Page 7 of Finders Keepers

“You still have it,” I breathe.

Quentin narrows his eyes. “Of course I still have it. Who would throw away a treasure map?”

“It isn’t…” I shake my head, more to clear it than convey anything. “It’s not a real treasure map. We made it ourselves. Besides, it was just…kid stuff.”

“Oh, come on. You know it was more than that.”

For a moment I’m not sure if we’re still talking about the map. Even so, I point to the square in the corner. “You labeled the old cemetery ‘the Bone Zone,’ Quentin.”

He examines the words written in his scratchy small caps.

“Okay, fine, I will concede that the map itself wasn’t that serious.

But the treasure was not ‘just kid stuff.’ And it’s most likely still out there.

” One side of his mouth kicks up quite charmingly—a little too charmingly, if you ask me.

Like it’s something he’s spent a good amount of time practicing. “I bet we could still find it.”

It feels like my blood freezes in place as I process the words.

I stare at him, then shakily take the proffered paper from his hands and smooth it out on the table.

Our interpretation of Julius James Fountain’s estate, Sprangbur, lies before me: a large amebic shape representing the eccentric mansion at its center, the various odd little outbuildings, monuments, and themed gardens scattered around it.

We drew this because we were convinced the higgledy-piggledy layout of the property might provide some clue we were missing.

Why else would Fountain have built so many bizarre structures with seemingly no rhyme or reason unless they actually formed a symbol or something from above?

What we didn’t understand at the time—but I certainly do now that I’ve gone to school with and taught some of their children—is that sometimes rich people do strange, outlandish, expensive shit simply because they can.

Looking over our makeshift map again, that certainly seems to be the case here.

“What are you thinking?” Quentin asks softly.

I glance up at him. “I don’t even know…”

“Don’t even know what?”

If I believe it’s actually there. If I could do this again, knowing how much pain it wound up causing me.

Why you want to when you said yourself it was all a mistake.

But before I can choose how to respond, Mom comes in with a precariously tall tower of pancakes, a flour sack towel draped over the plate so it looks like she’s carrying a small, slightly inebriated ghost. “Breakfast is served!” she announces with a flourish.

Quentin takes the map from the table before Mom can set the plate atop it and refolds the paper along its deep-set creases. He doesn’t look at me as he tucks it back into his pocket.

“Oh, Nina, you don’t have anything to drink.” My mother is already turned back toward the kitchen, pancakes still in hand. “Remind me how you take your coffee?”

“No, no, Mom. Sit. Eat. I’ve got it,” I say, putting my hands on her shoulders to physically guide her toward the table as I scoot past and out of the dining room, finally escaping but much too late to do me any good.

···

I wouldn’t have believed it possible to be this tense while eating pancakes, but I’m certainly managing.

Each bite has to practically fight its way through my clenched teeth to make it into my mouth, and I can feel my jaw working against my shoulders, which have been up by my ears since I returned to the table.

The unfairness is what’s getting to me. It’s not like I was naive enough to expect everything in my life to go swimmingly forever, but I also didn’t expect to almost drown so close to what I’ve always considered my destination.

And then I really didn’t expect to climb into a lifeboat only to have to share it with Quentin Fucking Bell and a goddamn makeshift treasure map.

Quentin Fucking Bell and a goddamn makeshift treasure map and that stupid smile that he’s flashing at me from across the table even as he chews.

He doesn’t look tense at all. He looks…loose.

Relaxed. Annoyingly okay, considering his own recent string of misfortunes.

What is his secret? Maybe it’s time. Maybe his wounds aren’t as fresh.

“So how long have you been back in town, Quentin?” I ask conversationally.

He’s in the middle of a sip of his coffee, but at the tail end he says, “Not too long. About a week and a half.”

Further confirmation that my mother is a traitor.

Didn’t know he was here, my ass. The wall between our houses isn’t thin enough to hear conversations word for word (unless someone’s screaming at the top of their lungs, the way the Bells often did before they separated).

But they’re certainly thin enough to know if someone’s in residence next door.

The one fact about my mother that no one on earth would dispute—not even Patricia Hunnicutt herself—is that she is nosey as heck.

No way she wouldn’t have figured out that 304 West Dill was once again occupied, and by exactly whom, within three hours of the first stair tread squeak.

“That’s very interesting,” I say more to her than to him.

Mom looks away guiltily, her eyes drifting from her plate to her mug, then finally settling on the painting of what I think is supposed to be a still life of fruit hanging on the wall across from her.

I don’t remember it being there before, and quality-wise I’m going to assume it’s yet another product of her recent arts and crafts spree.

Quentin takes a big bite of pancakes and watches me watching my mom, his eyebrows—slightly lighter than his hair—elevated in interest.

The door beneath the staircase swings open, and my dad surfaces from his basement workshop.

Even when I was a kid, he spent a good bit of time down there.

But since repairing stuff and tinkering around became his sole focus after the settlement from his accident at the quarry finally came through and allowed both my parents to retire, it feels like kind of a big deal whenever he graces us with his presence.

Like actually spotting a whale on one of those whale watching tours—you hope it might happen, and there’s a greater-than-zero chance, but everyone makes it clear ahead of time that nothing’s guaranteed.

“Morning,” he says gruffly to the room at large, then: “Quentin, come on down when you’re done. I’ll show you that record player we were talking about yesterday.”

Oh my god. Et tu, Father?

So both of my parents have been cavorting with Quentin for the past week and a half and for some reason kept it a secret from me? Great. Wonderful. Why not add a little extra annoying cherry to top off this nightmare sundae.

My fork clatters onto my plate, and everyone’s attention turns in my direction. “Excuse me,” I say, politely dabbing at the corner of my mouth with my napkin. “I think I need some air.”

My mother’s failed attempt at a whispered explanation for my behavior follows me through the living room as I head for the front door. “She’s had some setbacks lately. Poor baby.”

Outside, I grab the porch railing and bend forward, forcing myself to take a deep, steadying breath.

The midmorning air is heavily scented with sweet honeysuckle courtesy of the gigantic bush that grows against the side of the house.

It clears the now-cloying smells of maple syrup and coffee from my nose, and a tiny bit of the tension I’ve accumulated slips from my muscles.

When I glance up, I notice Mr. Farina once again sitting on his steps across the street, dressed in the same too-short shorts from yesterday and an Ocean City tank top with oversize armholes.

He spots me over his newspaper and holds up his smoothie in my direction, a sort of frozen fruit–based salute.

“Think those legs of his go all the way up?”

Startled, I turn too quickly and my elbow makes hard, pointy contact with Quentin’s stomach. He lets out an oof as the wind is knocked from him, then places a hand over the spot. “Jesus, Nina. I admit it was a pretty bad joke, but I’m not sure that was necessary.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. “It was an accident. You snuck up on me.” I turn back around so he won’t see the small smile on my face, which would probably not do much to bolster my apology.

“I’ll make sure to approach loudly next time.” After he’s recovered, he moves to stand beside me at the railing. “Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

My resulting scoff is weirdly screechy. “What’s wrong? What’s wrong ?”

“Other than the obvious, I mean.”

“Isn’t the obvious enough?” I ask, incredulous.

“Oh. I see.” He turns around and tucks his hands into his pockets. “You’re still mad at me.” His tone is casual, like someone noticing that they’ve run out of milk.

“I’m not mad at you!” Good job, Nina. Shouting about not being mad is a surefire way to convince someone you aren’t mad.

“But if I were, wouldn’t I deserve to be?

I mean, you were my best friend and then you—” Almost kissed me but didn’t, even though I really wanted you to, and…

Nope. Let’s just skip ahead, why don’t we…

“—disappeared from my life! And now you’re hanging out with my parents and asking me to go treasure hunting like we’re fifteen again. ”

I take a step back. Having to look up to meet his eyes makes me feel like such a child. All of this makes me feel like such a child. Why can’t I control my emotions anymore? It’s like I left all of my coping skills back at that rest stop in Jersey.

Stupid Bon Jovi.

“Nothing is going right for me,” I say. “ Nothing . Not even this. I was supposed to at least be able to come back home to lick my wounds, but instead you’re here tearing open old ones.”

My voice is too loud, too raw. But hey, at least I’m not crying again. Yet.