Chapter 18
Eighteen
The whole of creation, with all its laws, is a revelation of God.
—William Ralph Inge, theologian, dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral
Scout came to a stop in front of Hulls Cove Visitor Center so that Naki, waiting patiently by the front door, could hop in the jeep. “What’s so important?”
In one hand, he held a copy of the Bar Harbor Gazette. “Latest edition.” He unfolded it so Scout could see the headline: “Gold Found at Otter Cliff.”
She gasped. “How did Chase find out about it?”
“He quotes Sophie who quotes Frankie.”
Scout narrowed her eyes. “Frankie spent the whole day with me on Baker Island and never said a word.”
“He might not have known that Sophie would talk so freely. He should’ve, but . . .”
“But this is Frankie we’re talkin’ about.”
Naki gave up a slight grin. “The article states that all the gold has been located. I have to give him credit for that. He could’ve kept that open-ended for the sake of publicity.
But . . .” He turned to face Scout. “He is incorrect about that. There’s still one last clue: ‘I left it where the ocean weeps, for what I couldn’t carry weighs me still. ’”
Scout tapped her palm against her forehead. “How did I forget that! You said you didn’t know what it meant and told Chase to hold off, so he moved on to the next one. In his hurry, he must have forgotten all about it.”
“I told Chase to set it aside,” he said, “but I had a pretty good idea what the clue meant.”
A thrill ran through her, a tingle of excitement, setting her pulse a tick faster.
One more hunt. One more chase with Naki.
But right behind the rush came the ache—the sharp, undeniable weight of knowing this was the last. Their last search.
Their last discovery. The last time they’d follow a lead together, anticipation crackling between them like electricity in the air before a storm.
She tightened her grip on the gearshift, forcing herself to focus. Keep your head in the cockpit, girl. “So where to?”
“To Weeping Rock out by Schoodic Point.” His voice carried a quiet reverence as he explained the legend—grieving women once came to it, letting the wind and waves carry away their sorrows.
She swallowed hard. Maybe she’d leave a little of her own there too. “I like the sound of that. A weeping rock.” She turned onto the ME-3 West toward Ellsworth.
“The Penobscot people have rocks for everything. Weeping, thinking, laughing.”
She grinned. “Someday, take me to the laughing rock.”
“Perhaps someday,” he said.
But she knew, and he knew, there wouldn’t be a someday.
With that in mind, she had to ask. If this was the last time she might see him, she had to know.
And they had a long drive ahead of them.
After she merged onto US 1 East, knowing they’d be on it a good long distance before exiting at Winter Harbor, she glanced over at him.
“I’d like to know more about your life.”
“My life?”
“Yes. As an . . .”
“Indian.”
“Well . . . yes.”
“It’s complicated.”
“How so?”
He paused, looking out the window, as if taking time to gather his words. “It’s like being seen and unseen.”
“As tall as you are, you feel unseen? Even at Harvard . . . you felt unseen?”
“Noticed, but not seen.”
She’d begun to notice this herself, just from walking beside him in public.
The way people stared, the quick, darting glances they thought went unnoticed.
She’d even heard a child’s voice carry across the Village Green, unfiltered in its curiosity—“Mom, that’s a real Injun.
” The words had landed with a jolt, a stark reminder of how the world saw him. “Naki,” she said softly, “I see you.”
He turned to her with a tender look in his eyes, a look that said maybe the attraction she felt wasn’t one-sided. “So what’s it like to be a female ranger?”
She coughed a laugh. “Complicated.”
“How so?”
“Well, to borrow your thought, I would say that when I put on this uniform and wear this hat, I am seen. It telegraphs authority. But when I’m in regular clothin’, I think I’m unseen.”
“That I doubt very much.”
Well now, that was sweet. She felt her face start to flush, so she shifted the conversation back to him. “I’ve googled the Penobscot Nation, but I’d like to know more. I’d like to learn about your people.”
One eyebrow lifted. “You googled?”
She grimaced. “Guilty. Before I met you, all I knew came from NPS brochures—and most of that was about the river.”
Naki’s lips curved in a faint smile, but his eyes stayed distant. “And it all begins with that river.”
For a moment, she thought that was all he was going to say on the topic.
Had she disappointed him when she admitted she knew so little about the Penobscot Nation?
It was the truth, though. She’d learned a little about Indigenous people in a high school US history course, and later, while working at Mesa Verde, she’d learned specifically about the Southwest tribe that had once lived there.
But after meeting Naki, she was embarrassed at how little she knew, which would be even less from the perspective of a Native American.
But then he began to speak, each word carefully chosen, his tone steady—like someone holding back a tide of feeling.
“The Penobscot people have been in this region for thousands of years—long before anyone thought to call this place Maine. The people lived off the rivers and the land. Traded, hunted, fished. When Europeans arrived, everything changed. Disease hit first, then land loss. Treaties were made and broken. By the 1800s, we were confined to Penobscot Indian Island. Think of that, Scout. Confined. Even the island wasn’t truly ours for a long time. But now, it’s our tribal seat.”
She turned off on ME-186 South and drove into Winter Harbor.
After entering the Schoodic Peninsula, she followed signs to Schoodic Point.
“So that gold,” she said softly, glancing at him again.
“If it had gotten to the Nation like it was supposed to . . . it would’ve made a difference, wouldn’t it? ”
Naki stared out the window, his voice even.
“It certainly would’ve helped. And now, the difficulties facing Native Americans run much deeper than anything more money can solve.
” He shifted in the seat to face her, leaning against the car door.
“It hasn’t always been that way. Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, ‘The most Indian thing about the Indian is surely not his moccasins or his calumet, his wampum or his stone hatchet, but traits of character and sagacity, skill or passion.’” He lifted a shoulder in a shrug.
“And that, Scout, is what it means to me”—he put a hand on his chest—“to be an Indian. I am doing all I can to help my people remember who they are.”
His words hit Scout squarely in the chest. Traits of character, sagacity, skill, passion.
Emerson was describing Naki. It was like he had seen in someone long ago what she saw in him today.
She felt the sting of tears before she could stop them, her vision blurring.
Pull it together, girl! She blinked quickly, hoping he wouldn’t notice, but of course, he did.
Naki reached into his pocket, pulled out a tissue, and handed it to her without a word. When she didn’t take it, he leaned over and gently wiped the tears from her cheek. His touch was brief, careful, and so gentle. “Why the tears?”
Embarrassed, Scout swallowed hard. “You’re doin’ something so important with your life.”
He tipped his head slightly. “As are you.”
Sweet to say. She loved her work as a ranger, but it paled in comparison to what he was doing. He was changing lives. Changing generations. More tears filled her eyes. Scout wiped the corner of her eyes for the last time. Girl, that’s enough crying!
“Pull over up there.” He glanced at the car clock. “The tide will turn soon. I have to warn you that if your father’s theory is correct, the gold will be gone.”
Bringing the car to a stop, she frowned. “What’s my father’s theory?”
“That the person who hid the gold came back for this one.” Naki folded the newspaper neatly, setting it on top of the dashboard. “Ready to hunt?”
“Yes.” She turned off the car. “Almost ready. One more question. Naki, are you helping find the gold because you hope it’ll end up with the Penobscot Nation?”
He chuckled, the sound low and brief. “I can guarantee you that this gold will not end up with the Nation.”
“Then why? This hunt has taken up so much of your time. Why would you bother?”
He turned to look at her, his dark eyes steady. “Because your father asked me to help you.”
Scout blinked, stunned. Of all the answers she’d expected, that hadn’t even made the list.
The sun was just setting as Chase knocked on the door of Scout’s cottage.
She still wasn’t answering his text messages or phone calls, and he had to clear the air with her.
The door opened, and his practiced smile froze.
He blinked. The woman standing before him bore a strong resemblance to Scout, but she was definitely not Scout.
“Hello there,” she said, her Southern accent smooth and measured. She was elegant in a way that caught him off guard—her blouse crisp, her pearl earrings subtle but deliberate, her hair a perfectly coiffed bob of highlighted blond hair.
Chase rebooted. “Well, I didn’t know Scout had a sister.”
The woman seemed pleased. “Aren’t you just adorable? Magnolia Pearl is out for the moment. Whom shall I say has called?”
The name hit him like a dropped book. Magnolia Pearl? He coughed, trying to disguise his shock. “You mean Scout?”
A slight frown on that beautiful face. “Magnolia Pearl is my daughter.”
It took every ounce of self-control for Chase to keep from laughing.
Magnolia Pearl. Wow. No wonder she went by Scout.
He cleared his throat. “Well, I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Johnson.
Scout speaks of you often. I’m Chase Fletcher.
Her boyfriend.” That might be pushing it a bit, considering he wasn’t even sure if Scout was talking to him.
Mrs. Johnson paused, puzzled, then her face lit up, her smile genuine and warm. “Well, don’t just stand there, Chase. Come in and let’s get to know each other over sweet tea.” She pushed open the door for him and turned, leaving him to follow.
Chase took one step into the cottage and stopped cold on the threshold.
For a second, he thought he’d wandered into the wrong place, until he caught sight of Scout’s ranger coat hanging on a wall peg.
Still, the transformation was astonishing.
The small, unadorned space he remembered now looked like it belonged in the pages of Southern Living.
A cheerful vase of hydrangeas sat on a coffee table—wait, did Scout even have a coffee table?
Throw pillows in shades of blue and white lined the lumpy couch, and an afghan with an intricate pattern was folded neatly over the arm.
A woven rug, simple but elegant, warmed the beat-up hardwood floor.
The bookshelves were no longer bare but filled with a few carefully arranged hardbacks and framed photos, and candles flickered on nearly every surface, filling the room with the soft scent of something he couldn’t name. Vanilla? Rose? He didn’t know.
Even the kitchen counter had been transformed, with a bowl of fresh fruit and a dish towel that matched the blue color scheme. It was cozy, it was polished, and it was entirely unlike Scout. He squinted. “Mrs. Johnson, are you responsible for all this?”
“Call me Lucille,” Scout’s mother said, already moving to the kitchen. “I just brought a little home with me.”
He turned in a circle. “You brought all this?”
“I did. And more is on the way. That is, if the truck will deliver all the way out here in Timbuktu.” She set two glasses of tea on the small kitchen table and motioned for him to sit. “So, Chase Fletcher,” she said, folding her hands under her chin, “what exactly do you do for a living?”
He smiled faintly. “Well,” he said after a beat, “I run my family’s newspaper here in Maine.”
Her interest sharpened immediately. “A family business?” She passed him a little pitcher of simple syrup. “Tell me more.”
And just like that, Chase found himself talking about his favorite topic.
Lucille listened like she genuinely cared, her gaze fixed on him with polite fascination.
He told her all about the Bar Harbor Gazette, how it had been in his family for over a century, how his great-great-great-grandmother had started it with a single press and a stubborn streak.
“You don’t say. A woman started a newspaper?”
Chase nodded. “Back in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, it wasn’t all that unusual for women to launch newspapers. They used the newspapers to address social issues or reform or be a voice for suffrage. Some are still in publication.”
Lucille hung on every word, occasionally nodding or murmuring an “Isn’t that somethin’” in her melodic drawl.
Chase was surprised by how much he found himself telling her—not just about the paper, but about his love for the Maine coast, his summers spent at camps, his college years at the university, his family’s deep roots in the state.
She leaned back, setting her glass on the table. “That’s quite a history, Chase. Magnolia Pearl must be smitten.”
He chuckled softly. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Lucille tilted her head. “So, what can you tell me about that high-rise of a man?”
High-rise? Chase almost choked on his sweet tea. “You must mean Naki. He’s a policymaker for the Penobscot Nation. He’s only here because he’s been helping with the gold hunt.”
Her expression didn’t waver, though he caught a flicker of calculation in her eyes. “So that’s the only reason he’s here?”
The easy camaraderie between them vanished. Just like that, Chase was back on uneasy footing. Someone knew something he didn’t.
Text conversation between Maisie and Frankie:
Frankie
Is your grandfather mad at me?
Maisie
Probably. Why? What’d you do now?
Didn’t you see the newspaper?
No.
Apparently Sophie can’t keep her mouth shut.
She’s also back with Enzo. I saw them making out in front of the coffee shop tonight.
Aww, man!
Maisie smiled and clicked off her phone, tucking it in her back pocket. Fun fact: Rebound relationships have a dismal success rate.