The Reef

ties but to Buck, no property other than what he could strap on his back.
    He was a drifter, nothing more, nothing less. The prospect of fortune forty feet beneath his feet would make the drifting more comfortable, but it wouldn’t change it.
    Buck was right. Matthew Lassiter of no fixed address and less than four hundred dollars tucked into a cigar box had no right picturing himself with Tate Beaumont.
     
    Tate had other ideas. It was frustrating to discover over the next few days that the only time she found herself alone with Matthew was under water. There communication and physical contact were hampered.
    She would change that, she promised herself as she searched the fallout from the airlift. And she would change it today. After all, it was her twentieth birthday.
    Carefully, she picked among the nails, the spikes, the shells, eyes peeled for the valuables that scattered. Ship fittings, a sextant, a small, hinged brass box, a silver coin embedded in a hunk of coral. A wooden crucifix, an octant and a lovely china cup sliced delicately in two.
    All this she gathered, ignoring the pings of debris against her back, the occasional nick on her hand.
    A glint of gold shot by her. Tate’s heart careened in her chest as she scanned the cloud for the telltale flash of it. The small, quick gleam had her darting forward, dipping toward the sand and sending the burrowing rays rising in a swirling cloud.
    Her mind was screaming treasure, doubloons, jewels of great price and age. But when her hand closed around the piece of gold, her eyes began to swim.
    It wasn’t a coin, or jewelry long buried beneath the waves. Not a priceless artifact, but priceless nonetheless. She lifted the gold locket with the single pearl dripping from its point.
    When Tate turned back, she saw that Matthew was pointing the airlift pipe away and watching her. He sketched letters in the water with his finger. H. B. D. Happy birthday. With a gurgle of laughter, she swam toward him. Undaunted by tanks and hoses, she took his hand, pressed it to her cheek.
    He let it lie there a moment, then waved her away. His signal an obvious “Stop loafing.”
    Once more the airlift sucked at sand. Ignoring the fallout, Tate carefully secured the necklace by looping it around her wrist. She went back to work with love soaring in her heart.
    Matthew concentrated on the offshore end of the ballast mound. Patiently, he cut into the sand, creating an ever-widening circle with sloping sides. He was a foot down, then two, while Tate worked busily to pick through the fallout. A school of triggerfish darted by. Matthew glanced up and saw through the murky cloud that the barracuda was grinning at him.
    On impulse, he shifted his position. He wouldn’t have considered himself superstitious. As a man of the sea he followed signs and lived by lore. The toothy fish hovered in nearly the same spot day after day. It wouldn’t hurt to use the mascot as a marker.
    Curious, Tate looked over as Matthew hauled the airlift several feet north where he was already forming a new hole. Tate let her attention drift and watched a kaleidoscope of fish whirl through the clouded water hunting for the sea worms displaced by the cut of the pipe.
    Something clinked against her tank. Efficiently, she turned back to resume her chores. The first glint of gold barely registered. She stared through the roiling water at the bed of sand. The flashes of brightness were scattered around her like flowers that had just bloomed. Stupefied, she reached down and plucked up a doubloon. The long-dead Spanish king stared back at her.
    The coin dropped from her numbed fingers. In a sudden fever, she began to harvest them, pushing them into her wet suit, jamming them into her lobster bag and ignoring the solid objects that drifted down in the thick column offallout. The conglomerate rained, but she was oblivious to it, facedown, scanning the seafloor like a miner panning for gold.
    Five coins, then ten. Twenty and more. Her breath rushed out in a shriek of laughter. She couldn’t seem to get enough air. When she looked up, she saw Matthew grinning at her, his eyes dark and wild. Behind her mask, her face was bone white.
    They’d hit the mother lode.
    He gestured to her. As if in a dream, she swam over and her trembling hand reached for his. Sand trickled down into the test hole, but she saw the sparkle of crystal from a perfectly preserved goblet, the sheen of coins and medallions. And everywhere the