and Cole had things been different. Or Quentin and his ex, more realistically, since they were actually engaged before things fell apart.

“So when are the tours?” I jerk at the sound of Quentin’s voice, like I’ve been caught looking at something naughty.

“Oh, um. Must’ve hit the wrong thing,” I say, embarrassed that I somehow wound up deep in the wedding gallery page. I select Visit from the menu and scan the information. “Looks like they do them on Mondays and Thursdays at ten and two.”

“You up for Monday at ten, then?” Quentin asks.

“I’ll have to check my calendar,” I say, already knowing that it’s completely clear for the foreseeable future. “But that should work for me.”

He pauses for a moment as if mulling something over.

Then he says, “I was thinking about painting the living room this weekend, if you want to come over and help.” The invitation is issued as he hovers his cell phone over the photo of the Star Parlor that shows the sliver of portrait and takes a picture.

A good idea, and one I don’t know why I didn’t have.

There’s a part of me—Smitten Nina, I guess—who wants to accept.

Anything to spend more time with Quentin and watch those forearms of his flex while they move the paint roller over the wall.

But Smitten Nina is clearly an idiot when it comes to this man, so instead I say, “I don’t think me doing manual labor at your dad’s house was part of our deal. ”

“Just figured I’d offer.”

“How very kind of you.”

Quentin takes it upon himself to combine the piles of photographs and return them to the envelopes in which we found them.

“Do you want me to—”

“I’ve got it,” he says.

I stand there, watching the way he takes care to keep everything in the bankers box in the proper order despite the contents having very little rhyme or reason.

It unlocks something in my nerdy little heart that I don’t want to inspect too closely.

Smitten Nina is already too powerful; she doesn’t need Quentin meeting the very low bar of being basically responsible to add fuel to her fire.

“Anyway, I should probably get home,” I announce when we’re outside the library. “Mom wants to spend some time together.” I mean, I assume she does even if she hasn’t said it. Not technically a lie.

He gives me a tight-lipped smile that feels as false as the charming one. It isn’t nearly as practiced, so it’s much more obvious that it doesn’t belong there. “Have fun.”

I’ll admit that I’ve never completely stopped caring about Quentin, unable to fully give him up no matter how many years passed without a word.

There’s part of me that wants to lay a hand on his arm and ask him what’s going on.

If I’ve done something wrong. But I need to keep my distance.

I can’t let him start to mean something to me again.

“See you next week,” I say. I’m deciding right now that I will not intentionally see Quentin until I absolutely need to for treasure-hunting purposes.

This boundary feels necessary, not only to keep Quentin from thinking I want to spend time with him, but to protect myself.

Because if I’m not careful…Well, that’s how I got hurt seventeen years ago, isn’t it?

Which is why, even though I linger downstairs until after my parents go to bed, and even though I press my ear against the wall their house shares with Quentin’s, and even though music drifts ever so slightly through the layers of plaster and wood separating our living rooms and I can hear Quentin singing along enthusiastically, and even though he’s probably standing on a ladder, back muscles tight as he reaches up to run his paintbrush over the edge of the blue tape cordoning off the wall from the ceiling, I do not give in to the urge to go over there and offer him my assistance.

Because unlike some people, Nina Hunnicutt can learn a lesson.