And if my hunch is right, then I also think that Pop Rock, Tillie Jean’s grandfather,knowsthere’s a clue in the diary.
Why else would Pop have given us so many Thorny Rock artifacts but refused to let the museum hold the diary?
Thorny Rock died over two hundred years ago.
Pop never would’ve met him.
Pop doesn’t have any grandparents or great-aunts or great-uncles that he would remember from even his youngest childhood days who would’ve ever met Thorny Rock either.
There’s something in the diary.
And these people think it has to do with a treasure.
“What are you going to do with it if you find it?” I whisper.
He once again looks up from his phone to study me. “What wouldyoudo with it?”
I bite my lower lip.
What would I do with it?
There’s likely not a person in Shipwreck who hasn’t asked themselves that question.
What if I was planting a flower garden and I found Thorny Rock’s treasure chest?
Rumors say it’s buried somewhere in Shipwreck. It’s a fairly normal question to ask yourself.
Except every time I ask myself that question, right after acknowledging that I’d turn it over to the Shipwreck historical society because I’d feel guilty for the rest of my life if I kept anything that I didn’t deserve for myself, I come back to the logical answer.
“That’s kind of a pointless question since it doesn’t exist.”
He watches me a moment longer, then goes back to his phone. “What time’s the wedding?”
“Two p.m. on Saturday. You think the treasure exists.”
“Its existence is irrelevant. Do you need money for a dress or catering?”
“I thrifted a bright pink prom dress a few weeks ago that’ll give Nigel a coronary, and Annika’s insisting that we let Grady bake wedding cookies, which is also so beautifully nontraditional that if the coronary doesn’t do Nigel in, the aneurysm will. Especially if we do sugar cookies in unfortunate shapes, which I’m considering asking for but probably won’t because I’ll have regrets, but Grady would do it anyway to be funny. The only thing I really need to complete the day is for you to show up in jeans and a leather jacket, and for us to ride off on a motorcycle, but only for like a block. Just far enough for Nigel to not see when I get off of it and let you go about your life. If the treasure’s existence is irrelevant, why did you want the diary?”
He pins me with another look, this one mostly the neutral expression I’ve come to expect from him with the barest hint of lingering frustration. “Have you heard of the Fenn treasure?”
“The one buried by some guy out west that a med student found in Wyoming? Yes. Of course. Pirate town, duh. We hear about treasures. Plus, we’re working on an interactive display in the last wing of the museum, and parts of it are about treasures that have been found around the world.”
“Do you know how many people died looking for it?”
“Not an exact number.”
“More than one. That’s what matters. How many people are coming to Shipwreck right now looking for the treasure that you don’t think exists?”
“So you’re going to find it so no one dies looking for it? Even if it doesn’t exist?”
I’ve clearly used up my quota of answers from him for the day because once again, he doesn’t answer.
Awesome.
And once more, I am never, ever, ever getting married.
For real, I mean.
