The Reef

out several times over the last few days on short runs. She sailed like a dream.
    Matthew sat back now, pleasantly tired. Maybe he’d finally done something that would last.
    Even the name had personal significance for him. He’d had the dream again, the one of Tate in the deep, dark sea. He didn’t need Freud to explain it to him. He’d been in contact with Ray often over the last few weeks. Tate’s name had come up, as had the Isabella, and memories of that summer.
    Naturally, it had made him think, and look back, so the dream had come.
    Tate might have been no more than a wistful memory, but the dream had been so immediate that he’d felt compelled to christen the boat for it. Or in a roundabout way, he supposed, for her.
    He wondered if he would see her, doubted it. And letting himself slide into relaxation, told himself it didn’t matter one way or the other.
    The screen door whined open, slammed. LaRue came in with bags of takeout burgers and fries. “You made your phone call?” he asked.
    “Yeah. I told Ray we’d start out in the morning.” Lifting his arms over his head, Matthew linked his fingers and stretched. “Weather looks good. Shouldn’t take us more than three or four days at an easy clip. That’ll give us a chance to shake her down.”
    “I look forward to the meeting of him and his wife.” LaRue dug up paper plates. “He didn’t tell you more about what he found?”
    “He wants me to see it in person.” Suddenly ravenous, Matthew helped himself to a burger. “He’s set on heading out for the West Indies by the middle of April. I told him that suited us.”
    LaRue’s gaze met Matthew’s, and held. “The sooner the better.”
    “You’re crazy going back there.” Face haggard, Buck stepped in from the bedroom. “The place is cursed. The Isabella ’s cursed. Took your father, didn’t it?” His gate slow, measured, he came forward. “Nearly took me. Should have.”
    Matthew doused his fries with enough salt to make LaRue wince. “VanDyke took my father,” he said calmly. “A shark took your leg.”
    “Angelique’s Curse caused it.”
    “Maybe it did.” Matthew chewed thoughtfully. “If it did, I figure I’ve got a claim on it.”
    “That thing’s bad luck to the Lassiters.”
    “It’s time I changed my luck.”
    Unsteady, Buck braced a hand on the tiny linoleum-topped table. “Maybe you figure I only care what happens to you ’cause of what’ll happen to me. That ain’t the way it is. Your father expected I’d look after you. I did the best I could long as I could.”
    “I haven’t needed looking after for a long time.”
    “Maybe not. And maybe I’ve been fucking up when it comes to you, when it comes to me the past few years. You’re all I’ve got, Matthew. Truth is, you’re all I ever gave most of a damn about.”
    Buck’s voice broke, causing Matthew to close his eyes and will away the worst edge of guilt. “I’m not spending the rest of my life paying for something I couldn’t stop, or watching you finish the job the shark started.”
    “I’m asking you to stay. I figure we could start a business. Take tourists out, fishermen, that kind of thing.” Buck swallowed hard. “I’d pull my weight this time around.”
    “I can’t do it.” Appetite gone, Matthew pushed his food aside and stood. “I’m going after the Isabella. Whether I find her or not, I’m picking up my life again. There are plenty of wrecks out there, and I’m damned if I’m going to spend the rest of my life salvaging metal or chauffeuring tourists instead of hunting gold.”
    “There’s nothing I can do to stop you.” Buck looked down at his trembling hands. “I didn’t figure there was.”He took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders. “I’m going with you.”
    “Look, Buck—”
    “I haven’t had one fucking drink in ten days.” Buck fisted his hands, forced them to relax again. “I’m dry. Maybe I’m a little rocky yet, but I’m dry.”
    For the first time, Matthew looked at him. There were shadows under the eyes, but the eyes were clear. “You’ve gone ten days before, Buck.”
    “Yeah. But not on my own. I got a stake in this, too, Matthew. Scares the hell out of me the thought of going back. But if you go, I go. Lassiters stick together,” he managed before his voice cracked again. “You want me to beg you not to leave me behind?”
    “No. Christ.” He rubbed a hand over his face. There were a dozen logical, viable reasons to