Page 55 of Finders Keepers

Two months later…

“Oh my god, Quentin, you didn’t,” I groan, slapping a hand over my eyes as if I haven’t seen my boyfriend’s naked body a million times.

Though, to be fair, I have not seen it sketched out in pencil by my mother and hanging in a gallery.

Except…wait…I peek through my fingers. “Oh. You…actually didn’t?

” Because that is definitely Quentin Bell’s face, including the scatter of faded freckles beneath his eyes, and that rarely seen serious, almost warrior-like expression.

But that is not Quentin’s chest, or his stomach, or his penis. And I should know.

He takes a sip of his champagne. “Patti ran out of time in class and was left with a headless man. So I agreed to be the head.”

“You seem very nonchalant about this.”

Quentin shrugs. “I’m comfortable in my own skin,” he says.

“Except that isn’t even your skin,” I point out.

“Guess I’m comfortable in other people’s too.” There’s a wink and a grin before he wraps his arms around me and pulls me back against his chest. “Does that sound like a sexy thing or a murder-y thing?” he asks, lips brushing my ear.

“Kind of both?”

“Neat.”

“When did you even pose for her without me noticing?”

“While you were in Belfast.”

Sabrina and Malcolm eloped last month, and I was extremely honored when they asked me if I could hop on a plane to be one of their witnesses.

I was worried that things with Sabrina would change when I decided to turn down the new term position at Malbyrne, officially closing the door on my career in academia.

That we wouldn’t be friends in the same way now that we weren’t on the exact same trajectory.

But, of course, the only difference is that the small sting of envy I sometimes had to hide from her has dissipated. Now we’re closer than ever.

I sigh. “I really should know by now not to leave you alone with my parents.”

“There you are, Ninabean!” Quentin releases me and my mom wraps me in a big hug, greeting me as if I didn’t see her two hours ago when she left the house to get drinks with her classmates before the community center’s end-of-summer art show. “What do you think?”

“I think you drew my boyfriend’s head on someone else’s nude body.”

“I did!” she confirms, filled with glee.

My father has fully turned away, pretending to look at a painting of a dog.

“Isn’t that a little…Dr. Frankenstein of you?” I ask.

She pauses, considering, as if she’s an art critic and not the artist herself. “I think it makes it more interesting. And Quentin is so handsome.” Her fingers dart out and he allows her to pinch his cheek. “Much handsomer than the model was, no offense to him.”

“Well, my extreme discomfort aside, it’s well done, Mom. Good job.”

She beams. “Thank you, baby.”

“We’re going to have to head out, though,” I say.

“We’re supposed to meet our realtor to check out another house.

” Quentin and I are in the early stages of looking for a place of our own.

At first we considered staying at 304 West Dill, and maybe eventually buying it from his dad.

Wouldn’t that be fun, we thought, to turn the place into ours, to continue filling it with happier memories than the ones that lingered there from Quentin’s childhood?

But after we moved the bed into the master bedroom at the front of the house and realized that our headboard would be sharing a wall with my parents’ headboard—meaning the possibility of them hearing us, or maybe worse, us hearing them —we decided to see what else we could find in the area.

Still close to my family, just not literally next door.

In the meantime, we’ve still been living in our respective sides of the duplex.

At least officially. In practice, he’s at my parents’ whenever he’s not at C.

A. Howe, the local boutique law firm where he’s already making a name for himself in the field of tenants’ rights, and I’m over at his house pretty much every night.

I have to admit, I’ve grown quite attached to sleeping with a curled-up Faustine snoring loudly beside my head.

“How exciting! Well, thanks for coming.” Mom stretches out her arms to encompass us both in her farewell embrace.

Quentin lets out something almost like a quack as the air is squeezed out of him, but when we’re released he has a massive grin on his face.

It is weird how much he and my mom adore each other, but also undeniably nice.

“Bye, Dad,” I say as Quentin says, “See ya, Dave.” My father’s hug is much looser, and he gives Quentin a firm handshake. But with the goodbyes out of the way, we’re free to leave.

I breathe in the late September air, enjoying the crispness of it.

The community center is on a farm about fifteen miles south of Catoctin, and it’s beautiful out here.

There’s a bonfire going somewhere nearby, and the warm, smoky scent feels like it heralds the arrival of fall.

I forgot how much I love Maryland when it isn’t humid and sweltering.

The last hot day, in fact, was the one when we met with Sharon, whose maiden name we were surprised to learn is Worman.

Apparently, Louisa was her great-aunt. Considering the personal connection, she was particularly thrilled by the letters we found.

Then she actually cried when we told her about the Edlo manuscript and gave her Eugene and Emily Aaron’s contact information.

The puzzle box turned out to be nothing particularly noteworthy in her opinion, as it was a duplicate of another they already had in their collection; Fountain apparently had several made and often gave them as presents to friends and loved ones.

So once we told her our abridged version of how we came to be in possession of Fountain’s treasure (omitting, of course, the trespassing and lying portions of the story), she suggested we keep the box as a memento.

Mostly I think she was trying to get rid of us at that point, because she was eager to reread the letters and get in touch with the Aarons. Very understandable.

And we did get to do an interview with a local news outlet about our find, so that was cool.

“You know my mom is going to try to gift us that picture,” I say.

“Oh, I was hoping so,” Quentin says. “This house we’re going to check out has a fireplace, and it would be perfect over the mantel.

” I nudge him in the ribs with my elbow and he laughs.

I’ve stopped cataloging his laughter over the last few weeks, because it’s no longer something that feels like it might one day be in short supply.

There’s an abundance of it in my life, and I don’t count on that changing as long as we’re both around.

Besides, now I spend my days reorganizing actual collections, and I don’t feel a particular need to take my work home with me.

The same cannot be said for Quentin, I guess, because as soon as we’re in the car, the light around us taking on a pinkish tinge as the sun begins to set, he’s checking his email on his phone.

It’s true that, occasionally, his new job does have time-sensitive issues, but his paralegal is supposed to text him about those.

“Hey, what’s so important that—”

“Shh.”

“…I’m sorry, did you just shush me?”

Quentin flaps his hand, adding a dismissive gesture to the dismissive noise.

I narrow my eyes, a little offended.

But then I notice that his are growing wider by the millisecond. “Neen. Read this.” He passes the phone to me.

Dear Mr. Bell,

My name is Birch Norwood, Esquire—

“Birch Norwood. Ha. That’s a fun name,” I say.

“Keep reading,” Quentin urges, impatient.

I represent Mr. John Francis Bongiovi—

Isn’t that…?

It cannot be.

Shit.

“Is being mean to Jon Bon Jovi a crime in New Jersey?” I ask Quentin, the words coming out in a panicked hurry.

His eyebrows dive in confusion. “What?”

But I’m already back to reading.

…who recently came across a news feature online about your and Dr. Hunnicutt’s discovery of a new document belonging to industrialist Julius James Fountain.

Is it true you still have the puzzle box in which it was contained?

Please let me know if this is accurate. Mr. Bongiovi would like to discuss purchasing it for his private collection.

My head jerks up as the words on the screen register. “Does this say…that Jon Bon Jovi wants to buy Fountain’s puzzle box from us?”

“It…it seems so.” Quentin’s mouth quirks, bemusement and delight competing for dominance. “What do you think? Are you particularly attached to it?”

“Have to be honest,” I say. “I’m finding I’m less attached to it than I was a minute ago.” I’m also finding that my animosity toward Jon Bon Jovi has suddenly dissipated. Write it in pencil? Solid advice, actually! Sometimes plans change, and I’ve learned that it isn’t always for the worst.

Quentin and I lean in closer, our grins mirroring each other.

“I didn’t know Jon Bon Jovi was a puzzle box guy,” he says.

“Maybe he isn’t. Maybe he’s a seltzer-industry-memorabilia guy.”

“A things-that-contained-treasure guy? That would be a fun niche collection.” Quentin plants a small kiss on the tip of my nose, then one at the corner of my eye. “How much do you think he’ll offer?”

“Hopefully enough to add to the money from the ring and your portion of the proceeds from your dad’s house so we have more available for our down payment.”

“Oh,” he says. “I was thinking we’d put it toward a wedding.”

“A wedding?!” I ask, laughing. “Hold your horses, man, it’s been like three seconds since we got together.”

“I’ve loved you for a lot longer, though,” he says, his lips now at my cheek.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like a full minute. Maybe even two.”

We share another long, silent smile, where we exist in our own fantastic world of magic and joy.

Being with Quentin sometimes feels like I’ve stumbled into Edlo, except I know none of this is make-believe.

It’s real and enduring, made up of every moment we have ever loved each other, and all the moments we ever will.

And I’ll forever be glad we found it together.