Page 6 of Finders Keepers

Iawaken in the morning, immediately aware of two things: My eyelids—along with most of the rest of my face—are puffy and painful, and I am buzzing with a renewed sense of determination to put Pathetic Nina away and start figuring out how to get my shit back together.

For pride reasons. Not so I can get out of town ASAP to decrease the likelihood of having to talk to Quentin again.

I figure a splash of cool water will help with the former until I can get to Target and purchase several heavy-duty face masks to restore a bit of the moisture I’ve been shedding willy-nilly.

As far as the latter, well, I guess the first step is to figure out where Ambitious Nina has run off to.

She’s the version of me who is determined, driven, and mature.

She makes lists and plans, and her goals are always Specific, Measurable, Achievable, Relevant, and Time-Bound.

She’s successful and intelligent and absolutely not someone who cries multiple times a day.

That’s the person I’m used to being, the one I’ve been for most of my life.

Even if she’s currently difficult to locate, I’m sure there’s still enough of her somewhere inside me to get the ball rolling on the whole getting-out-of-Catoctin thing.

After getting dressed, I open my bedroom door to head to the bathroom and am greeted by my mom’s distinctive laugh—a twinkly, melodic haHA!

punctuated with an incredible gooselike honk—drifting up the stairs.

Yesterday, that familiar sound might have felt like a kick in the teeth—a reminder of the very long chute I’ve slid down in the Chutes and Ladders game called life (which is also the name of a game, so actually that’s kind of confusing).

But this lovely early June morning, fully convinced that I may only be a single lucky spin away from another ladder that will take me straight back up to the top of the board, Mom’s laughter brings a smile to my face.

Because now, with every intention and hope of getting back on track, I can think of this as simply a nice and admittedly overdue visit with the lovely people who raised me. A vacation of sorts.

Just as I wouldn’t allow a storm to ruin a weekend at the beach, or a lost suitcase to keep me from enjoying a trip to Madrid, I’m not going to let my circumstances—and especially not Quentin Bell’s sudden reappearance next door and torpid non-apology—cast a shadow on this quality time with my family, however unexpected.

So, while brushing my teeth, I imagine all of the places I might encounter Quentin and how to coolly handle each hypothetical situation.

Washing my face and applying copious moisturizer, I settle on a potential greeting: “Hi,” but delivered with scathing disinterest. The need to find the exact perfect combination of hostile yet detached words to show him how little I care gives me an excuse to take an extra few minutes to add defining cream to my blonde curls instead of throwing my hair up into yet another frizzy bun.

My full speech is finalized by the time I put on my glasses and apply a swipe of tinted lip balm.

The version of myself in the mirror this morning looks a lot more like the one I remember being before everything started going wrong.

Quentin’s presence (or lack thereof) had no effect on the life I worked so hard to build, and it doesn’t need to have anything to do with my ability to rebuild it now.

What does it even matter if we’ve found ourselves temporarily living beside each other again?

It doesn’t mean we have to be friends. If I can’t avoid him, I’ll treat him with the same icy politeness I would a door-to-door salesman.

And while I put away Pathetic Nina and await the eventual return of Ambitious Nina, maybe I can be an interim version of myself, one made for this particular moment.

I can be Badass Nina, who wears real clothes and washes her face and isn’t at all hung up on the distressing things that happened to her this past week, much less the ones that happened a lifetime ago.

I hold my head high as I descend the stairs. Because Badass Nina is cool, calm, and collected. She is a duchess making her entrance at the season’s grandest ball. Grace personified. A goddamn swan of a woman.

Mom sits at the dining room table, a floral stoneware mug cupped in her hands. It looks a little off-kilter, like something she must have made herself at one of the many art classes she’s been taking since she retired last December. She smiles beatifically as I appear. “There she is,” she says.

“Here I am,” I respond in a matching singsong voice.

“There you are,” Quentin says.

Wait, what?

I blink a few times. I must be hallucinating.

Or dreaming. But no, Quentin’s still here, in real waking life, sitting opposite my mother at the table and cupping a slightly wonky mug of his own.

Quentin in the dining room is even more surreal than him on the porch last night, a sort of fun house mirror reflecting a distorted version of the past. He used to sit in that exact chair whenever he would come over for dinner or to work on school projects.

Back then he was slender and not much taller than me, wearing two-sizes-too-large band tees with hair so shaggy he was constantly having to swipe it away from his eyes.

He wasn’t this…this… man , with his meticulous grooming and button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up and pale, freckle-dusted forearms taking up an unnecessary amount of space in my house.

I mean, my parents’ house. That I am visiting. Briefly.

Luckily, Badass Nina prepared for this moment. Not for Quentin being in the dining room when she walked down the stairs, of course, but the general strategy still applies. I open my mouth, ready to deploy my uninterested “Hi.” Instead it comes out as “Ho…there? Howdy. Good morning.”

Fuck.

Well. Rest in peace, Badass Nina. June 8, 8:50 a.m., to June 8, 9:15 a.m. The lights that burn brightest truly burn fastest.

Quentin manages to keep a straight face despite the absolute nonsense I’ve just blurted out. “Ho there, howdy, and good morning to you as well,” he says with the solemnity of a faith leader greeting his congregation.

Okay, okay. New plan! It isn’t perfect but it will have to do: yawn wide, state my immediate need for coffee and food, and hide in the kitchen. Forever.

Mom stands and gives me a good morning hug while continuing to look at Quentin affectionately, and it’s like we’ve somehow time-traveled back to the mid-aughts. “You two and your inside jokes. Such silly gooses. I’ll just leave you to catch up while I go make some breakfast.”

Before I can protest, she’s left the room.

“Hope you don’t mind me hanging out with Patti while I waited for you to come down,” he says.

His eyes drift to where Mom is still visible through the doorway from where he’s sitting, and a fond smile spreads across his face.

“What a ray of sunshine that woman is. She had me seated with banana bread and coffee in ten seconds flat.”

Seriously? There was only one slice left, and she gave it to him ?

The person who ghosted me for nearly two decades and then refused to even explain himself or apologize beyond a half-hearted “sorry”?

I know my mom doesn’t know the full story of what happened between us, or anything about our conversation last night, but come on!

I fold my arms over my chest. “What do you want, Quentin?”

My attempt at boredom comes out instead as hostility. Fine with me. He blinks a few times like I’ve surprised him again. “To talk. I just…wanted to talk to you.”

Oh, now he has something to say. “Well, mission accomplished. A number of words have left your mouth and reached my ears. You can go now. Goodbye!”

“Nina…” He stands and makes his way over to me.

Seeing him in a well-lit room, this close up, is a real mindfuck.

They may not have liked each other much, but Mr. and Dr. Bell made a very handsome couple.

So it shouldn’t be a shock that Quentin’s become rather appealing himself.

But it’s still annoying. His gaze travels over my face, as if he’s also observing my features, before settling back on my eyes.

Am I going to get my apology now? A real one?

I guess I did sort of ambush him last night.

Maybe now that he’s had time to find the right words…

He reaches up and takes one of my curls between his thumb and forefinger, pulling it down and releasing it into a bounce—an old playful gesture that feels more intimate now than antagonistic.

The slight tug at my scalp sends a tingle down my spine.

“I can’t go yet,” he says softly, seriously, before he succumbs to the amusement lurking in the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Your mom promised me pancakes.”

I attempt to shove him away, but it’s too weak, reluctant. He barely moves an inch. “Oh, fuck off.”

“Language!” Mom scolds from the kitchen.

“Sorry!” I call back before refocusing on Quentin.

“I don’t want to play with you,” I tell him in an angry whisper that immediately shrinks me into an elementary school version of myself.

It’s surprising that, when I do a surreptitious glance down, I’m still wearing my floral sundress and not ill-fitting black corduroy overalls with a Tweety Bird T-shirt underneath.

He presses his lips together and nods as he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans. He pulls out a worn, folded piece of paper—the familiar looping cursive on the outside making my heartbeat accelerate before he even opens it and holds it up in front of my face.

The map we made that last summer as we set out to find Julius James Fountain’s legendary hidden treasure. The thing that ultimately destroyed our friendship.

“Well, that’s disappointing, Neen. Because I would really like to play with you.”

Forms to be Filled out for Each Interview

FORM A

MID-ATLANTIC INDUSTRY

Circumstances of Interview

STATE .............. Maryland

NAME OF WORKER .. Albert Aaron

ADDRESS ........... Sprangbur Estate, Catoctin, Maryland

DATE ............... June 9, 1937

SUBJECT ........... Life and business of Julius J. Fountain

Date and time of interview

June 9, 1937, morning

Place of interview

Sprangbur Estate

1 Riverview Drive

Catoctin, Maryland

Name and address of informant

Julius James Fountain (see above)

Name and address of person, if any, who put you in touch with informant

Isolde Fountain Bouchard (informant’s niece)

Washington, District of Columbia

Name and address of person, if any, accompanying you

none

Description of room, house, surroundings, etc.

A large estate atop a hill on the outskirts of the small city of Catoctin, Maryland, overlooking the Monocacy River.

In the center of the property is a three-story Richardsonian Romanesque residence known as the Castle, constructed of rough-faced brown stone and accented with patinated copper turrets and towers of varying shapes and heights.

The footprint is notably asymmetrical, consisting of many swells and recesses.

An arched portico shelters the front entrance, with an elaborate star motif carved into the wooden door.

Inside, the residence is richly appointed in the fashions of the last century, with silk-papered walls and elaborate woodwork trim.

The library, in which this interview was conducted, is lined with overflowing bookshelves.

I recognize that it is not standard practice to comment upon the appearance of the informant at this stage of the record, but I feel it crucial to note that Mr. Fountain attends this interview wearing his pajamas, which are in the exact pattern of the fabric of his chair, resulting in the illusion upon first glance that he is but a floating head.

This startled me upon my entrance into the room, causing me to drop the glass of soda water the butler inexplicably handed me upon my entrance to the house, and in response, Mr. Fountain shouted, “Six! Add another tally to the board, Marshall!” as this is apparently a game he enjoys playing with his visitors. There is abundant natural light.