The Reef

while he stuffed small finds into his lobster bag.
    She ran out of boards, worked her pencils down to nubs and used every frame of film. And still, her heart thrummed and jittered.
    Once in a lifetime, she thought with an ache in her throat, had become twice.
    When he headed back toward her, she smiled, delighted that he would think to bring her a token. He gestured for her to hold out her hand, close her eyes. She rolled them first, but obeyed, only to have them spring open again when a heavy disk was dropped into her palm.
    Heavy only because she’d been expecting a coin or a button, she realized. The round, biscuit-shaped object weighed no more than two pounds at her educated guess. But her eyes went wider still at that unmistakable and stunning flash of pure and glorious gold.
    He winked at her, signaled for her to put the ingot into her bag, then jerked a thumb toward the surface. She started to object. How could they leave when they had just begun?
    But of course, there were others waiting. It jabbed her conscience a bit to realize she’d forgotten everything and everyone but what was here. Matthew’s hand closed over hers as they kicked to the surface.
    “You’re supposed to throw yourself at me now,” he told her with a wicked laugh in his eyes that was more triumph than humor. “That’s what you did eight years ago.”
    “I’m much more jaded now.” But she laughed and did exactly what he’d hoped by throwing her arms around him. “It’s her, Matthew. I know it.”
    “Yeah, it’s her.” He had felt it, known it, as if he had seen the Isabella whole, flags flying, as in his dream. “She’s ours now.” He had time to give Tate only a quickkiss before they were hailed. “We’d better go give them the news. You haven’t forgotten how to work an airlift, have you?”
    Her lips were still tingling from his. “I haven’t forgotten anything.”
     
    The routine was so familiar. Diving, digging, gathering. Onboard the Mermaid, Buck and Marla pounded away at conglomerate, separating pieces of treasure for Tate to examine and record. Each find, from a gold button set with a pink conch pearl to a gold bar a foot long, was meticulously tagged, sketched, photographed and then logged in her portable computer.
    Tate put her education and experience to use preserving their finds. She knew that in the fairly shallow Caribbean, a wreck rotted, was further damaged by storm and wave action. The wood would be eaten by teredo worms.
    She also knew that the history of the wreck could be read in the very damage it had sustained.
    This time, she would see that every scrap brought up was protected. Her responsibility, she felt, toward the past, and the future.
    Small, fragile items were stored in water-filled jars to keep them from drying out. Larger pieces would be photographed and sketched under water, then stockpiled on the bottom. She had cushioned boxes for the fragile, such as onion-skinned bottles she hoped to find. Wooden specimens would be left in a bath to cushion against warping in the small tank she’d rigged on the boat deck.
    Tate delegated Marla to the position of apprentice chemist. They worked together, with daughter instructing mother. Even artifacts that resisted chemical change were soaked thoroughly in freshwater, then dried. Marla painstakingly sealed everything with a coat of wax. Only gold and silver required no special handling.
    It was time-consuming work, but never, to Tate’s mind, tedious. This was what she had missed and pined for aboard the Nomad. The intimacy, the propriety, and surprise of it all. Every spike and spar was a clue, and a gift from the past.
    Ordinance marks on cannonballs corroborated their hopes that they’d found the Isabella. Tate added to her log all the information she had on the ship, its voyage, cargo and its fate. Painstakingly, she checked and rechecked the manifests, cross-referencing with each new discovery.
    Meanwhile, the airlift was vacuuming off enough sediment to disclose the tattered hull. They dug. She drew. They hauled buckets filled with conglomerate to the surface. Matthew’s sonar located the ballast stones before they found them by sight and hand. While Tate worked in the deckhouse and boat deck of the New Adventure, her father and LaRue were laboriously searching the ballast for artifacts.
    “Honey?” Marla poked her head in. “Don’t you want to take a break? I’ve finished the waxing.”
    “No, I’m fine.” Tate continued to