At the bottom of the lagoon, the colorful coral faded to blue and gray formations, broken by patches of sand and limestone. Yet in Ann’s camera light, where Jeanne and her partner, Remy, swam, the shadowy water world came alive with the brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows of coral. Sillouettes of fish darted through the beams to become glorious displays of color and patterns as they fled the divers’ approach.
Disgruntled that she’d chosen Remy as her dive partner, Gabe searched an adjacent grid on the mound that had been marked off by that morning’s work with Tex.
Staring at the irregular bottom reminded Jeanne of childhood days spent looking up at clouds. At first, the clusters of coral and drifts of sand and limestone appeared to be exactly what they were. But if one stared at them long enough, they began to take on shapes like the clouds in the sky.
Gabe had already found a small cannon, the sort mounted at the most forward or aft positions on the ship where they could be swiveled to cover the vulnerable spots left by the larger, fixed cannons. He’d chipped away at the coral encrusting it with a small crowbar until its bore could be more clearly distinguished for the camera. After marking the find and taking some coordinates on a small clipboard, Jeanne and Remy returned to their own sector.
Some tube worms, which in the right light looked like stacks of gold coins, withdrew their tendrils in alarm as Remy disturbed them in passing. Jeanne’s mental smile froze as she spied a small, rounded mound of sand—another cannon barrel perhaps?
Drifting to her knees, she dug around the base of the outcropping with her hands. The sand she stirred disbursed with the strong current. Tomorrow they’d definitely bring out their stored airlift, a huge vacuum cleaner that dumped debris from the bottom into a mesh float where it could be sorted through for artifacts. But for now, they’d pay for their shortsighted thinking—that the clearing of the opening and laying the grid would take up most of their day—by doing it all by hand.
It was wood, a piece that had survived the destructive teredos . . . maybe a brake handle. The thrill of holding something that hadn’t been touched by human hands for centuries washed over her.
God, I just thank You that I’m here, now, doing this. I am so blessed, I just can’t stand—
The glint of something shiny in Ann’s underwater lighting stopped Jeanne’s prayer in midthought. The hand with which she’d been brushing away sand froze above it. Jeanne’s heart thudded against her breastbone.
Gold! No mistake about it. It was the only thing that held its original luster against the ravages of time and the sea. Almost afraid to touch it, lest it be some kind of mirage, Jeanne forced herself to run her palm over it, clearing more of the sand away.
Unable to move beyond its confines, her staggered heart began to beat again, and the breath she’d inadvertently held released a long stream of bubbles from her respirator. It wasn’t a brick. Excitement drove her pulse as she dislodged the round, ridged object from its nearly three-hundred-year-old bed at the foot of the rising coral massif. In the periphery of her vision, she spied Remy making haste toward her, but her attention was riveted on the head staring up at her.
And that’s what it was, she told herself in disbelief. It was a man’s head made of gold.
Her mind raced to the letters indelibly etched in her memory. Ortiz had written of a noble, a Spanish official who had died in Veracruz. His body had been sealed in a giant urn for its return to Spain. A vain man, he’d had a bust of gold made in his image.
Jeanne stared at the narrow, aristocratic face. And if this bearded fellow was Duque Alonso Garcia de Fonseca, then this was the wreck site of the Luna Azul.
“You are beyond a doubt the luckiest little lady I’ve ever met,” Tex drawled in amazement, once everyone returned to the Fallen Angel.
“We know—it’s a God thing,” Gabe said with a smile, cutting Jeanne off as he turned the heavy gold bust in his hands. About ten pounds. That translated into enough money to make his knees weak. The silly optimist had just brought up seventy thousand dollars or so in her own hands and identified the wreck that she’d set out to find. If she kept this up, she might make a believer of him yet. “Of course, good research and science helped,” he added, more for his benefit than for the others.
Remy beamed like a lighthouse over his prodigy and her find. “Like the Good Book says, the Lord helps those who help themselves.”
Jeanne pulled a playful face at her mentor that tugged at Gabe’s green streak. “I don’t think that’s quite Scripture-based, Remy, but I will admit we’ve all done our part. And I’ll put my team up against anybody.” She lifted a bottle of water up in a toast. “To Genesis. I love you all.”
Plastic bottles clicked in the air over the bust, accompanied by a clashing chorus of “Hear, hear!” and “To Genesis!”
“I hate to put a damper on this lovely parade,” Gabe spoke up, “But you do realize that we need to keep this quiet.”
“And why is that?” Remy challenged with the look of a man ready to mount a soapbox. “This is history unfolding before our very eyes.”
Tex twisted off the top of a lemonade drink. “I’m with Gabe on this one. If we were diving in U.S. waters, I’d have no problem, but we’re not. South of the border, anything can happen . . . no offense, there, Pablo.”
Glancing up from charting the locations where they’d found the other artifacts now spread on the bait box lid—bits of pottery, a pulley, and a belt buckle—Pablo nodded. “None taken. But after our good fortune today, I am going to the cathedral and kiss the statue of the Virgin as soon as we return.”
“And I also,” Manolo agreed.
The entire crew, even Pablo, was a little drunk with excitement. From their expressions, only Tex remained on Gabe’s cautious side.
“That’s fine and dandy, so long as you don’t say why you’re so reverent,” Gabe replied. “I say we keep the Duke on the Angel, just like we have the coins, and keep mum.”
Gabe was probably right. If the news of gold got out, they’d be inundated with new media, curious onlookers, and prospective claim jumpers. “Okay then,” Jeanne agreed aloud. “But for here and now”—she folded her arms over her chest and do-si-doed with Ann—“praise the Lord and swing your partners!”
At the end of the long, exciting, wearying day, Jeanne joined the others in the ecolodge. Nemo was in his glory. Nick and Stuart brought their laundry to the lodge that evening and entertained the rest by having the dog drop their belongings, piece by piece, into the big aluminum laundry pot. Jeanne preferred keeping her few personal belongings to be laundered in a drawstring bag at her feet. After dinner and the sideshow were over, she planned to discreetly hand it over.
“Everyone is getting so excited,” Lupita announced as she brought in two platters of charbroiled chicken to go with the rice, refried beans, and tortillas already on the table. “The fiesta, it begins Saturday.” She looked from one woman to the other along the length of the table. “And you, señoritas, are you ready to dance under the moonlight?”
Gabe preempted any reply. “Maybe Sunday. We’re on a work schedule now, and we’ve no time to lose.”
Jeanne helped herself to chicken. “Or we might come back early. We’ll see how it goes.” She met Gabe’s annoyed look head-on. “I’ve never been to a fiesta before.”
“Me neither,” Mara put in. “It sounds wonderful.”
“And I have a nephew . . . muy guapo,” Lupita told the young woman, “I am liking you to meet him. Very han’some, sí ?” The cook gave Mara a sly wink.
“I’d be delighted,” Mara replied, pinkening like a western sunset.
And the hairdresser would be there Friday evening, which was perfect timing. It was Teresa’s weekend off, and she and her novio intended to attend Punta Azul’s fiesta. She’d promised to give the Genesis ladies the works—hair and nails.
“I am counting on those cheeseburgers,” Remy said from the end of the table. His doleful expression nearly made Jeanne laugh. All he needed was a pair of long, floppy ears and he’d put the Hush Puppy out of the shoe business.
While she loved Mexican cuisine, especially when prepared by an accomplished cook like Lupita, Jeanne also longed for a taste of the good old USA. But for now Lupita’s citrus-flavored grilled feast was delightful.
“I’ve been thinkin’, little lady,” Tex said after swallowing a mouthful of overloaded tortilla. “You got less’n three weeks left to check out three sites and excavate two of ’em from under a bed of coral.” He grunted. “That one mound alone’ll take all your team workin’ in shifts till they drop.”
Jeanne processed what Tex had said. If they had to dig the coral-encased wreck out in chunks, the remaining weeks wouldn’t be enough time. There was always the chance that the bulk of the Luna Azul was under the sand, but it was slim.
“What do you suggest?” she asked, hoping he had an alternative.
“I thought I might get my little boat and a couple of boys up here to help out.”
“We can’t afford any more partners, Tex. And we’re barely within budget with the rising fuel prices.”
“I’ll pay ’em outta my share.”
Gabe stopped eating, staring at his friend in disbelief. “You don’t do anything for nothing. What’s your angle?”
“Well . . .” Tex chuckled. “I reckon I know a golden goose when I see one—and this little lady is charmed.”
Another boat and two more men would be a godsend . . . if they were reliable.
“I could have ’em here next Monday morning, ready to go to work.”
Jeanne frowned. “It’s not a week’s trip from Akumal.”
“No, but I’ll be dogged if I want my men hungover from a fiesta,” Tex answered. He leaned forward. “And little lady, them two like their beer, if you get my drift.”
“Oh, I see.” Jeanne caught Gabe’s expectant look across the table. Lord, what now? “They would need to know ahead of time that there’ll be no drinking on the water. I can’t govern them on their own time, but I can while they’re working on my project.”
“Hey, Nemo, where’d you get that?” Stuart shouted, distracting Jeanne in time to see Nemo parading around the room with a piece of women’s lingerie gripped in his teeth.
Stunned, she groped under the table for her laundry bag . . . which wasn’t there.
“Nemo,” she cried out, jumping from her chair to throttle the animal, or, at least, retrieve her bra.
Although it was impossible not to laugh as the dog deposited the garment in the laundry pot, Jeanne still flushed with embarrassment from her toes to the top of her head. She grabbed the opened laundry bag the four-footed thief had snatched from under the table and marched to the pot to claim the lacy contribution.
“Nemo, shame on you. Come on, boy.” Gabe hurried to fetch the culprit, avoiding Jeanne’s gaze, and escorted him by the collar back to his chair. “Now, sit !”
Trying to muster some semblance of her lost dignity, Jeanne shoved the bra into the bag with her other things. But it was funny.
Propping one hand on her hip, she shook her finger, not at the dog, but at its owner.
“Shame on you, Captain. You have to teach that dog not to mix whites with darks.”