It isn’t.
It’s the most unlikely gamble of my dwindling time, but something grows and grows inside me like a hot air balloon stuffed in a shoe box. I don’t know my father, the gold might not even exist, and I’ve only been to Charleston once for an elementary school field trip. But even logical thinking must have its limits, because when I open my mouth to give him an alternative, I say, “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“You’rewhat?” He jerks to a stand, aghast.
“You said I should go. My mother seems to think I should meet him. So, I’ll go. To Charleston. To meet my dad and look for this gold and—” I remember I’m still married. How weird to have so much bad news in my life that it won’t all fit into my brain at once. “—finalize my divorce with Nash. I don’t trust the mail.”
“I meant go have a cup of she-crab soup and spend an afternoon at the beach with him, not base your future on it.”
“What’s the difference?”
“What’s the difference?” He scoffs. “A lot. Starting with this not being who you are.”
“Maybe it is,” I challenge. “Maybe the daughter of a Stooge and someone who marries clowns is exactly the kind of person I am. What then?”
“Then I’d say you aren’t the person I thought you were.”
“Well then maybe I’m not.”
It hangs there, us toeing a line of pissed off as we stare at each other—we’re fighting—but for the first time since this whole disaster started, hope swoops through my belly like a pendulum, and that’s something worth fighting for.
The article said the gold was worth millions—it could be my solution to all my problems—every single one of them. Enough money to save the business, to give Bennie a good life, and pay for the best surgeon for my mom. I don’t care if Jonathan doesn’t agree with it, I’m doing it.
“Either way,” I say with a softer voice. “I have to try.”
“Treasure hunting?” Jonathan couldn’t be more skeptical if he tried. “With a dad you’ve never met?”
“Yes.” Then a thought: “Come with me.” Maybe a getaway is exactly what we need to get me excited about a wedding. “It could be fun. You could meet him. We could be like one of those couples on theAmazing Race.”
“I have work,” he says without hesitating. “And the trip planned.”
“Right.” This makes me pause. “Can’t you take a couple more days off? I’m sure there are places to ride bikes in Charleston.”
His eyebrows form two lines of skepticism. “For a treasure hunt that will lead nowhere?”
Doubt blooms. About everything. It might not be the most orthodox plan, but I also don’t know how to do this—meet a new dad, divorce an old husband, and fix my life with lost gold—alone. It feels ... impossible.
When I see he’s not changing his mind, I force down the knot in my throat. “You’re right.” I gather the papers. I don’t havetime to argue or beg. My mind zeros in on this plan. Maybe the mayonnaise-eating psychic was onto something.The solution is in plain sight, but only if you’re looking.Not that I believe in psychics, but if I did, this could be the solution she was talking about. And I can prove to my mother that what Nash and I had is nothing like the torch she’s carried for this Rueben. She’ll have to accept I’m marrying Jonathan. “I’ll go alone.”
This is insane. Completely impractical. A treasure hunt?No—gold finding. But I have no other plan. No idea how to fix our problems other than selling the store, like Jonathan suggested.
I can’t accept that option. Not yet. Not with everything else.
“And your husband?” he asks, watching me stuff the box of my secret past like a maniac for the second time today. “You think he’ll—what—just sign the divorce papers after eight years?”
It’s my turn to laugh. Nash will be the easiest part of this to manage.
From any other man, a stack of postcards would appear to be a grand romantic gesture, but knowing Nash, it’s been some juvenile form of entertainment. I can feel the annoying slant of his smile under my skin as I picture him over happy hour beers.“I send my estranged wife mail all the time.”
The notion makes my blood boil.
When I thumbed through the postcards, origins including DC, Boston, Philadelphia, New York, and the last, Charleston, it was clear that he’s barely sat still long enough to take a piss these last eight years. He will sign the papers. He’s been sending me his address for this very reason. Plus, the one that came last said as much. He’s probably getting bored of his own game. I don’t even have to tell him about Bennie. The past will be the past. Fully. Officially.
I may have loved him before, but I certainly don’t now.
“We were over before we started.” I slam the lid on the box. “He’ll sign them. And if you’re so worried, come with me.”
“Worried about you and a teacher-turned-tour-guide?” His tone irritates me way more than it should. “I’m just trying to understand how this happened.”
