“Hand me the gloves,” I request.
With gloved hands, I work around the object, eventually revealing what appears to be an old brass compass, heavily corroded but recognizable. The glass face is cracked, and the needle frozen in place, but the craftsmanship is evident even in its deteriorated state.
“Early eighteenth century, if I had to guess,” Sid says, examining it without touching. “Portuguese design.”
“How can you tell?”
“The engraving style on the outer rim. And see this mark here?” He points to a barely visible symbol. “That’s characteristic of Portuguese craftsmen from that period.”
I carefully place the compass in one of the plastic bags. “This has to be what Dad marked on the map. But why is it still here? If someone went to the trouble of stealing the star to keep me from finding these locations, why not collect the artifacts as well?”
Sid considers this. “Maybe they don’t know exactly what your father found, just that he found something significant. The star might contain the only comprehensive record.”
I tuck the bagged compass into my knapsack, wondering what connection it might have to the key we found earlier.
“What about the key?” Sid asks. “Any idea what it opens?”
“Dad had a lockbox for sensitive documents. I thought I’d found everything after he died, but maybe there’s another one. Hidden at one of these locations, perhaps.”
“Should we check the next location?” Sid suggests.
I consult the map again. “It’s further up the coast, near the old lighthouse. Probably a good hour’s walk from here.”
“We have time,” Sid says, glancing at his watch. “Unless you need to get back to town.”
The truth is, I should be at my shop, especially with the Christmas Market starting tomorrow. But the mystery of Dad’s findings and the missing star pulls stronger.
“An hour each way,” I calculate. “We should be back by mid-afternoon.”
We set off toward the lighthouse, with Finn ranging ahead, occasionally circling back to ensure we’re keeping up. The beach narrows as we continue north, the dunes growing steeper on our right while rock formations encroach from the water on our left.
“Can I ask you something personal?” Sid breaks the comfortable silence that has settled between us.
“Depends on the question.”
“Why driftwood? Of all the artistic mediums, why choose something so . . . impermanent?”
The question catches me off guard. Not because it’s inappropriate, but because it’s thoughtful in a way I wouldn’t have expected from Sid.
“Because it tells a story,” I answer after considering. “Each piece has traveled somewhere, been shaped by the elements, transformed by its journey. When I create something from driftwood, I’m adding to that story, not starting it.”
Sid nods. “Your father said something similar once, when I asked why he fought so hard to preserve this coastline. He said, ‘The shore remembers what we forget.’ I didn’t fully understand then.”
“And now?”
“Now I think he meant that places hold history we can’t always see. Like this beach, with its hidden compass and who knows what else beneath the sand.”
Our conversation continues as we walk, touching on art techniques, town gossip, and memories of past Christmas Markets. I find myself laughing at Sid’s impression of Mayor Jenkins trying to light last year’s town Christmas tree with malfunctioning equipment. The ease between us feels new and unexpected, but not unpleasant.
Finn, who has moved ahead again, suddenly stops, his posture alert. He turns to look at us, then back to something we can’t yet see.
“What is it, boy?” I call, quickening my pace.
As we round a bend in the shoreline, I understand Finn’s reaction. Ahead, near a rocky outcropping marked on Dad’s map as our third location, stands a figure I recognize immediately. Dawson Morrow, bent over something in the sand, a small spade in his hand.
Sid and I exchange surprised glances. We’re still far enough away that Dawson hasn’t noticed us, but Finn’s dark form against the pale sand is becoming more visible as we draw closer.
“Should we confront him?” Sid asks quietly.
