He reached into his canvas bag and pulled out a rectangular package wrapped in transparent plastic. He handed the packet to Cait who read the title on the leather bound volume.
“This is the journal of Master Philip!”
“We also voted that you should have access to this. Using the journal, you can backtrack to Prester John and his kingdom. Hell, maybe you can find Prester John’s tomb. You won’t have to mention the mission.”
“Where would I say I found the journal?”
“If anyone asks, say it was given to you by an Afghan warlord who found it in a cave.”
“That might work,” she said. “I could tell the story up to the time the treasure disappears. The revelations would rock the foundation of the historical establishment.”
“That should be very satisfying after all the doubt your research has met with.”
“Of course. But more satisfying would be setting the historical record straight and giving the participants their due.”
Cait’s eyes took on a dreamy look. She had left the present and her thoughts were being drawn to the past like metal filings to a magnet.
“About that dinner I promised you,” Matt said.
She snapped out of her daze. “Oh, Matt. I’m so sorry. I’ve got to get the journal translated immediately.”
“Is that a no?”
“I’m sorry, Matt. You know how hard this is to say after all we’ve been through together. It’s not forever?”
Hawkins smiled and said, “You’re not off the hook. I want a signed copy of your next book.”
He rose to say good-bye. Cait sprang from her chair, came around the desk, wrapped her arms around him and planted a kiss on his lips that curled his toes.
Abby was waiting for him outside.
“How did it go?” she asked.
“Okay. A little difficult.”
“Difficult? Then why do you look like the cat that swallowed the canary?”
He put his arm around her shoulders. “I was thinking about an idea I wanted to discuss with you.”
When he explained what he had in mind it was Abby’s turn to smile.
“It’s about damned time, Hawkins.”
The sleek red-hulled lobster boat glided out of the picturesque harbor, passing some of the windjammers that carried passengers to give them a taste of what it was like in the days of sail.
Hawkins was at the wheel and Abby stood on the deck taking photos of the tall-masted boats. Not a wisp of a cloud marred the luminous blue sky. The air was heavy with the salty scent of the sea. Squadrons of sharp-eyed gulls wheeled over the fishing boats searching for scraps of food. The breeze ramped up several knots as the boat entered the open waters of Penobscot Bay, but the bow cut through low mounding waves like scissors through blue silk.
Hawkins’ father had the wooden-hulled boat custom built for his lobster business. When he retired from fishing and became a shore-bound lobster distributor, he converted the forty-two-foot-long workboat into a comfortable pleasure craft that was ideal for island-hopping along the Maine coast. When Hawkins had called and asked to borrow the boat, he had felt like a teenager asking Pop for the keys to the family car, but his father had happily obliged, especially when he learned Abby was coming with him.
After the meeting with Cait, Hawkins and Abby had dashed home to pack their overnight bags and rendezvoused at the airport. Abby had arranged for a small jet that flew them to Portland, Maine where they picked up a rental car. Two hours later, they pulled up to the low-slung Hawkins family home on a rocky point. His father came out to wrap Abby in a bear hug and his mother beamed with delight. She still considered Abby as a daughter. Hawkins stayed long enough to be polite, eat some homemade apple pie and catch up on local gossip before saying that he wanted to get moving so he could make landfall before dark.
His father said the boat was fueled up, well-stocked with food and booze and ready to go. Within minutes of boarding, Hawkins and Abby set a course to Vinal Haven, southwest of Camden, and when they arrived they found an anchorage in a quiet cove. While Hawkins grilled a couple of rib eye steaks and sweet potatoes, Abby made a salad and opened a bottle of 2007 Bordeaux.
Abby had suggested that they dress for dinner. She had exchanged her shorts and polo-shirt for a diaphanous strapless cocktail dress of lavender. Hawkins changed from his cargo shorts and T-shirt into an olive cotton blazer, fresh jeans and a dark green shirt. They sat at a table on the wide deck, enjoying their food and wine by candlelight, watching the sun dip behind the island, and chatting about Calvin and Sutherland.
After their meeting in Washington, Hawkins had asked Calvin and Sutherland what they planned to do. Calvin had grinned like a mischievous kid.
“I’ve been talking to Abby about transporting Amir’s bomber if I can persuade the old bandit to part with it.”
Sutherland simply said, “I’ll let you know,” before she got on her Harley and rode off like the Lone Ranger.
“Do you think we’ll ever hear from Molly again?” Abby said.
“When she’s ready. In the meantime she’ll be watching every move we make.” Hawkins took a sip of wine and stared up at the star-spattered sky. “We’re damned lucky the gods look out for fools.” He realized his faux pas and said, “No offense, Abby.”
Abby laughed softly. “None taken. I’m glad you asked me to go on the mission.”
“We couldn’t have done it without you, Abby.”
“I’ll have to admit I had my doubts.”
“Can’t imagine why. Having Crazy Matt arrive on your doorstep asking you to go on a dangerous treasure hunt seems like a perfectly normal request.”
“I think Crazy Matt is no more,” she said.
“And I think that we’re out of wine.”
Hawkins opened another bottle and filled their glasses. They sipped their wine in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the rhythmical tap of waves against the hull and the piney scent of the warm Maine night. Abby broke the silence.
“We know what Calvin and Molly’s plans are. Where do we go from here?” Abby said.
“I’ll head back to Woods Hole and play with my robotic toys. I assume you’ll go back to running your company.”
“I didn’t mean professionally. I was talking about us. About our future.”
“Ah,” Hawkins said. “Excuse me for being brain dead. It’s a male thing. What’s your take on the situation?”
She put her glass down on the table and got up. She walked to the stern, staring out at the land lights sparkling against the blue darkness, then turned and said, “There may be a chance for us. There may not be. We’re both different than we were. It’s as if we’ve got to get to know each other all over again.”
Hawkins got up and went over to Abby. The soft breeze was blowing the tender folds of her dress against the curves of her body. He put his arms around her and kissed her neck, her ear, her cheek and finally her lips. He ran his hands down from her shoulder blades to the small of her back, exploring the valley of her vertebrae, the firm roundness of her buttocks, the curve of her thighs. She shivered at his touch although the night was warm as his searching fingers brought back tactile recollections of times past.
“No time like the present to get to know each other again,” he said.
They climbed down into the cabin, leaving a trail of clothes behind them, slipped beneath the sheets of the V-shaped berth in the bow of the boat, made love with a frantic urgency, fell asleep, awoke and made love again, slower and more deliberately, and slept until they were awakened in each other’s arms by the squalling of gulls and sunlight through the portholes.
After they got dressed, Abby took the wheel and they headed south to Matinicus Island where they anchored again and Hawkins whipped up a masterful omelet. They rowed ashore, spent the day exploring the rocky island and later that evening explored each others’ bodies again.