Chapter 17
Seventeen
The dad who didn’t know I existed and the husband I didn’t know I was still married to sit comfortably at a table of an oyster bar to create the most surreal moment of my life.
“Nash,” I say evenly, “this is Rueben.” Cap’s eyes narrow. “Whom I like to call Dad.”
Nash must remember my dad was long gone, because he does a double take.
“Rueben.” He reaches across the table to shake his hand. “Nash”—he cuts his eyes to me—“your son-in-law.”
Dad finds this hilarious. “Call me Cap.”
“Cap.”
They’re all smiley and smug.
How nice.
“I’m sure you’re surprised to see me. Us,” I say, trying my best to sound professional. I fish the newspaper article out of my pocket. “I’m here for work. And I al—”
“You look good, Rue.”
At this lie, my body betrays me.
“Thank you. You look—” I drink him in. Brown eyes, golden skin, sandy hair once upon a time I lost my fingers in.
The scruff on his jaw is new, as are a couple of the lines around his eyes.
He looks damn good. “The same.” Cap chuckles and it turns to a cough; I glare at him.
“Like I was saying, I’m here for work. I’m looking for a rare collection of coins to—”
“How’s your mom?” Nash interrupts.
I clear my throat, not going there. “Fine.”
“I always liked her,” he says with an annoying slant of his mouth.
“Like I was saying—”
“You still in Fontain?”
I grind my teeth.
“Not at the moment.” I pin him with a look. “But normally, yes.” And because I’ve become a crazy bitch: “Same place I was when you left eight years ago.”
“You mean the same place you were when you told me to leave and never come back?” His brows lift, almost amused. “I remember it well.”
We hold each other’s stare and I’m annoyed by how accurate both versions of the story are. But he’s leaving out one important detail: I told him to leave because he’d already told me it’s what he wanted to do.
I don’t say that though. Rehashing the history between us isn’t why I’m here. I’ll play nice as long as it takes for him to give me the divorce and information I need.
I force a tight smile. “Glad to see your memory’s intact, Nash.”
He props his elbows on the table and leans into them, his arms flexing slightly as he does. “Memory’s right as rain, Rue.”
I hate the way my name sounds on his lips almost as much as I hate the way my eyes linger on the inked lines of the two lanterns on his arm—the signal that the British were traveling by sea, triggering Paul Revere’s famous ride. It’s one of Nash’s favorite stories of the American Revolution.
“As I was saying. I—”
“I think about you,” he says. “Is that crazy? All this time, and I still think about you. That summer.” I make the mistake of looking at him and it physically hurts. His brown eyes on mine generate an actual pain in my chest. “You know what I mean?”
The waitress becomes my new favorite person because she delivers our Bloody Marys at that very moment. I don’t have to answer him because I’m too busy tossing the olive-shrimp-pepper-pickle garnish stack on the table and draining half the drink.
I’m broke and my mother needs her brain sliced into—divorcing the man I thought I was already divorced from is supposed to be the fastest, easiest of my problems to solve. Yet here he is, dragging me down memory lane and forcing me to dump liquor down my throat so I can handle this and him.
Cap chuckles. “You thirsty there, kiddo?”
My mouth fills with the vodka-spiked tomato juice to the point my cheeks nearly pop before swallowing. I feel Nash’s eyes all over me. There isn’t enough alcohol in this swamp-aired city to take the edge off.
“Fine.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. I might not have a choice in being here with Nash, but I refuse to let him play his game of smooth words and easy smiles. It confused me once, but it won’t again. “And I don’t know what you mean. We were a long time ago.”
The way we look at each other makes me think we’re part of two different conversations. I’m thoroughly pissed he exists and tilt my chin to convey that, while his lips lift as if I’ve said something funny.
“Rue here wants the Anson Burns gold,” Cap explains. “All wound up over it.” When I glare at him: “And you should see her when she screams.”
“Oh trust me,” Nash says, borderline wicked, “I’ve seen her scream.”
Cap, that sicko, chuckles.
I take one calming breath. Then another. “I’m about to scream now if you two don’t shut the hell up.”
Nash snorts. “You’re a treasure hunter now?”
I mirror his position, propping my forearms on the table.
“A gold finder,” I correct. “And Dad here said we need help with some of the . . . clues”—the word is idiotic—“and that someone in your profession might be able to give us information we seem to be missing.”
I pass him the article about Cap’s arrest, and his eyes flick between Cap and me before he slips a pair of wire-framed glasses out of his pocket and onto his face.
The glasses are new, and it’s an effort for me not to stare or care that this change happened without my knowledge. I force my gaze to a seafood-themed mural on the wall with a cartoon crab who has the audacity to look happy.
To Cap, Nash asks, “You know where it is?”
Cap scrapes olives off a toothpick with his teeth, chewing them slowly before resting the toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “Thought I did.”
Nash rereads the article then leans back in his seat and takes his glasses off. He rubs a hand along the scruff of his jaw, mulling.
“I also thought we were divorced,” I say in his silence.
“But my mother bamboozled me and never mailed these.” I reach into my purse, pulse quickening as I fumble to find the envelope with divorce papers and hand them to him.
“If you can just sign the papers and tell us what we need to know, we’ll be on our way. ”
Nash takes the envelope but doesn’t open it, tossing it onto the table with the article. He takes a long sip of his drink, then lets out a satisfied ahh.
“You get my postcards?”
I fidget with the brim of my hat. “The first one. The rest I got a few days ago.”
His brows pinch.
“Also my mother’s handiwork,” I explain.
He laughs through a breath. “And?”
“And what?”
“And what did you think of them?”
“You writing over and over again to come and get me with random addresses?” I sniff, just as annoyed as I was the first time I thumbed through them and saw the same ignorant words written on repeat. “Sounds like you took our marriage as seriously as you take the rest of your life.”
We look at each other so long we might be in a staring contest.
“She’s here until she finds the gold,” Cap pipes in without invitation.
“The faster the better,” I amend. “Two weeks tops.” Or two days based on the fact I have $505.29 and no hotel room.
“For gold finding?” Nash asks around the rim of his glass.
“Yes.” I roll my shoulders. “And divorcing.”
To Cap, he asks, “You have a copy of the Anson Burns letter?”
Cap nods. “And copies of the documents from officials.”
“What do you need me for?”
“Apparently the clues take you to historic landmarks or something,” I explain. “Dad here says that they’re guarded and monitored, thus his soirée with the law. Maybe you could give us advice on how to get around some of it. Stay out of jail.”
His eyes widen. “You’re planning on breaking into historically preserved sites?” He lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Not a prayer you’ll pull that off.”
“Why not?”
“Because they are protected in every sense of the word. They’re valuable. You think they don’t have systems in place to keep people from getting in? That they wouldn’t have already found the gold if it was there?”
If Jonathan couldn’t talk me out of this, neither can he.
“I seem to remember a time you could convince me to go places I shouldn’t go and do things I shouldn’t do.
” Our eyes meet and hold, letting the history between us hang with the briny scent of the restaurant.
I wonder if he’s thinking about the rows of vineyards we snuck away to and stripped down on the first night we met.
The slow mornings together. I’m certainly not.
I’m here for the gold and to get rid of him.
“But since you’ve apparently gone soft to breaking the rules, I’m not asking you to do anything except advise us.
Cap—” Cap grunts. “Dad has a few questions. If you could answer them—and sign the papers—then we’ll be out of your hair. ”
Then I’ll tell him about Bennie as we’re driving away.
Nash takes another sip of his drink. “Why do you want this gold so badly?”
It only takes hours of being around Nash for me to see that he’s fine.
He’s been here for years and was called bossman.
He’s at least slightly more stable than he used to be but just as relaxed.
Just as fun in his shirts and playing his stupid harmonica for a gaggle of fangirls who are having wet dreams about him while they’re wide awake.
I do not want him to know how not okay I am.
If he’s not broke, I’m not broke. If his mom doesn’t have a brain tumor, neither does mine.
If he’s dandy, well so the hell am I. I’m here for a job, albeit a personal one, and that’s how I’m going to play it.
“A customer,” I lie, shifting in my seat.
Cap grunts.
“A customer?” Nash asks, skeptical. “At Old Vines?”
“Yes. Fontain may be small, but there are serious collectors.” I brush invisible dirt from my shoulders then fumble with the strap of my overalls.
“One of them got wind of my connection to dear old Dad here and hired me to look into it. A coin collector. I, being the adventurous spirit I am, was happy to oblige.” I smile the biggest, fakest smile I’ve ever smiled then kick Cap under the table until he does the same.
He grunts, kicks me back, and says, “Sure did.”
“He’s paying me a lot of money to be here,” I continue. “Funding the whole thing. All expenses.”
Lies, lies, lies, lies.
Nash blows out a long breath, breaking it up by opening and closing his lips. “Fine,” he finally says. “But I’m going with you.”
“No!” I shout at the same time Cap says, “Atta boy!”
“Why not?” Nash asks. “He’s going.” He gestures at Cap, who shoves his oxygen tubes up his nostrils before raising his glass in a cheers, his silent betrayal.
“What’s one more person? You need my help.
I’ve never read the letter. I don’t even know what places you’re talking about.
” Another sip of his drink and he looks at me deviously.
“I’ll be more useful with eyes on the situation. ”
“I’ll be limited with my leg,” Cap adds. “Might be good to have someone else. In case we run into a snafu.”
My estranged father is a turncoat. This is absolutely the worst idea I’ve ever heard of. Cap is one thing, but Nash is horrific. He won’t take any of this seriously; it might as well be branded on his skin along with the stars, stripes, and constitutional quotes.
“You know SNAFU is an acronym that comes from World War II?” Nash asks, Cap instantly intrigued. “Situation Normal: All Fucked Up. Used to describe chaos.”
“No kidding?” Cap says. “Never knew that.”
“There was another one. SUS—”
“And the divorce papers?” I demand, cutting off this stupid lesson in etymology. “Will you at least sign those?”
Nash squints at the envelope. “Better have my attorney look those over.”
“You what?”
“Eight years is a long time, Rue.” His lips purse slightly. “How do I know you didn’t throw something wild in there? Might want my business.”
“Your business?” I shout, making nearby tables go quiet. “What business?”
“Thirsty for History. I own it.”
Immature Nash owns a business and mine is about to go belly up. At this revelation, I drain my drink. That can’t be right. He was with me and couldn’t sit still, and now he’s without me and owns a business and has been still for three years. He might as well slap my face.
“Plus,” he says, “Iris isn’t here to back up your story. Who knows what you’ve been up to these last years.”
Guilt becomes a living, breathing thing inside my body, eating me from the inside out. Because: I’ve been up to raising your kid.
“First of all,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Your last postcard said you were going to give me up.” The way he looks at me crawls right under my skin and festers like an infection.
“You know what, Nash? I have been up to something.” I fumble in my pocket for the abandoned engagement ring and slip it on my finger, flashing it in Nash’s direction.
His expression falters—just slightly—but enough I notice.
“I’m engaged. How’s that? Hm? Happy now? ”
“Engaged?” His eyebrows lift. “To whom?”
“Jonathan. A dentist.”
At this, Cap laughs until he wheezes.
“Why is that funny?” I demand.
Cap shrugs. “Just is.”
“A dentist,” Nash repeats, unbothered. “He know you keep your engagement ring in a pocket?”
“Prefers it actually.” This man is impossible. “And your attorney better be quick. We’re getting married. At the end of June.”
He presses his lips between his teeth, eyes going from the ring to my face.
“It’ll take him two weeks.” He grins; my jaw drops. “Tops. Y’all want oysters? They have the best in the city.”
“I love oysters,” Cap says gleefully. Gleefully!
I search my glass for more alcohol but find only Old Bay-covered ice cubes. I can’t afford two weeks. I’ll run out of money in days, and with these two tagging along, probably lose my mind.
“So, Cap,” Nash says as he flags down the waitress. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Ah.” Cap settles back in his chair, tapping his cane. “That’s a long story, young man.”
“Perfect.” Nash smiles at him then looks at me sideways. “Sounds like we have two weeks.”
He’s still as charmingly disarming as ever.
Damn him.