Epilogue
One Month Later
My dad spent the first half of his life obsessed with finding a treasure, and the second half obsessed with not losing it.
For only having two weeks with him, he taught me a lot. There was a lot about flounder, but the best lessons were about forgiveness and how sad life would be if we made every decision out of fear of what will happen tomorrow.
Even with what Dirk said about the reward, I knew what came next wouldn’t be easy. After I got off the phone with my sister, and while Sunny sat in a chair and fanned herself between muttered swears and Sunnyisms, I filled the two empty coffee cans with coins and called Nash.
Standing on The Gypsy, Nash laughed harder than I’d ever seen a man laugh then kissed me harder than I’ve ever been kissed. “You struck gold, Rue Conway.”
I really had, in more ways than one.
We debated between calling the police or a government office, but it was Sunny in a moment of lucidity who suggested a bank.
“Them damn fools will do anything to get money. Government ain’t never heard of its own checks and balances.
They’ll take that money faster than you can make the phone call with nobody to tell them no.
But a bank?” She raised her brows. “They running a business, honey child. They’ll shut you up just to get you out of the way.
They got bigger fish to fry with all this damn gold. ”
Everything I’d learned from Reese about the world of business backed this theory up.
Nash called the US Trust Bank, the largest bank chain in North America and the one Dirk said absorbed the Richmond bank. The reward offered after the robbery was never cancelled and, by default, never formally expired.
My legal leg to stand on was as weak as Cap’s prosthetic one, but just like Sunny thought, they had bigger fish to fry.
Turns out with a cache of this size and under circumstances this unique, it’s complicated.
If it’s valued in a cash dollar-to-dollar calculation, there’s inflation to consider.
If it’s valued by the per-ounce price of the gold, the number goes up by millions.
Then, lastly, there’s the collector’s appraisal, which at auction could mean even more.
Negotiations were fast—turns out me asking for two million dollars is nothing compared to what they could potentially get. I became one less headache for the bank. The story had barely gotten out before the federal government was claiming spoils of war, just like my dad knew they would.
Only this way, the bank is dealing with that, not me.
With two million dollars, I was able to pay Reese back for the roof, refill the damage caused by Andre the Frenchman on our bank accounts—including the one that will pay for Mom’s surgery—and set up an account for Bennie’s college fund.
I can’t predict the future any better than Jeane Dixon’s alleged crystal ball, but I can try to be ready for it.
I sold Dad’s boat and kept his cane.
Penny, of course, went to Danimal.
Danimal the metalsmith who’d been melting down small amounts of coins over the years, one coffee can at a time, and selling it for the market value of gold so Dad had money to get by. Captain Cashflow was nothing if not resourceful. Especially when it came to protecting his treasure.
Those two coffee cans I filled with gold went to none other than Danimal and Sunny—tokens of my appreciation to the tune of a small fortune. Sunny quit her night jobs; I’ll never know what Danimal did.
And Nash?
Well.
I’m still waiting on that one to play out.
We’re still married, and he’s still saying he’ll be here even though he hasn’t said when.
As much as I like a reliable plan with a clear-cut endgame, I’m trying hard to lean into a life that comes with a man like him.
One filled with a few unknowns and with space for deviation and a little adventure and, most importantly, fun.
I’ll never tell my mom that.
“Rue-Rue!” Remy’s voice sings down the hall toward my office, echoed by catcalls from Reese and my mother. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
“This is ridiculous,” I shout, eyeing myself in a warped mirror leaning against a wall.
A little money in the account and my mom couldn’t help herself. When she showed up with a vintage wedding dress in hand, I almost lost it, but now here I am, wearing the damn thing after she and my sisters insisted I try it on.
With my shoulders exposed and chest and arms covered in delicately embellished cream-colored lace that leads to a satin pleated skirt, it fits like a matrimonial glove.
As annoyed as I am, it’s beautiful. I spin to examine the back—low enough that my entire shoulder blades are exposed.
It’s so much better than the simple white dress I picked out for my wedding with Jonathan.
Jonathan.
Even after his public display of asshole, I regret how things ended with him. It was the right decision, but never in a million years would I have chosen to do it like that.
When I got back from Charleston, we exchanged boxes of things left behind, along with a few tears and a single awkward hug.
“You’re someone else with him,” he said when I was getting in my car.
I shrugged with a smile. “Maybe I was someone else with you.”
“Rue!” Remy shouts. “Get your ass out here!”
I take a swig of champagne, take one last look at myself being the bride I was never meant to be, and make my way toward their voices, skirt rustling above my bare feet as I go.
I’m almost to the counter where Remy and Mom are huddled—Reese on the line from Chicago—when the “Wedding March” starts playing through a small speaker. They laugh like we’re in the middle of a ’90s rom-com.
Idiots, every single one of them.
I cut the music and give them a happy now? look.
Remy stills, her mouth open as she goes from leaning over the counter to standing upright. “Oh my God, Rue,” she whispers. “You’re a vision.”
Reese, who is a mere face filling the screen, falls silent.
Self-conscious from their stares—I must look as ridiculous as I feel—I wrap my arms around myself as if they can hide a full-grown woman standing in the middle of an antique store in a wedding gown.
“Okay, stop looking at me like that.” To the phone: “Reese, be the bitch you are and put me out of my misery.”
“Even I would claim you,” she says with a tilt of her champagne flute.
When I look at my mother, she puts her hands to her chest as if needing to feel her own heart to confirm it’s still beating.
I am overcome.
As is she.
Because I know that look. It’s the same one I give Bennie when she takes my breath away.
For better or worse, we learn how to mother from our own mothers.
“Rue, it’s beautiful,” Mom says, hugging me, crying even though I’m not getting married.
I smile slightly, looking down at the dress. “You did good for once.”
“Gorgeous,” Remy agrees. “Now gimme that champagne.”
I take another sip then pass her the bottle.
“Fill me in on everything,” Reese says. Remy passes the bottle to Mom. “How are all my systems working?”
There are so many.
While I was off trying to find Anson Burns’s gold and sever my ties with Nash, Reese subtly overhauled the business. Aside from hiring two part-time employees and updating our website, she opened space for vendors so we could generate income while increasing inventory with less overhead.
The most radical change was her repurposing of the now-empty storage room. We’ve leased it to a small business that moves in next week. From her fancy office in Chicago, Reese has been dealing with the logistics.
I haven’t met the owner yet, terrified I’ll hate them as much as I already hate the idea of sharing the building, but the numbers made sense. Even if business doesn’t pick up right away, the rent money alone will cover most of our monthly expenses.
We get to keep the store.
“I’ll never admit they’ve made our life easier,” I tell her. “Even if I don’t know how we ever got by so long without all this.” She smiles, pleased. “And Mom’s surgery is just over a month away.”
“Did you get all the info I sent?” Reese asks, more serious.
“And the recipes? You’ll want to get the drugs out of her system from the surgery, so she needs clean food.
And there are exercises she should do—she’s going to need to take it slow, you know?
But not too slow, because that could slow her recovery.
I ordered a walker—make her use it. And there’s a PT provider—don’t go with that local one, I didn’t like her.
She seemed lazy. Like she’ll take her sweet-ass time to show up and won’t push Mom when she finally does.
Those first weeks will be critical to her recovery. She’ll be in pa—”
“God, Reese,” I cut her off. “We know.” I look at Mom. She smiles, but it’s slight. She’s scared. We all are. “And if you’re so worried about it, maybe you should take care of her since you seem to think we’re so incompetent.”
“I don’t think you’re incompetent,” Reese retorts. “I know I could do better than you two is all.”
“That’s not fair,” Remy chimes in. “Rue and I can take care of Mom. We have kids.”
Reese snorts. “Yet you let her give all of your money away while cells assembled and led a mutiny on her brain.”
I scowl at the phone, fully offended. “Then maybe you should come down from your ivory Chicago tower and pick up our slack.”
“To Fontain?” Reese snorts. “No.”
“You could buy a vineyard with all that money you must sit and count every night before you fall asleep,” I shoot back.
Around the rim of her champagne glass, she says, “I don’t have time to count my money because I’m too busy masturbating to pictures of Scrooge.”
“Oh my Go—”
“Okay, you two.” Mom cuts me off, playing Switzerland. “New subject. I can take care of myself, thank you. Probably be better off the way you all hover over me and act like I’m already dead. Remy started decorating her new library this week.”