The Reef (19 page)

“He needed you, but you were too self-involved to give a damn. You left him to drink himself half to death. If my parents knew how callous, how cold you really are, they'd pitch you out on your ass.”

“But you know.”

“Yes, I know. I knew eight years ago when you were considerate enough to show me. That's the only thing I owe you, Matthew, and I'll pay you back by letting you have the chance to bow out of this business gracefully.”

“No deal.” He folded his arms. “I'm going after the
Isabella,
Tate, one way or the other. I've got my own debts to pay.”

“You won't use my parents to pay them.” She turned on her heel and strode off.

Alone, Matthew gave himself a minute to let the storm of emotions settle. Slowly he sat on the hammock, braced his feet to keep it from rocking.

He hadn't expected her to greet him with open arms and a sunny smile. But he hadn't expected such complete and utter loathing. Dealing with it would be difficult, but necessary.

Yet that wasn't the worst of it. Not by a long shot. He'd been so sure he was over her. She'd barely been more than a passing thought in his life for years. It was a jolt, an embarrassing, devastating jolt to realize that rather than being over her, he was desperately, foolishly in love with her.

Still.

Before Marla could repeat her offer of lunch, Tate had sailed through the kitchen, into the homey, cluttered living room, down the steps to the foyer and out the front door.

She needed to breathe.

At least she'd held on to her temper, she told herself as she stormed over the sandy soil toward the sound. She hadn't decked him the way she'd wanted to. And she'd made her position crystal clear. She would see to it that Matthew Lassiter was packed and gone by nightfall.

Tate took another gulp of air as she stepped on the narrow dock. Moored there was the
New Adventure,
the forty-two-foot cruiser her parents had christened only two years before. She was a beauty, and though Tate had only managed one brief run on her, she knew the boat to be quick and agile.

She might have gone onboard, just to spend a few minutes alone with her anger, if there hadn't been another boat on the other side of the pier.

She was frowning at it, its unusual lines and double-hull construction, when Buck came on deck.

“Ahoy there, pretty girl.”

“Ahoy yourself.” Grinning, she hurried onto the pier. “Permission to come aboard, sir.”

“Permission granted.” He laughed, holding out a hand as she leapt gracefully down.

She could see instantly that he'd lost some of the weight the bloat of drink and bad food had ballooned on him. His color was ruddy again, his eyes clear. When she
hugged him, there was no stale scent of whiskey and sweat.

“It's good to see you,” she told him. “You look renewed.”

“I'm getting by.” He shifted uncomfortably. “You know what they say, a day at a time.”

“I'm proud of you.” She pressed her cheek to his, but sensing his embarrassment, pulled back. “Well, tell me about this.” She spread her arms wide to encompass the boat. “How long have you had her?”

“Matthew finished her only a few days before we sailed up.”

Her smile faded; her arms dropped back to her sides. “Matthew?”

“He built her,” Buck said with pride ringing in every syllable. “Designed her, worked on her off and on for years.”

“Matthew designed and built this boat, himself?”

“Just about single-handed. I'll show you around.” As he led her around the deck from bow to stern, he ran a commentary on the design, the stability, the speed. Every few minutes, his hand would run along a rail or fitting with affection.

“I gave him grief over her,” Buck admitted. “But the boy proved me wrong. We ran into a squall off of Georgia, and she took it like a lady.”

“Umm-hmm.”

“She carries two-hundred-gallon freshwater capacity,” he went on, bragging like a doting papa. “And storage, the way he set her out, she's got as much as you find on a sixty-footer. Got twin motors, a hundred and forty-five shaft horsepower.”

“Sounds like he's in a hurry,” she muttered. When she stepped into the pilothouse, her eyes widened. “God, Buck, the equipment.”

Stunned, she walked through, examining. Top-of-the-line sonar, depth finders, magnetometer. The cockpit held excellent and pricey navigational equipment, a radiotelephone, radio direction finder, a NavTex for offshore
weather data and, to her complete amazement, an LCD-screen video plotter.

“The boy wanted the best.”

“Yes, but—” She wanted to ask how he'd paid for it, but was afraid the answer might be her parents. Instead she took a deep breath and promised to find the answer herself, later. “It's quite a setup.”

The pilothouse boasted full visibility, access from starboard and port. There was a wide flat chart table, empty now, and glossy cabinets with brass fittings for storage. Even a settee berth with thick navy padding over wood had been built into a corner.

A far cry, she mused, from the
Sea Devil.

“Come take a look at the cabins. Hell, guess I should call 'em staterooms. Got two of them, with heads. Sleep snug as a bug down there. And the galley's one even your ma would be proud of.”

“Sure, I'd love to see. Buck,” she began as they exited to stern. “How long has Matthew been planning on going back to look for the
Isabella?”

“Can't say. Probably since we left the
Marguerite.
Ask me, it's been preying on his mind all along. All he lacked was the time and the means.”

“The means,” Tate repeated. “Did he come into some money then?”

“LaRue bought in.”

“LaRue? Who—”

“Did I hear my name?”

Tate saw a figure at the base of the companionway. As she stepped down she made out a thin, nattily dressed man somewhere between forty and fifty. Gold winked out of his grin as he offered a hand to help her down.

“Ah, mademoiselle, my head spins.” He swept her hand up to his lips.

“Don't pay this scrawny Canuk any mind, Tate. He thinks he's a ladies' man.”

“A man who reveres and appreciates women,” LaRue corrected. “I'm enchanted to meet you at last, and to have such beauty grace our humble home.”

At a glance, the neat, shipshape deckhouse looked
anything but humble. Wood gleamed on the dining bar where colorfully padded stools stood waiting. Someone had hung framed charts, yellowed with age, on the walls. She was astonished to see a vase of fresh daffodils on a table.

“Guess it's a big step up from the
Sea Devil,”
Buck commented.

“From
Sea Devil
to
Mermaid.
” LaRue grinned. “Can I offer you tea, mademoiselle?”

“No.” She was still blinking in shock. “Thanks. I have to get back. There are a number of things I have to talk over with my parents.”

“Ah, yes. Your father, he was thrilled that you would be going with us. Me, I'm delighted to know two such lovely ladies will be adding charm to the journey.”

“Tate's not just a lady,” Buck said. “She's a hell of a diver, a natural born treasure hunter, and she's a scientist.”

“A woman of many talents,” LaRue murmured. “I'm humbled.”

Baffled, she stared at him. “You shipped with Matthew?”

“Indeed. It has been my trial to try to induce some culture into his life.”

Buck snorted. “Shit with an accent's still shit. Begging your pardon, Tate.”

“I've got to get back,” she said again, dazed. “Nice to have met you, Mr. LaRue.”

“LaRue only.” He kissed her hand again. “
A bientôt.
”

Buck shouldered LaRue aside. “I'll walk back with you a ways.”

“Thanks.” Tate waited until they were back on the pier and headed for shore. “Buck, you said Matthew's been working on that boat on and off for years?”

“Yeah, whenever he had a little extra time or money. Musta done a dozen drawings and designs 'fore he settled on this one.”

“I see.” That kind of ambition, and tenacity, was more than she would have given him credit for. Unless . . .

“All right.” She put a friendly hand on his arm. “I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but I'm not sure any of this is a good idea.”

“You mean us partnering up with Ray and Marla and going back?”

“Yes. Finding the
Marguerite
was practically a miracle. The odds of it happening twice are very dim. I know it took a long time for all of us to get over the disappointment before. I hate to see you, and my parents, go through all of it again.”

Buck paused to shove his glasses back into place. “I can't say I'm happy about it myself.” Automatically, he reached down to rub the artificial leg. “Bad memories, bad luck. Matthew's set, though. And I owe him.”

“That's not true. He owes you. He owes you his life.”

“Maybe he did.” Buck grimaced. “Fact is, I made him pay for it. I didn't save his father. Don't know if I could have, but I didn't. Never went after VanDyke. Don't know what good it woulda done, but I didn't. Then when my time came to pay, I didn't take it like a man should.”

“Don't talk like that.” She hooked a protective arm through his. “You're doing wonderfully.”

“Now. For a couple of weeks. Don't really make up for all the years between. I let the boy shoulder it all, the work and the blame.”

“He left you alone,” Tate said furiously. “He should have stayed by you. Supported you.”

“Done nothing but support me. Worked at a job he hated so I could have what I needed. I took it, used it and tossed it in his face every chance I got. I'm ashamed of that.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. The last time I came to see you—”

“I lied to you.” He stared down at his feet, knowing he had to risk her affection for his own self-respect. “I made it seem like he pushed me off, didn't come around, didn't do nothing for me. Maybe he didn't come around much, but it's hard to blame him. But he sent me money, took care of things best he could. Paid to have me in detox I don't know how many times.”

“But I thought—”

“I wanted you to think. Wanted him to think it, too,
‘cause it was easier for me if everybody was miserable. He did the best he could.”

Far from convinced, she shook her head. “He should have stayed with you.”

“He did what he had to do,” Buck insisted, and Tate bowed to unshakable family loyalty.

“Regardless, this new brainstorm strikes me as being impulsive and dangerous. I'm going to do my best to talk my parents out of it. I hope you understand.”

“Can't blame you for thinking twice about hooking up with the Lassiters again. You do what you have to do, Tate, but I'll tell you, your daddy's got the wind in his sails.”

“I'll just have to change his course.”

B
UT THERE WERE
times when the wind ran strong and true and defeated even the most determined sailor.

Tate tolerated Matthew's presence at dinner. She made conversation with Buck and LaRue at the big chestnut table. She listened to their stories, laughed at their jokes.

Her heart simply wasn't hard enough to spoil the celebratory mood, or dim the light of delight in her father's eyes with cold, hard facts and logic.

Because she was sharp enough to notice her mother's occasional looks of concern in her direction, Tate managed to be marginally polite to Matthew. Though she did her best to limit contact to the obligatory “pass the salt.”

When the meal was over, she maneuvered the situation in her favor by insisting on clearing up the dishes alone with her father.

“Bet you haven't had a meal like that in a month of Sundays,” he commented, humming under his breath as he stacked dishes.

“In a year of Sundays. I'm sorry I had to pass on the pecan pie.”

“You'll have some later. That LaRue's something, isn't he? Exchanging recipes with your mother one minute and
arguing foreign policy the next with a side trip into baseball and eighteenth-century art.”

“He's a regular Renaissance man,” she murmured. But she was holding out on judgment of him. Any friend of Matthew's, she thought, required careful scrutiny. Even if he was interesting, well read and charming. Particularly if he was. “I haven't figured out what he's doing with Matthew.”

“Oh, I think they suit each other well enough.” Ray filled the sink with soapy water for the pots as Tate loaded the dishwasher. “Matthew's always had a lot going for him, he's just never had much chance to put it all to use.”

“I'd say he's a man who knows how to make the most of an opportunity. Which is something I want to discuss with you.”

“The
Isabella.
” Sleeves pushed up, Ray began to attack pans in the sink. “We're going to get to that, honey. Soon as everyone's had a chance to settle in for the evening. I held off saying anything more to the rest until you got here.”

“Dad, I know how you felt when we found that virgin wreck eight years ago. I know how I felt, so I understand that you may think it's a good idea to go back. But I'm not sure you're considering all the details, the pitfalls.”

“I've thought of them a great deal over the years, and little else for the last nine months. We had our share of luck, good and bad, the last time. But we've got a hell of a lot more going for us this time around.”

“Dad.” Tate slipped another plate into the dishwasher, straightened. “If I have the right information, Buck hasn't dived since his accident, and LaRue worked on ship as a cook. He's never had on tanks in his life.”

“That's all true. Maybe Buck won't go under, but we can always use another hand on deck. As for LaRue, he's willing to learn, and I have a feeling he's a quick study.”

“There are six of us,” Tate went on, trying futilely to chip away at the optimism. “Only three of whom can dive. I haven't done any serious diving myself in nearly two years.”

“Like riding a bike,” Ray said easily and set a pan
aside to drain. “We need people to read and run the equipment in any case. Now we've got a professional marine archeologist on hand, not one in training.” He sent her a beaming smile. “Maybe you'll do your thesis on this expedition.”

“I'm not concerned about my thesis right now,” she said, straining for patience. “I'm concerned about you. You and Mom have spent the last several years playing at hunting, Dad. Exploring established wrecks, pleasure diving, shell collecting. That's nothing compared to the full out physical labor needed for something like you have in mind.”

“I'm in shape,” he told her, vaguely insulted. “I work out three times a week, dive regularly.”

Wrong tactic, she thought. “Okay. What about the expense? It could take months of your time, plus the cost of supplies, equipment. This isn't a vacation you're talking about, or a hobby. Who's backing this venture?”

“Your mother and I are very stable financially.”

“Well.” Fighting temper, she snatched up a dishrag to swipe the counters. “That answers my last question. You're putting your money on the line, which means you're carrying the Lassiters.”

“It's not a matter of carrying them, honey.” Genuinely puzzled, he pulled his hands out of the water and wiped them dry. “It's a partnership, just like before. Any imbalance will be taken out of the profits once we salvage the wreck.”

“What if there isn't any wreck?” she exploded. “I don't care if you toss your last penny away on a dream. I want you to enjoy everything you've worked for. But how can I stand by while you let that self-serving, opportunistic bastard take you for a ride?”

“Tate.” Alarmed at the way her voice carried, he patted her on the shoulder. “I didn't know you were upset. I thought when you said you were coming back, you were committing to the idea.”

“I came back to try to stop you from making a mistake.”

“I'm not making one.” His face closed up in the way
she knew it could when he was hurt. “And there is a wreck. Matthew's father knew it, I know it. The
Isabella
is there, and Angelique's Curse is with her.”

“Not the amulet again.”

“Yes, the amulet again. That's what James Lassiter was looking for, what Silas VanDyke wants, and what we're going to have.”

“Why is it so important? This wreck, this necklace?”

“Because we lost something that summer, Tate,” he said quietly. “More than the fortune that thief stole from us. More even than Buck's leg. We lost the joy in what we'd done, what we could do. We lost the magic of what could be. It's time we got it back.”

She let out a sigh. How could she fight dreams? Didn't she have her own, still? The museum she'd planned for, hoped for, most of her life. And someday she'd see it realized. Who was she to try to block her father's one abiding wish?

“All right. We can go back, just the three of us.”

“The Lassiters are part of it now, just as they were then. And if anyone has a right to find that wreck, and that amulet, it's Matthew.”

“Why?”

“Because it cost him a father.”

She didn't want to think of that. She didn't want to be able to visualize the young boy who had grieved helplessly over his dead father's body.

“The amulet doesn't mean any more to him than a means to an end, something to be sold to the highest bidder.”

“That's for him to decide.”

“That makes him,” she corrected, “little better than VanDyke.”

“He hurt you that summer. Matthew.” Gently, Ray took her face in his hands. “I knew there was something between you, but I didn't realize it had cut so deep.”

“This has nothing to do with that,” she insisted. “It has to do with who and what he is.”

“Eight years is a long time, honey. Maybe you should step back and take another look. In the meantime, there
are things I need to show you, all of you. Let's get everybody into my den.”

With reluctance, Tate joined the group in the warmly paneled room where her father did his research and wrote his articles for diving magazines. Deliberately, she moved to the opposite end of the room from Matthew and settled on the arm of her mother's chair.

With the windows open to the scents and music of the sound, it was just cool enough to indulge in a quiet fire. Ray walked behind his desk, cleared his throat like a nervous lecturer about to begin his speech.

“I know you all are curious about what prompted me to begin this venture. All of us know what happened eight years ago, what we found and what we lost. Every time I'd dive after that, I'd think about it.”

“Brood about it,” Marla corrected with a smile.

Ray smiled back at her. “I couldn't let it go. I thought I had for a time, but then something would remind me, and set me off again. One day I had the flu, and Marla wouldn't let me out of bed. I passed the time with some television and happened across a documentary on salvaging. It was a wreck off Cape Horn, a rich one. And who was backing it, who was pulling in the glory, but Silas VanDyke.”

“Bastard,” Buck muttered. “Probably pirated that one, too.”

“Might have, but the point is, he'd decided to film the proceedings. He wasn't on-camera much himself, but he did talk a little about some of the diving he'd done, other wrecks he'd discovered. The sonofabitch talked about the
Santa Marguerite.
He never bothered to mention it had already been found, excavated. The way he told it, he did it all, then being the generous soul he is, donated fifty percent of the proceeds to the government of Saint Kitts.”

“In bribes and kickbacks,” Matthew decided.

“It got my blood up. I started researching again right then and there. I figured he'd gotten one wreck, but he wasn't going to get the other. I spent the better part of two years digging up every snatch of information I could find on the
Isabella.
No reference to that ship, that crew,
that storm was too small or insignificant. That's how I found it. Or, how I found two very vital pieces to the puzzle. A map, and a reference to Angelique's Curse.”

Carefully, he lifted a book out of the top drawer. Its cover was tattered and held together by tape. Its pages were dry and yellowed.

“It's falling apart,” Ray said unnecessarily. “I found it in a used-book store.
A Sailor's Life.
It was written in 1846, by the great-grandson of a survivor of the
Isabella.”

“But there were no survivors,” Tate put in. “That's one of the reasons the wreck's been so hard to find.”

“No recorded survivors.” Ray stroked the book as though it were a well-loved child. “According to this, stories and legends the author transcribed from his grandfather's tales, Jos Baltazar washed ashore on the island of Nevis. He was a seaman on the
Isabella,
and he watched her go down as he clung half conscious to a plank probably from the wrecked
Santa Marguerite.
Matthew, I think your father had traced this same clue.”

“If that's true, what was he doing in Australia?”

“He was following Angelique's Curse.” Ray paused for effect. “But he was a generation too soon. A British aristocrat, Sir Arthur Minnefield, had acquired the amulet from a French merchant.”

“Minnefield.” Buck narrowed his eyes in concentration. “I remember seeing that name in James's notes. The night before he died he told me he'd been looking in the wrong place. He said how VanDyke had it wrong, how that damned necklace had gotten around. That's how he said it, ‘that damned necklace,' and he was excited. When we were finished on the reef, he said how we were going to shake loose of VanDyke, turn the tables on him before he turned them on us. Said how we had to be careful of VanDyke and not move too fast. He had a lot more studying and figuring to do before we went after her.”

“My theory is he found another reference to the amulet, or to Baltazar.” Ray set the book carefully on his desk. “You see, the amulet didn't go down on the reef, the ship did, Minnefield did, but Angelique's Curse survived. Details are sketchy for the next thirty years. Maybe it
washed up on the beach or someone found it while exploring the reefs. I can't find any mention of it between 1706 and 1733. But Baltazar saw it around the neck of a young Spanish woman aboard the
Isabella.
He described it. He heard the legend, and he recounted it.”

Far from convinced, Tate folded her hands. “If there's a reference to the amulet that places it on the
Isabella,
why hasn't VanDyke found it, and gone after the
Isabella
himself?”

“He was dead sure it was in Australia,” Buck told her. “He was fired up about it, obsessed. He got it into his head James knew something more, dogged him about it.”

“And killed him for it,” Matthew said flatly. “VanDyke's had teams working that wreck and that area for years.”

“But if my father found a reference that indicated the necklace was elsewhere,” Tate continued with stubborn logic, “and your father found a reference, it's only reasonable that a man with VanDyke's resources, and his greed, would have found it as well.”

“Maybe the amulet didn't want him to find it.” LaRue spoke passively as he patiently rolled a cigarette.

“It's an inanimate object,” Tate retorted.

“So is the Hope Diamond,” LaRue said. “The philosopher's stone, the Ark of the Covenant. Yet the legends surrounding them are vital.”

“The operative word is ‘legend' ”

“All those degrees made you cynical,” Matthew commented. “Too bad.”

“I think the point is,” Marla cut in, recognizing the warrior light in her daughter's eyes, “that Ray has found something, not whether or not this amulet holds some sort of power.”

“Well put.” Ray rubbed the side of his nose. “Where was I? Baltazar was captivated by the amulet, even after word began to pass about the curse, and the crew became uneasy. He believed the ship was wrecked because of the curse, and that he survived to tell the tale. He told it well,” Ray added. “I've copied several pages of his reminiscences of the storm. You'll see when you read them
that it was a hellish battle against the elements, a hopeless one. Of these two ships, the
Marguerite
succumbed first. As the
Isabella
broke up, passengers and crew were swept into the sea. He claims to have seen the Spanish lady, the amulet like a jeweled anchor around her neck, go down. Of course, that tidbit might have been for artistic effect.”

Ray passed out copied pages. “In any case, he survived. The wind and the waves carried him away from land, from St. Kitts, or St. Christopher's as it was known then. He'd given up all hope, lost his sense of time when he saw the outline of Nevis. He didn't believe he could make it to shore as he was too weak to swim. But eventually he drifted in. A young native boy found him. He was delirious and near death for weeks. When he recovered, he had no desire to serve the Armada. Instead he let the world believe him dead. He remained on the island, married and passed down his stories of his adventures at sea.”