The Reef

“So, I’m going to see if Matthew’s up for diving.” She turned to walk away, but something stopped her, made her look back.
    Ray was standing, one hand on the rail, a far-off look in his eyes as he gazed toward open sea.
    “Dad. I’m glad you didn’t walk through the kudzu. If you had then, you might not need to take the step now.”
    “Life’s all timing, Tate.”
    “Maybe it is.” Mulling that over, she headed around to starboard. Timing, she supposed, could stop or start a war, save or end a marriage, take or give a life.
    There was Matthew on the Mermaid, an elbow on the rail, a coffee mug in his hand. She didn’t want that jolt of emotion, the stir and simmer. But they came nonetheless. Her heart went butter soft in her breast and melted out a sigh.
    Did he have to look so lonely?
    It wasn’t her problem, she assured herself. She wouldn’t let it be her worry.
    But he turned his head. Across the choppy waves, his eyes met hers. There was nothing in them to read. Like the storm, whatever raged inside him had calmed, or was controlled. She saw nothing but that deep, enigmatic blue.
    “We’re down to a light chop,” she called out. “I’d like to dive.”
    “Could smooth out more if we wait an hour or two.”
    Something was swelling in her throat. “I’d like to go down now. If it’s too rough once we do, we can scrub the dive.”
    “All right. Get your gear.”
    Turning, she walked blindly away. Damn him, damn the Isabella, damn Angelique and her cursed necklace. Her life had been manageable without them. She was afraid it would never be manageable again.
    There was nothing to decide, nothing to control. She was still in love with him after all.
     
    The storm had stirred and shifted the sand. Several of the excavation trenches needed to be cleared again. Matthewwas grateful for the extra work. The skill and delicacy required to work the airlift left no room for deep personal thoughts.
    He’d had enough of them during the night.
    It gave him some small pleasure to suck away sand and see the hilt of a sword.
    Déjà vu, he thought, almost amused. He turned the airlift aside. A glance around showed him that Tate was efficiently picking through the debris.
    Matthew clanged on his tank, waited for her to look around. He signaled her over. Once she’d joined him, he gestured toward the hilt.
    Take it, he indicated. This one’s yours.
    He watched her hesitate, knew she was remembering. Then her fingers closed around it, tugged it free.
    Halfway down, the blade came to a jagged halt.
    That, he supposed, studying the shattered sword, told the whole story. Struggling against keen disappointment, he lifted a shoulder. With the pipe, he widened the trench.
    They saw the plate at the same moment. Even as she grabbed his arm to signal him to stop, Matthew was turning the pipe away. Hand fanning, Tate uncovered three quarters of the plate.
    It was nearly transparent china, delicately painted with violets dancing around the rim. The rim itself was gold. With great care, she closed her fingers over the edge and tried to ease the plate free.
    It was stuck fast. Frustrated, she looked at Matthew, shook her head. They both knew that dislodging it with the airlift was as chancy as cutting a diamond with an ax. If the plate was whole, which would be a miracle itself, the flow from the pipe could snap it.
    They debated their options with hand signals until it was decided that they had to try. Ignoring the murk and discomfort, Tate kept her fingers lightly on the edge of the plate while Matthew removed the sand and debris, almost a grain at a time.
    It was probably missing a fist-sized chunk, he thought, but ignored the strain in his back and shoulders. Degreeby degree, he cleared the translucent china, exposing another sprig of violets, and the first swirl of a monogram.
    Feeling a give, she stopped him. Working to keep her breathing steady, she eased the plate out another fraction before it jammed again. She could read the first ornate letter, painted in gold. T. Taking it as a sign, she nodded for Matthew to resume.
    It would have a bite out of it, he was certain. The steel sword less than a foot away had been shattered. How could something as fragile as a china plate survive intact? Frowning in concentration he watched the next letter emerge. L.
    If the L stood for Lassiter’s luck, they were wasting their time. He wanted to stop, roll out the ache from his shoulders, but a glimpse at Tate’s excited