* * *I find Aunt Charlotte in our room at Blackbeard’s Inn. She’s waving something green over burning tea lights. The wind through the open window flickers the flames, and keeps our room’s smoke alarm from screaming at her.
I close the door, and wait for an explanation.
“Sage,” she says.
“Because . . .?”
“It gets rid of spirits.”
With my back against the door, I contemplate the risk-reward ratio here. Tell her how I’m feeling, and we could talk. Don’t tell her, and continue keeping all my emotions stuffed inside.
The decision is made when she picks up a small metal bowl and gongs it with a teaspoon.
“I’ll be downstairs,” I tell her.
* * *
At the bottom of the stairs, I take an immediate 180-degree spin and head for the library.
No Tex.
I grab the arms of the wingback chair and pull it over to the bookcase, stepping on the seat. On the top shelf I find two books shaped like rectangles. Shaped like the book Tex was reading in here, and then put away when he saw me. One book is The Legend of Anne Bonney. I flip through the pages, reading about the world’s most famous female pirate. I’m intrigued. Maybe even more intrigued by the idea that Tex wanted to read about her.
But nothing about Anne Bonney answers my big question.
The second book’s so heavy that I have to lean it on the shelf just to turn the pages. Blackbeard’s Secret Gold. Published in the early 1900s, it has maps that fold out of the spine. The onion-skin paper whispers when I touch it, like it’s been waiting for me to discover its secrets. One map, dated 1620, shows the Carolina coast. It reminds me of the map in Brogan’s house, where the whole landmass looks vague, still mostly undiscovered. There’s an even older map. It shows “CROATAN” and a big X. I know that story. The Lost Colony of English settlers.
Then I see a more recent map, from the 1700s. I lean down, peering at the ink-well markings. Ocracoke Island is drawn along the coast, but somebody papered over it with another layer of onion skin. And it looks like the cartographer wrote on it. Mis-taken, it reads. Mistaken? Or something was taken? Ye Olde English. It’s ambiguous.
I keep turning the pages, the whispery sounds of the maps transporting me just like it does in the downtown branch of the Richmond library. That particular branch is home to lonely old people, the homeless, and the ancient books no other library wants. The library basement is the Land of Misplaced and Forgotten Knowledge—and it’s where I get some of my best geology information. One book down there saved Drew’s life. I turn to the next map, dated 1820.
“Cool, huh?”
My neck snaps toward the door.
Tex.
“Darlin,” he says, “all you had to do was ask. I’d of gotten that book down for you.”
Frankly, he looks even better from up here. With his face raised to me, the broad shoulders . . . an image flashes through my mind. What it would be like to nuzzle his tan neck. A flush creeps up my own neck.
“G’on,” he says. “Don’t stop reading on my account.”
I close the book, slide it back into its place on the top shelf. “I was just curious.”
“Curiosity. It makes people do strange things.”
I step off the chair. He walks over and picks it up, like it weighs nothing, and puts it back by the reading lamp.
“You come in here a lot,” I say.
“That way nobody can find me.” He smiles. “You’re not nobody.”
If he’s expecting another blush, he’s wrong. I’m back to curious. “You left here long enough to visit the Plunderful.”
He stares at me. Those gray eyes cloud up. “You saw me?”
“Open to the public.”
“Right. But, again, you’re always curious. Why don’t you just ask?”
“Okay, what were you doing on that yacht?”
“Paying my respects. As we say in the South.”
“You knew Cady’s mother was there?”
He smiles, wider than before. “Apparently you knew, too.”
“I saw her at the medical clinic.” My eyes want to shift, look away. But he would win. “But you two looked like old friends.”
“Well.” He slips his hands into the front pockets of his loose jeans. The expensive jeans. With the soft cotton. “She appreciated me coming by. She had a rough morning, you can imagine.”
“But how did you know she was there—how?”
“Such an inquisitive girl.” His smile goes away. “You should win this contest.”
I ignore his compliments. “You knew she was there—how?”
“I asked Brogan. I wanted to know how Cady was doing. He mentioned the yacht. So I went down there.” He lifts his right hand, staring at a gold watch. “Are you hungry?”
Not that ploy again. I’m not done with my curiosity. “Why did Brogan ask you to stay behind?”
He turns away. Then runs his finger over the tarnished barrels of the flintlocked pistols fixed to the wall. “I’m out.”
“Out, of what?”
“The contest. I’m out.”
“You’re . . .?” I can’t say it. “And Raju?”
“What about him?”
“You’re partners.”
“On paper.”
“But—”
“But I’m not in his league. Or yours. And definitely not Lanette’s. And I’m not interested in dying grass.”
I say nothing. Because, what is there to say? I’m not looking into the dying grass, either. And my partner just told me to go do my own thing. I stare at his profile. Strong, tan. And sad. I know that feeling. Let’s quit together, sail off into the sunset of losers.
“Lanette’s going to win,” I tell him.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Raju has this whole thing wrapped up. No offense.”
“None taken.” But I need to ask this next question. And it makes me hate myself. “So you’re leaving?”
He looks over with a smile. Only it’s not really a smile. More like sadness trying to look not sad. “You’re wondering how I could give up this thrilling atmosphere of a deserted resort town with a bunch of strange people and its dying dune grass?”
I can’t help it—I laugh.
“Don’t stop.”
“What?”
“I’ll do anything to hear you laugh again.”
The next silence sits on my chest. Heavy as that lead apron in the dentist’s office. Beyond the door, I can hear the grandfather clock tick-tock-ticking away. And glasses clinking. Happy hour. People in the lobby.
“Happy hour,” he says. “You know what that means.”
“What.”
He smiles. “One last chance to steal some food.”