Pamela Browning - The Treasure Man

When the car emerged from the shelter of the trees, Chloe turned off at 1200 Beach Road, the shell-rock driveway crunching under the old blue Volvo’s tires. Ahead of them, her father’s family home was surrounded by an encroaching tangle of vegetation, growing thick and lush now, in late May. Nearby, a boardwalk led down to the beach.

“I wonder whose Jeep that is,” Chloe mused as the headlights swung past a decrepit vehicle, its pockmarked sides spattered with mud. As she braked to a stop under a gumbo-limbo tree at the rear of the inn, a lithe shape detached itself from the side of the building and moved toward her. Chloe was wary; the inn, her cousin Gwynne had assured her, was unoccupied.

The shape morphed into a man and, still suspicious, Chloe rammed the car into Reverse for a quick getaway. His presence rattled her, even though Sanluca’s crime rate ranked so low it wasn’t even on the charts. Yet why was this fellow, who was now sauntering toward her car, lurking in the shadows of the Frangipani Inn?

He stepped within the circle of headlights, and with a jolt, she recognized him. She hadn’t seen Ben Derrick in years, not since that summer when she was sixteen; but she would have known him anywhere. He’d been unrepentantly handsome and sexy as sin, though he’d never seemed to realize it. Now he was barefoot—ill-advised considering the incidence of sandspurs in the native scrub. Baggy shorts rode low on his hips, and his hair—dark, generously sun-streaked and needing cutting—was tousled by the breeze from the ocean. He looked scruffy and nondescript, and he was sixteen years older than when she’d last seen him, but he was still Ben Derrick. And still a heartbreaker, no doubt.

He squinted into the glare. “Gwynne?” he said.

Of course. He’d always preferred her cousin, teasing her, joking with her and ignoring Chloe. When Ben had disappeared late in that summer of her sixteenth year, Chloe had been devastated. She’d been shy in those days, had never done anything to draw attention to herself, had been content to hang out in Gwynne’s shadow. She’d never told anyone that she’d fallen hopelessly in love with Ben Derrick.

Chloe rested a restraining hand on Butch’s head so that he wouldn’t take it into his fool head to make a grand leap from the car. “I’m Chloe Timberlake,” she said over the stutter of the Volvo’s engine. “Gwynne’s my cousin.” She didn’t add, You remember—I was the redheaded, flat-chested girl who hung on your every word, who followed you around like a lovesick fool for two whole months. And you couldn’t have cared less.

Ben leaned down and peered in the window, studying her. “You’re Chloe?” His voice was a rumble in his chest.

“Right,” Chloe said. “I was here one summer a long time ago. Actually, I visited a lot of summers, but we only ran into each other that year.” He’d worked as a diver for Sea Search, Inc., the local marine salvage company whose search for sunken treasure had been the subject of many National Geographic television programs.

“I boarded here sometimes when Gwynne and her mom ran the place as a bed-and-breakfast.”

“I remember.” Oh, yes. He’d been a charismatic character in those days, tall and tanned and utterly charming.

If Ben recognized her, he gave no sign. “I’ve just rolled into town and was counting on Gwynne and Tayloe’s having a room for me.”

“You didn’t call first?”

“I got a recorded message about the number not being in service at this time.”

“That’s because the Frangipani Inn is no longer a bed-and-breakfast.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” For someone who needed a place to sleep for the night, he delivered the line with a bit too much nonchalance. He slapped absently at a whining mosquito. “Where have Gwynne and Tayloe gone?”

“Gwynne’s off finishing her master’s degree in speech pathology, and my aunt Tayloe remarried last year and lives in Mexico with her husband. I’m here to work for the summer. I design jewelry.”

This was the season for thunderstorms riding in on warm moist air from the Gulf of Mexico, and over the sound of her voice, Chloe detected a rumble of thunder in the distance. Tonight’s predicted stormy weather was fast closing in.

“I don’t suppose you’d rent me a room anyway,” he said.

The crash of the breakers on the other side of the dunes filled the silence. She gazed up at the clouds scudding past the turret of the inn for a long moment before answering. “I’m not planning to run the house as a B and B.”

Chloe felt the first spatter of rain. As she raised the window and cut the Volvo’s engine, the scene went dark, and all she could see was the white stripes of Ben’s shirt a few feet away.

“C’mon, Butch,” Chloe said. She grabbed the cat and her backpack. Fortunately, the clouds from the oncoming storm had not yet obscured the moon, and as she slid out of the car she was able to get a good look at Ben Derrick. His eyes were murky in the darkness, and she couldn’t recall their color. Strange, since she’d thought she’d never forget anything about him. Were they blue? Gray? She had no idea.

“Can I help you with that?” He reached for her pack, but she sidestepped quickly and whipped it out of his reach.

“No, I’ll handle it. Thanks.”

“I’d better check out the house with you this first time,” Ben said gruffly.

“I don’t think so,” Chloe retorted. She turned, wondering what it would take to make this guy get in his Jeep and go. Couldn’t he take a hint?

“The reason I suggested going in with you,” Ben said with great patience, “is that if the house has been vacant, no telling what’s inside.”

Chloe was mindful of Gwynne’s stated reasons for offering to let her live in the sea-worn old mansion. She’d mentioned concerns about vagrants, beach bums, kids partying inside and no one detecting their presence until much harm had been done. Maybe it would be a good idea to let Ben check out the place.

“Let’s hurry. It’s beginning to rain,” Chloe said tersely. She started along the winding sandy path to the house as huge raindrops began to fall. The wind kicked up, and the air took on a sudden chill as rain sluiced down in great torrents, drenching them both.

They ran past thrashing clumps of sea oats and salt grass. When she reached the haven of the porch, Chloe set Butch down. The cat, spooked by the change in weather, shook himself and immediately bounded into the bushes below.

“Butch! Get back here!” She could barely make herself heard over the wind and rain.

Of course the cat didn’t. Chloe wasn’t concerned that Butch would try a disappearing act, since he knew who his food came from, but she wished he hadn’t left her alone with Ben.

Who conveniently produced a flashlight from his pocket and beamed it on the rusty old lock. Chloe, clumsy in her haste, fumbled with the key, inserted it and swung the door open on a cavernous front hall.

A flock of dust bunnies scattered in the fresh gusts admitted through the open door as something dark scurried toward the nether regions of the house. Chloe groped for the light switch and flipped it. The lone bulb remaining in the overhead fixture flared and died.

“I’ll turn on a lamp,” Chloe said, wiping her face with her forearm before dropping her backpack on the hall settee. As she spoke, Ben trained the flashlight on the parlor to her right.

The house had been in her father’s family since the early part of the century, and she and her older sister, Naomi, had spent many glorious summer vacations in the big Victorian mansion when she was growing up. A year ago when she’d last visited, the Frangipani Inn hadn’t been in this state of disrepair. The furniture, layered with white covers, loomed eerily as she felt her way into the parlor’s depths, where she knocked into a table, caught herself before keeling over and managed to turn on the light over the piano. It cast the shrouded shapes into gloomy shadows.