“Logan’s gonna fume when he finds out you skipped class,” Isaac said.
Scarlett held up the folder Ashwood had given her and grinned. “I think he’ll get over it.”
TWENTY-FOUR
I sat in the driver’s seat of my black Toyota Tacoma in a line of cars beside the curb of the main parking lot of Key West High. Ange and I had returned to town half an hour earlier. We’d tied off to our slip at Conch Harbor, tidied up the boat, and caught up with Jack for a few minutes before hopping into our truck and driving across town to pick up Scarlett.
Ange and I watched through the windshield as happy high schoolers flooded out from their classrooms, relishing their freedom. But none of them were our high schooler. We gave her five minutes, but when we were one of the few remaining idling vehicles, I shot her a quick text.
“Always amazes me how ecstatic they are,” Ange said.
Though I was approaching my twentieth high school reunion, I could still remember that feeling. After sitting hour after hour at a hard plastic desk all day, the ringing of the final bell always sounded sweeter than the best symphony to my eager ears.
When Scarlett replied, I let out a long sigh.
“What?” Ange said. “She join a club or something?”
“Not exactly,” I said, putting the truck in gear and driving out of the lot.
I handed her my phone so she could read the message. She just laughed and shook her head.
“Aww, our girl’s first time skipping school. I don’t know whether to be angry or choke up.”
She laughed it off, but I didn’t share in her humorous response. Scarlett had only been in school for a little over a month. I was happy that she’d been enjoying it, but I was going to make sure that she understood that skipping wouldn’t be tolerated.
“Why do you think she’d be at the college?” Ange said, reading the message again. “I can’t imagine that’s a popular ditch destination. Especially in a place like Key West.”
I shrugged, then drove us onto US-1, heading east toward Stock Island.
Ange handed me back my phone, then chuckled to herself. “Well, let’s look at the bright side,” Ange said. “At least she didn’t skip to go hang out with some boy. I mean, she was at a school.”
As we drove into the college parking lot, I pulled up to the curb in the roundabout and spotted Scarlett on the sidewalk. She had her backpack on and stuck out her thumb like a hitchhiker when she spotted us, a broad smile plastered across her face. Standing beside her was Jack’s nephew, Isaac.
“You were saying something about her not being with a boy?” I said.
Ange chuckled. “Isaac? You’re kidding, right?”
Scarlett hopped into the backseat. I leaned back and slid my sunglasses down to give her a disapproving dad look. I’d only been a parent for a few months, so it wasn’t perfected, but it was better than nothing.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Scarlett said. “But I have a good reason for missing class.”
Isaac stepped over and leaned in through the back door before Scarlett had a chance to shut it.
“This was all me, Logan,” he said. “I asked her to come. We watched a presentation and… well, I’ll let Scarlett explain.”
“I admire the chivalry, Isaac,” I said. But I was certain that our rambunctious daughter was the mastermind behind whatever they were up to. “You need a ride?”
He explained how he had another class and had his car. We told him we’d see him later, then I gassed us out of the lot.
“So, you said something about a good reason, Scar?” Ange said.
She beamed and leaned between the two front seats. Her smile faded a little when I told her to sit back and buckle her seat belt.
She told us all about a presentation she and Isaac had listened to. How the professor from the University of Washington had been so smart, so informative, and so dreamy. Like prince charming with a PhD.
“You’re not helping your case, Scar,” I said.
Then she got into the meat of it, explaining how the professor had taught them about shifting coastlines, and how objects move with the landscape over time.
“Objects like gold bars and brass belt buckles,” she said triumphantly.
Before Ange or I could say anything, she zipped open her backpack, pulled out a folder, and set it on Ange’s lap.
“Those printouts show the actual location of the gold bars in relation to the buckle,” Scarlett proclaimed. “And it’s all based on science.” She said the word science with nerdy emphasis.
Ange fell silent as she leafed through the pages. I caught a few glimpses. They were GPS images of Jones Lagoon and the islands surrounding it. Markings riddled the page, identifying various locations on the map.
“Scar,” Ange gasped, “this is… this is really good stuff.”
Scarlett bowed twice, dramatic and complete with an over the top hand gesture.
“Thank you, thank you,” she said, as if she’d just won the Nobel Peace Prize.
I stopped at a red light on the way home, and Ange handed me one of the printouts. The map indicated where John Ridley had found the brass belt buckle. It also showed a dotted trail to a location that was circled as the probable location of the gold bars, had any been dropped at the same place where the buckle had been dropped. Scarlett explained enthusiastically how Professor Ashwood had used a program he’d designed to figure out how Mother Nature had moved the objects over time.
Having searched and recovered a number of lost wrecks and treasures, Ange and I both knew the effects that nature has on artifacts lost beneath
