Last of the Vintage Read online

  Or maybe no one had bothered to look.

  Brendan had been very excited, but he had to contain every ounce of it. He was part archaeologist, part treasure hunter. He knew from experience that only extremely trustworthy people could be told about this possibility. And given that Johns Ledge was relatively close to Cliff Island, now inhabited by quite a few people, he didn’t want to be observed there either.

  He called together his closest group of colleagues. They couldn’t exactly be called friends, but they had at least two common interests: scuba diving and treasure hunting. They were all too willing to look at the site.

  The four men had planned two exploratory dives, one in September and one in October. Brandan was careful to rent a different boat each time. To the average onlooker, the men would appear to be just another group of recreational divers.

  Ironically, it was during the October dive that they had found it, nestled into the ledge about 24 feet down. They had located it at the end of the dive and had little air left. They stayed down as long as they could, using up every last ounce in their tanks.

  As a trained archaeologist, Brendan knew that he probably would be able to oversee the excavation. The site would have to be made known to the state. But not quite yet. Brendan had to think about his next move. He had to plan carefully. He was very good at that.

  His fellow divers were not as excited about the site. An initial inspection showed them that it really didn’t contain anything valuable. The ship had hauled goods for trade that would have brought in a very high profit at the time, but were worth little now.

  Brendan decided that one more dive was needed. A winter dive. It was dangerous at that time of year, but Cliff Island had far fewer people on it in the winter. All of the seasonal cottages would be closed up tight. He and his crew could get down to the wreck and bring up a few things ‘off the record.’ Then he would officially announce the find, register it, and start the actual ‘boring archaeology bit’ as he called it.

  They had pulled up a couple of crates with porcelain dishes when Brendan found something which was potentially of great value that the others had missed. He had located a crate of bottles and they appeared to be full of wine. He had replaced the bottle that he had pulled out quickly. No one else had seen them. The others would find out eventually, but he wanted to learn as much as he could before they did. It would give him an advantage, and Brendan certainly knew how to make good use of an advantage.

  With his dry suit off and jeans, heavy socks, boots, sweater, jacket… all of the other layers needed to brave the freezing air now on, Brendan turned to his crewmate. “So, Alan looks like not much.”

  “Yeah,” Alan replied. “Some of the cargo was packed well though. Could be unbroken porcelain dishes and such. Collectors like that stuff. Could get some bucks for that.”

  Technically, anything as old as this wreck found in coastal waters belonged to the government. But Brendan and his colleagues had to make a living. They helped themselves to a few things first before announcing any new find. When it was time to sell the items, “I found it in grandma’s attic,” was always an excellent provenance.

  Brendan was careful to be sure that the pieces they helped themselves to were more commonplace; nothing of great value or significance could be taken outright. It wasn’t that he cared about their place in history, he just didn’t want to get caught.

  “True. Worth bringing those few crates up I suppose.” Brendan said. “I’ll have to set up a grid and record some things too, once we’re done getting our share. Have to keep the authorities happy.” As soon as he made the wreck known, funding would come in to analyze it. He’d never had much of a problem with that. It was bread and butter money for him and his colleagues. Enough to pay the regular bills, but not much extra.

  The archaeological part was tedious work. He hoped that a PhD candidate would step forward to take on the project. They almost always did. Then Brendan could move on to the next search.

  “What about that wine?”

  Brendan froze, then frowned. He hadn’t realized that Alan had seen it. “Must have turned by now. Can’t keep even the best of that stuff for more than half a century or so, I think,” Brendan lied. “That wine has to be at least 150 years old down there.” He shrugged. “The bottles themselves might have some value. Worth bringing up I guess.” He motioned toward the boat’s bridge overhead. “You coming up?” he asked, trying to change the subject as quickly as possible. It worked.

  “Nah,” Alan responded. “Too crowded up there. I think I’ll just take a short nap. We’ve got probably half an hour or so before we’re back in, yeah?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He was already adjusting the life preservers to create a reasonably comfortable bed.

  Brendan chuckled to himself. Alan always had been the lazy one.

  The longer you look at an object,

  the more abstract it becomes,

  and, ironically, the more real.

  ― Lucian Freud

  CHAPTER 2

  “This weather girl is really good at delivering the forecast, but she’s terrible at the banter with the news desk guy,” Dulcie announced as she switched off the television. Nick had just rounded the corner into the kitchen of her townhouse to put the Chinese take-out leftovers in the fridge.

  He poked his head back around the corner. “Weather girl? “

  “Oh. Right. I mean Weather Woman. Weather Lady. What the heck do I call her? Weather Forecaster? Yeah, I’ll stick with that,” Dulcie replied.

  Nick came back into the room shaking his head. “you, of all people…” he trailed off.

  “I know! You’re right! But some labels just stick, unfortunately!”

  “I know what you mean,” Nick said, walking over to the window. He looked outside. January. In spite of the fact that it wasn’t very late, it had been dark for a couple of hours already. He had never liked January.

  He came back to the couch and sat down with Dulcie. “Finish this off?” he asked, gesturing toward the wine bottle.

  “Why not,” Dulcie smiled.

  Nick carefully poured what was left in both of their glasses. “This is really good,” he said.

  “Life’s too short for bad wine,” Dulcie replied.

  “Amen to that!” Nick laughed. They were silent for a moment. The pause wasn’t awkward, but they were both aware of it.

  Nick sat back and relaxed. “So tell me about this new exhibit.”

  Dulcie’s face was instantly animated. “It’s great! I’m loving it, and the timing couldn’t be more perfect! It’s a travelling exhibit, but we’re the first museum to show it in the US, which is pretty fabulous. A coup for us! Plus we’ve added some pieces from our own collection.”

  “Okay, that’s all great but what’s the theme?”

  Dulcie began to laugh. “It’s called: The Little Ice Age: Winter in Europe from the 14th to 19th century.”

  “You’re kidding! How long did you know about this?”

  “The committee put the whole thing together over a year ago. I had no idea it would be so perfectly timed!”

  “But could that work against you? I mean, it’s freezing out. Do you think people really want to see pictures of more snow and ice?” Nick asked

  Dulcie toyed with her glass for a moment. “I’ve thought about that, but I believe they would. Or at least, it’s more relatable this time of year.”

  Nick nodded. “True.” He sipped thoughtfully. “But educate me. I thought the last ice age was something like ten thousand years ago?”

  “This wasn’t really a true ice age, according to scientists anyway. But it was a time period when it was colder in the Northern Hemisphere. Most of the more famous paintings that show winter scenes were done during that period. Bruegel in the 16th century, Avercamp in the 17th, Raeburn in the 18th. The Thames froze over, parts of the Bosphorus were frozen, and the canals in the Netherlands of course were frozen. The Swedish army even used it to their advantage, marching across the frozen
sea into Denmark and conquering part of the country. This is why I love art history. It isn’t just a bunch of paintings and sculptures. It tells a story.” Dulcie stopped, slightly embarrassed by her monologue.

  Nick hid his smile. Dulcie was passionate about her work, and he loved that about her. He loved pretty much everything about her. He put down his now empty glass on the coffee table in front of him. “Well then, I can’t wait to see the whole exhibit. Do you have anyone special coming to town for it? You have visiting artists or professors sometimes, right?”

  Dulcie’s mood shifted instantly. She had been excited, animated, talking about the new exhibit with Nick. Now she remembered Brendan. She had to tell Nick about him. Dulcie sighed. Now was as good a time as any.

  “Well, no, nobody connected with the exhibit anyway. But Nick, there is someone coming to town who wants to have lunch with me to talk about a project. He’s an archaeologist, actually mostly an underwater archaeologist now. He also happens to be an old boyfriend from my Oxford days.”

  Nick looked at the floor. “Ah. I see.”

  “He and I are long over. There’s nothing between us at all. I haven’t even heard from him for a couple of years. He just got in touch out of the blue. And I think he just wants to have lunch as more of a business meeting and not a social kind of thing….”

  “Dulcie, it’s fine. I know you have a past. God knows I have one.” It had been the major problem that had divided them until recently, the reason why Dulcie had been hesitant to get involved with Nick. “Of course I’m not thrilled that an old flame is in town. Who would be? But I trust you.” He brushed away a wisp of dark hair from her cheek, his fingers grazing her soft skin.

  Dulcie blushed instantly. Her glass was tilted so much that she was nearly spilling wine on the rug. She quickly held it upright, then put it down on the table with a decided clink. “I appreciate that,” she said knowing she sounded stupid. “I just wanted you to know. From me. I mean, I’m sure my dumb brother would have blurted it out, so I figured I’d best be the one to say something.” Dulcie knew she was babbling again. She took a deep breath. “I don’t know what this project is about, but if it’s interesting I’ll let you know.” For some reason she’d slipped into her businesslike voice.

  Nick decided to spare her from making a complete fool of herself and changed the subject. “That sounds great. So when does your brother get back?”

  Dulcie let out a long, slow breath. Nick’s conversational maneuver was quite obvious, but she was grateful nonetheless. “This weekend. He won’t be happy about the cold weather, either.”

  “A far cry from the Florida sunshine. Did he like the boat show?”

  “He loved it! I think he went out with a different woman each night. That’s my brother. He has a lot of wild oats to sow, evidently.”

  Nick laughed. “Some have more than others, yes. He’ll settle down eventually.”

  Dulcie wasn’t so sure, but that was all right. Dan was Dan. He made no pretense to be anything else but himself. And everyone liked him all the more for it. Except for a few women who had fallen for him prematurely and had their hearts broken. That was bound to happen, though.

  “I have to check on his boat tomorrow during the five minutes of sunshine that we may or may not have, according to the Weather Forecaster.” She enunciated the term.

  “Very good!” Nick grinned. He glanced at his watch. “I should get going. I promised Johnson I’d stop by. He said it was to hand off some files on a cold case, but I think the real reason is that he wants me to say how great he looks in front of Maria.”

  Nick stood and walked toward the door. Dulcie followed him, handing him his jacket. “And does he? Did he lose a lot?”

  Nick began to laugh. “Under normal circumstances, you might call it a lot. For him, it’s more like a drop in the bucket. As he put it, ‘I went from being obese to just plain overweight.’ That pretty much sums it up.”

  “Oh my!” Dulcie grinned. “I will have to compliment him when I see him next, though. Hopefully all the positive feedback will keep him on the straight and narrow.”

  “Straight, maybe. Narrow is questionable,” Nick replied. He leaned over, kissed her softly on the lips, and whispered, “See you soon!” Then he left, closing the door behind him.

  Dulcie was glad he’d gone so quickly. A glance in the mirror beside the door was all she needed to prove that her cheeks were now bright red.

  #

  “Jeremy, would you please remember to empty the damned spit cup and clean everything up? I’ve told you about a thousand times!” Samantha Sanders was not at all happy with her husband at the moment. Come to think of it, she hadn’t really been happy with him for quite some time. This wine thing was really getting annoying.

  Jeremy came into the dining room. The table was littered with wine glasses and bottles with varying levels of wine remaining in most of them. Samantha wheeled around, hands on hips, and glared at him. “I can handle seeing this mess. I know you need to keep practicing. It’s just the damn spit thing is really disgusting!”

  He took the spit cup into the kitchen, emptied it into the sink, rinsed it out, and put it in the dishwasher. She followed him with as many glasses as she could carry.

  “Sorry, Sam. I know you’re getting frustrated. The exam is only a month away. I’m nearly there. I’m really feeling good about my Alsatians now too!”

  It was wine. Always wine, wine, wine! She was sick of it. “Can we talk about something else, please?” she asked, clearly annoyed.

  “Like what? What do you want to talk about?” her husband replied.

  “Like maybe my career? And our future? Not just yours?”

  The whole wine thing had seemed so glamorous at first. Samantha had listened intently as Jeremy had talked about different regions and different vintages. She had tried various wines and was learning to tell the difference between a Bordeaux and a Merlot. Whenever Jeremy’s friends came over to quiz each other or practice tasting, she could carry on reasonably intelligent conversations with them about their common obsession. But it was rarely reciprocated. “I’m just the weather girl,” she thought.

  Samantha had always loved meteorology growing up. She’d learned all of the clouds and would watch their patterns intently, predicting what would happen the next day. It wasn’t long before everyone started calling her “weather girl” because, by age 12, she could forecast, with uncanny accuracy, what the weather would be like the next day.

  It wasn’t just the clouds, either. As she grew older she would drive out into the countryside around Portland and stop the car. She would sit and watch how the birds were flying, what the squirrels were doing, subtle shifts in the breeze. Weather was intuitive for her. It was a part of her.

  The TV job had been a bit of a fluke. She had never imagined herself delivering the evening forecast. In fact, she often had thought of those people as puppets who just read what the computers told them. They didn’t actually know the weather, they just had a bit more advance information than everyone else.

  During her senior year in college, where she had majored in meteorology of course, she was facing some large student loan debts. For most of the four years she had been dating the same person, a fellow meteorology student from a wealthy family. They had talked about a future together. Whenever she mentioned her student loans, he would tell her not to worry. They both planned to continue on through graduate school. He would then become a college professor, and she would find a research job. Their path was clear.

  Samantha had not seen it coming. At their graduation she was about to line up for the diploma ceremony, finding her place in alphabetical order, when he had pulled her aside. “Look, Sam,” he had said. “I know we’ve talked about a lot of things, but I really need a fresh start. We’ve had a lot of fun, and you’re obviously great, but I just need to be on my own, you know?”

  No, she did not know.

  She remembered staring at him with her mouth open. She remembered clos
ing it slowly. She remembered how cold his eyes had been as he stared back at her. She still felt sick whenever she recalled the scene.

  Samantha had not replied. She had simply turned and walked away. She thought she heard him say, “Maybe we can get in touch sometime later on, in a few months?” She ignored him.

  The rest of the day was a predictable blur. She got her diploma, thankfully without tripping on the stage. She smiled for all of the family photos. She pretended to eat at the celebratory dinner. A few people asked about her boyfriend, but she was able to brush off their questions with casual replies.

  Later that night she went back to her dorm room to pack up all of her things. A picture of the two of them sat on the desk. She tried to ignore it. It seemed to mock her, so she tipped it over, barely touching it, so that it was face down on the wooden surface. She methodically packed her things in the boxes that her parents brought to the room, chatting with them, pretending to be happy. When they were done the picture was still on the desk. “Oh, don’t forget this!” her mom had said, handing it to Samantha.

  She put it on top of the box she was carrying and followed them out the door. When they passed a large trash can in the parking lot outside, Samantha quietly tossed the picture in. Done. Gone.

  Samantha had been accepted to graduate school, the same one as her now ex-boyfriend, and had planned to begin in the fall. A week after graduation she contacted them to defer her admission for a year. She still wasn’t sure what she would do. By now, her parents knew about the breakup.

  Samantha’s mother had seen the advertisement during the summer. A local TV station was looking for an on-air forecaster. “Sam, you’d be great at this!” her mother said. “You’ve always been our weather girl you know!” Not only did Samantha have the knowledge to do the job, she had one other qualifying characteristic that most women would kill for, but that Samantha found difficult to manage.