Page 43 of Finders Keepers

Ispend the next Thursday with my mother, who finally convinces me to go to lunch with her and her friends. “They haven’t seen you since you were small,” she says.

“And they need proof that I’m bigger now?”

“Don’t be churlish, Nina.”

After an hour and a half of getting questioned by five retired women about my life choices and when I expect I’ll be able to make better ones while a server comes by periodically to refill my Diet Coke and give me a sympathetic look, I’m dragged to the craft store beside the restaurant, where Mom loads up my arms with soft, beautiful skeins of yarn.

She’s perusing a wall of buttons when I get a text from Quentin.

Have any plans tomorrow night, cookiepuss?

I roll my eyes at the absurd term of endearment but can’t help but smile anyway, remembering the affection that flashes over his face whenever he says it.

Tomorrow is July Fourth, and we’ve stocked up on various things to barbecue, but my parents aren’t big on celebrations. My mom is suddenly really invested in grilling corn , I respond. But otherwise no. Why?

He quickly sends: It’s a surprise . And I respond: A good one?

It takes much longer for him to reply this time, but eventually I get: Maybe.

He’s going to tell me he’s found a new job, that he’s leaving. That’s where my mind immediately jumps, and it sticks the landing so skillfully that my entire self holds up a card pronouncing it a ten out of ten mental maneuver. And that is not good news. No maybe about it.

I can’t quite figure out why it hits me so hard.

It isn’t like I expected anything different.

I knew Quentin would be leaving at some point.

Hell, I probably will be too. I’m still mulling over the idea of taking the special collections job (if the library would even hire me; I definitely would need something more formal than Mrs. MacDonald pronouncing me heir to her archival throne to consider this seriously), but for some reason all of my thoughts about it have centered on the presupposition of Quentin still being around.

Of him and me and more mornings like yesterday, with coffee in bed and attempting to pet Faustine without getting weirded out and him making fun of my snoring.

Why I assumed that was something we could do, that he would be up for…

I guess I got ahead of myself. Let the concept of decisions based on maximum immediate happiness sweep away the logical part of my brain that always knew this summer was a temporary stopover, not the final destination.

Now there’s that intense nausea again, the creeping hint of dread that tells me not to get too comfortable because something bad is coming.

Maybe it’s because my only experience with Quentin is here.

Historically, him leaving has not been conducive to our continued friendship.

And this isn’t just friendship anymore. It’s…

it’s…I don’t really know what to call it, how to label it, but it’s something I’m not quite ready to give up exploring.

Best-case scenario: His surprise is that he did get a job offer, but it also happens to be in Boston, where he’s happy to share his new apartment with me so I can work on reestablishing my career there, where I have the most connections.

Worst-case: He’s moving somewhere very far away, somewhere that would be difficult to visit even if we wanted to see if there was something more between us.

Somewhere back in Europe, probably. There’s pretty much no job for which I’m qualified that will pay enough for me to afford frequent transatlantic flights.

Most likely: He got a job in, like, New York City, and we can try to figure it out.

They do have those train ticket packages for frequent travelers and—

“Nina?”

“Hm?”

My mom stares at me, then down at my arms where I am holding several skeins of yarn like they are my babies, then at the checkout counter where a woman is waiting patiently for me to complete this transaction by providing the goods we would like to purchase.

“Oh. Sorry,” I say. “Deep in thought about…crafts.”

Quentin texts me around eight the next night, asking if I’m ready to go.

I almost chicken out and tell him I’m not feeling well.

Which, between the ever-present nausea of my current anxiety spike and all of the berry icebox cake I ate, isn’t a complete lie, but is most likely to result in him coming over here to try to take care of me.

And the last thing I need is him breaking the news of his imminent departure while rubbing my back and handing me some ginger ale to wash down my Pepto-Bismol.

That would be so much worse, to have him actively caring for me while telling me he doesn’t care enough .

So I tell him I’ll meet him out front and head down to the porch.

He’s already standing on the sidewalk beside the Audi. “Hop in,” he says.

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

I figure it out as soon as he turns right onto Carmichael Chapel Road. We’re going to Sprangbur. Which closes, officially, at sundown.

“Ugh,” I whine. “If I wind up spending the night in a jail cell, my parents are going to—”

“I promise that will not happen.”

“You can’t promise that. You can’t even defend me if we get caught.”

“Why not?”

“First of all, you don’t even do that kind of law,” I point out as we park in the lot at the edge of the property. “So you would probably not be very effective counsel.”

He unbuckles his seat belt. “Wow, glad to know you have such faith in me.”

“Second, would they even allow you to represent a co-conspirator in a crime?”

He shrugs. “Don’t actually know. Like you said, I don’t do that kind of law.” Quentin flashes me an impish, if hesitant, smile.

Then it suddenly hits me, as I’m opening my car door carefully so as not to ding the truck beside us, that the parking lot is actually pretty full.

“What are we doing?” I ask in a sharp whisper as Quentin emerges from the driver’s side.

“Do you even know what kind of event we’re crashing?

” I look down at my navy sundress and sandals.

I’m not sure if it’s fancy enough to blend in at a wedding, but definitely better than the threadbare Old Navy flag shirt from 2003 I wore for most of the day after finding it buried deep, deep in my closet.

I try to listen for any indication of what’s taking place up ahead, but it’s all crickets.

Literal crickets. And maybe some cicadas.

“Are we joining the local nocturnal wildlife for a game night?”

“Man, I hope not,” he says. “You are the absolute worst charades partner.”

“Just because I thought a chinchilla was a type of Mexican dish when we were ten…”

Quentin laughs as he takes my hand, leading me over a small rise beside the estate’s pond.

It’s very dark, but he seems to know where we’re going.

As the ground evens out again, the crickets and cicadas are gradually drowned out by conversation and the occasional peal of a child’s laugh.

Ahead is a cluster of shadows, which, as we approach, turn out to be people—some sitting on blankets, some in chairs, and others (mostly kids) running around with sparklers.

“It’s a good fireworks spot,” he explains. Which makes sense, because they usually launch them east of downtown, right across the river. “Supposedly gets less crowded than Riverside Park or the Food Lion lot.”

Except instead of staking out a spot of our own as I expect, Quentin leads me past the people and along the walkway that winds around the Castle.

“That isn’t the surprise?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“Oh. Where are you taking me?” But I don’t need him to answer, because I can see exactly where we’re headed—into the gardens.