Hell or High Water (Deep Six #1)(5)
The blond giggled, obediently twisting the cap off the water bottle to take a deep slug.
“We don’t own the island, darlin’,” a deep voice called from up the beach. Leo turned to see his uncle coming toward them. The man was dressed in his usual uniform of baggy cargo shorts and an eye-bleeding hula shirt. His thick mop of Hemingway hair and matching beard glowed in the light of the moon, contrasting sharply with skin that had been tanned to leather by the endless subtropical sun.
Bran Pallidino, Leo’s best friend and BUD/S—Basic Underwater Demolition/SEAL training—swim partner, had once described Leo’s uncle as “one part crusty sea dog and two parts slack-ass hippie.” Leo figured that pretty much summed up the ol’ coot in one succinct sentence. “My great-great-I’ve-forgotten-how-many-greats-grandfather leased the island for one hundred and fifty years from Ulysses S. Grant.”
“President Grant?” the brunette squeaked, coughing on beer.
“The one and only,” Uncle John said, plunking himself into an empty plastic deck chair, stretching his bare feet toward the fire, and lifting a tumbler—filled with Salty Dog, John’s standard grapefruit, vodka, and salted-rim cocktail—to his lips. Ice clinked against the side of the glass when he took a healthy swig. “You may not know this, Tracy,” he said—Tracy. Leo snapped imaginary fingers and endeavored to commit the name to memory—“but ol’ Ulysses smoked ’bout ten cigars a day. And my great-great”—Uncle John made a rolling motion with his hand—“however-many-greats-grandpappy happened to be the premier cigar-maker of the time. In exchange for a lifetime supply of high-quality Cubans, Great-Grandpappy secured the rights to make a vacation home for himself and his descendants on this here little bit of paradise for a century and a half.” Uncle John’s familiar Louisiana drawl—the same one Leo shared, though to a lesser extent—drifted lazily on the warm breeze.
The Anderson brothers, Uncle John and Leo’s father, James, originally hailed from the Crescent City. Like their father before them, they’d trained to be shrimp-boat captains in the Gulf. But a chance discovery during a simple afternoon dive off the coast of Geiger Key had changed everything. They’d found a small Spanish gunboat equipped with all manner of archeological riches, from muskets to daggers to swords, and the treasure-hunting bug had bitten them hard. The following year, when Leo was just five years old, the brothers moved to the Keys to use their vast knowledge of the sea to search for sunken riches instead of plump, pink shrimp.
Unfortunately, they never found another haul that could compete with that of the gunboat. Uncle John gave up the endeavor after a decade, settling in to run one of Key West’s many bars until his retirement six months ago. But Leo’s father had continued with the salvage business, splitting his time between jobs and hunting for the Santa Cristina until he suffered a heart attack during a dive. Leo took solace in knowing his old man had died as he’d lived, wrapped in the arms of the sea.
“Ulysses S. Grant? So that had to have been, what? Sometime in the eighteen seventies?” the brunette asked.
“You know your presidents, Sophie.” Uncle John winked, taking another draw on his cocktail.
Sophie, Sophie, Sophie. Leo really should have paid more attention to the introductions. I mean, seriously? What was his problem? If a woman’s name wasn’t Olivia Mortier, it just went in one ear and out the other? For shit’s sake!
“I teach history at the Girls’ Academy of the Holy Saints High School in Tuscaloosa.” She hooked a thumb toward her friend. “Tracy teaches home ec.”
Leo nearly spewed his beer. It wasn’t high etiquette, but it was damn close.
“Ah.” Uncle John nodded sagely. “Well, that explains it. And you’re right. It was in the eighteen seventies.”
“So then”—Sophie’s lips pulled down into a frown—“you’re kicked out in, what? Five? Ten years?”
“Eh.” Uncle John shrugged. “We can’t really get kicked out because it was never really ours to begin with. Besides, this crew will have found the Santa Cristina by then.” John had moved out to Wayfarer Island under the auspices of “helping” Leo search for the ship. But really Leo suspected the old codger was just bored with retirement and looking to take part in one last hoorah. “And,” he continued, “they’ll have enough money to buy whatever house or island they want. Am I right, or am I right?”
“Hooyah!” Doc and Romeo whooped in unison, lifting their beers in salute.
Leo didn’t join in. He wasn’t a superstitious man by nature, but the ghost galleon brought out the avoid-the-black-cat, throw-salt-over-my-shoulder in him, and he didn’t want to jinx their chances of finding the wreck by treating it like it was a foregone conclusion. He also didn’t like to think that in a few short years he and his uncle would lose the lease on the island that had seen generations of Andersons for spring breaks and summer vacations, for Fourth of July weekends and the occasional Christmas getaway. It wasn’t until Leo arrived with his merry band of Navy SEALs that anyone had attempted to live on the island permanently; it was just too isolated.
“And speaking of the crew…” Uncle John said. Crew. Leo rolled the term around in his head and figured right. I reckon that’s a label I can work with. “The other half of ’em just called on the satellite phone.”