Heart Marks the Spot

One

Stella

I've made a life out of searching for lost things. Not tonight, though. After nearly two weeks of trekking around the wilds of western Iceland in the hopes of unearthing the fabled Gunnarsson's treasure and coming up empty, my friends have forced me into a laid-back evening in a bar in Selfoss. I protested at first, but then Zoe presented her blistered feet, Gus muttered something about how this November trip was supposed to be a vacation, and Teddy fixed his deep blue eyes on mine, his expression half-pleading, half-dare. I caved like a bridge made of tissue paper.

Gus parked the camper van at the edge of a small gravel lot, and we pulled on our coats and headed into the damp cold toward the bar Teddy had heard about from a local while picking up groceries at Bónus. Hlýjar Nætur-Warm Nights, according to Zoe's pocket phrase book-was housed in a squat metal building next to an outdoor outfitter. The interior lived up to its name, with rich wood accents, fireplaces, and a variety of subdued, eclectic lights ranging from chandeliers to bare bulbs hanging from the ceilings. It was cozy. We found a dim nook in a corner and plunked down on soft vintage couches.

"Aren't you glad you listened to us, Stella?" Teddy asked, pulling off his hat and leaving his sandy blond hair in disarray. He tousled it back into submission. "This place is perfect."

A small group of women standing nearby eyed him. "I'll say," one with a distinctly Australian accent said before clapping a hand over her mouth. Her companions giggled and then migrated out of earshot.

Zoe pushed back her cloud of dark curls and scrunched her face. Over the years, we'd grown accustomed to having an audience when Teddy was around. The amalgamation of his James Dean looks and charming charisma often proved magnetic. He enjoyed the attention, and as a result he was never lonely, even if his admirers never stuck for long.

"What's everyone drinking?" I asked. "My treat."

"Beer," Gus said.

"Vodka on the rocks." Zoe tipped her head toward her feet. "For the pain."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I did warn you to break in your boots."

"She feels no remorse," Zoe said, a smile playing on her lips.

"If Stella's buying drinks she must feel pretty bad," Gus told her. "When was the last time she took us out?"

"Three seasons ago, Key West," Teddy said.

"Oh yeah." Zoe reached down to massage her socked foot. "It was so rough that day and we were in that tiny boat, the one we had before the Lucky Strike. Stell refused to go in because the metal detector we were towing had turned up something. Gus and I were both so sick. He threw up in the cooler."

The image of Gus's hulking figure hugging the Igloo to his chest had been impossible to forget, and that something had turned out to be nothing exciting, just some chain. I'd spent the rest of the trip trying to atone for the bad call.

"Stella's very focused," Teddy said, draping an arm around me. "And we love her for it. Without her leadership, we'd all have soft hands and no stories. C'mon, vicious leader. Let's fetch the refreshments."

"I do feel bad about Zoe's feet, and Gus having to throw up in a cooler," I confessed to Teddy once we were clear of our friends.

"Bad enough to call it quits on this trip?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"I knew you'd say that. I also knew that the whole vacation thing was complete bullshit and you'd have us wandering near and far looking for the next clue to the location of the Stolen Treasure. Hence why I broke in my boots."

I glanced over at Teddy, trying to maintain a neutral expression.

He raised his eyebrows and stared me down comically. "Admit it. I'm right, aren't I? Gunnarsson's treasure is a clue, just a means to an end . . . if we ever find the damn thing, that is."

"You know me best," I admitted. He did. Me being so utterly fixated on treasure that I forgot we should also be having a good time was nothing new, but my reasons for searching were not the same as my friends'. They loved the exploring, the diving, the possibility of it. Not me. Treasure hunting was in my blood and I had something to prove. It was serendipity that the four of us had met in the Outer Banks of North Carolina ten years ago and found a Piece of Eight that we were convinced was part of Blackbeard's treasure. After that, they were hooked. Each summer, we'd come together for one month, just the four of us, in search of legendary riches based on clues from the past, my past, enjoying each other and the thrill of the hunt until we had to go back to the real world. Teddy still wore that Piece of Eight around his neck-matching the one my parents gave me on my eighth birthday that I'd never taken off. Anyway, for my friends, the enjoying part was especially important, since so far our trips had yielded plenty of memories, one gorgeous ruby pendant that Teddy's lawyers were in a legal battle with the Bahamian government over, a slew of antique coins, some small chips of emeralds, the infamous chain, and a lot of rusted-out trash. Nothing of any remarkable value that we could claim as our own. We had yet to find a major wreck, and my main objective-the Stolen Treasure of the Sea People and the rare red Elephant's Heart Diamond it was fabled to contain-was proving as elusive as whispered legends told. But this trip was different. It wasn't just the change of our usual timing or the location of the search. The aching sensation in my hands that started the moment we'd set foot in Iceland told me we were close to finally finding something big.

"How about tomorrow we do something fun and relaxing and I can make it up to them before they head back to the States?" I said. "Maybe we could head north and visit the Secret Lagoon in Flúðir?"

"Sounds great. And then afterward we can check out whatever bog is nearby and see if Gunnarsson's gold is hidden beneath it. There's probably one on the way to the airport, right? It's adorable that we've been friends as long as we have and you still think you can fool me." He laughed. "We all know what we're signing up for when we take these trips. I support you. Especially since I've invested half my trust fund in you by now. Honestly, at this point I have no option but to wait around for my payday."

I bumped Teddy with my shoulder. "I'm not sure which part of that is more ridiculous-the idea that you've spent half your money or that you're only here to cash in once we finally find our treasure."

"It's lucky for you that I am so loyal," he told me. "Those two would leave you for an all-inclusive spa in St. Thomas first chance they get. They're nowhere near as hardcore as us."

I glanced back to where Zoe and Gus were nestled on a loveseat. "I don't know about that," I mumbled. "They were pretty hardcore last night."

"I think it's nice that they're taking it to the next level after all the years of pining."

"You wouldn't be saying that if they were bumping into you during their sleeping bag gymnastic routine while you were desperately trying to sleep, but where were you again . . . ? Sigrún, Helga; gosh, I don't know, Ted. It's getting hard to keep track of all your local sleepovers."

I wanted to be happy for my friends, but I did not think their hooking up was nice. I thought it was dangerous. Sure, it seems lovely at first, two old buddies taking it to the next level, but the higher you go, the harder you fall. I knew this well. I couldn't keep myself from exploring the possibility of what would happen if it didn't work out. There was a distinct chance that our friend group, this little family of ours, wouldn't survive the impact. Sure, the rest of them had fallback plans, jobs, and families, but they were it for me . . . except for my mission to find my own personal holy grail. Nope. Bringing romance into our mix was a terrible idea. Teddy's approach of pure promiscuous tourism seemed more advisable. But even that made me feel a bit irked. These trips were supposed to be about spending time together and finally finding major treasure after so many tries, getting closer to what the whole treasure hunting world thought unfindable, but this time around, it seemed like my pals were more focused on the wrong kind of getting lucky.

"Stop overthinking, Stella," Teddy said, using his thumbs to flatten my furrowed brow. "The only trouble with this situation is that we should've gotten two camper vans so you didn't have to be subjected to their amorous activities-since for some inexplicable reason you refuse to engage in any yourself." He handed me his credit card and I glared at him. "I'm going to hit the bathroom. Order me an Einstök white ale, will you? I'll help you carry everything back."

"I engage," I muttered to his back. "Sometimes." Which was true. I had been known to have a stint of amorous activity here and there, provided it stayed light and easy and I didn't get invested. Getting invested in treasure was one thing, but signing up for potential heartbreak-that was not something I did. At least Ted and I were in agreement that it was best to keep our extracurricular activities purely fun and casual. I flagged down a woman with pale hair behind the bar. "Can I get a vodka on the rocks and three white ales?"

"Have you tried the Icelandic Doppelbok?"

I turned to face the owner of the voice that was deep and so rich, it bordered on buttery. He was slouching on a barstool next to me, picking at the label of his beer. Dark hair, the jet-black of a volcanic sand beach, blocked the top half of his face from view.

"What's so great about the Dopplebok other than the fun name and the"-I leaned a bit closer to eye the label-"Rudolph the red-nosed Viking gracing the bottle?"

He turned slowly, lifting his face, using one hand to push his hair back and the other to slide the beer toward me. "See for yourself."

The stranger's irises were a striking, glacial blue. I followed the line of his nose down to full, unsmiling lips and a jaw that was as strong as it was sharp. At first glance, he was exactly the kind of man I might like to engage with for the evening, if it hadn't been for the defeated expression and shadowy half-moons beneath his eyes that screamed of sleeplessness. It was odd, but he almost looked like someone I'd seen before, I just couldn't think of where. I spent enough time trying to place him that the bartender cleared her throat. I picked up the bottle and lifted it to my lips. The beer he recommended tasted of malt and chocolate, with a smooth, rich finish . . . and I wasn't even much of a beer drinker.

"That is delicious," I said to the guy. "You are good."

He took the beer back from me. "Thanks. You might be alone in that particular sentiment, though. I can think of literally thousands of people who wouldn't agree, including several book reviewers."

"Can I get two Doppleboks as well?" I asked the bartender. I handed the extra beer to the man. "You look like you could use a refill. What's this about a book reviewer?" I asked.

"You heard that?" He cringed.

"Afraid so."

He was silent for a beat, his expression pensive. "I'm a novelist."

"Really?"

"Well, I'm not sure I still am, but I was once. Is that so unbelievable?" he asked.

I shrugged. "It just seems like the kind of career that everyone has in movies or books, but no one actually really does. What do you write?"

"Adventure fiction, mostly." He paused. "Currently, I'm doing everything but writing."

"Anything I might know?"

This stretch of silence was longer than the first. "The Casablanca Chronicles." He said the series title so nonchalantly that I almost missed it.

This guy could not be serious right now. Did I know it? It was only my favorite series of all time. When I found out that it was over and I'd never learn the fate of the main character, Clark Casablanca, I'd spent an evening drowning my sorrows in too many gin gimlets-Clark's drink of choice-and contemplating ways to compel the author to write one more book. That's why this guy looked familiar-I had seen him before, in his author photo on the back of his book jackets, but he'd had a beard and worn glasses in the picture.

"I've heard of it," I said. Then, playing it cool, I added, "What's your name again?"

"Huck Sullivan." Huck Sullivan. Frenetic energy filled me. I stretched out a trembling hand to shake his. I was sharing a beer with Huck-freaking-Sullivan. I was about to have actual human contact with Huck Sullivan. I resisted the urge to pinch myself.

"I'm Stella Moore." Huck wrapped his fingers around mine, and that strange longing I'd been feeling in my fingertips dissipated in an instant, replaced by a light tingle on my skin. His hand was warm and his grip strong, but not overly firm.

"So, Stella who thinks being an author is unbelievable, what do you do for work?"

I lifted my shoulders a fraction. "This and that," I said, which was true, but really I was trying to sound intriguing. The fact that I spent my off seasons doing property maintenance and moonlighting on fishing boats wasn't the first impression I wanted my favorite author to have of me. Besides, I'd learned that it was safer not to share too much of myself.

"Very mysterious. What brings you to Iceland, then?"

"You first," I challenged.

I expected him to counter, but instead, he pulled at the corner of the bottle label. "I guess you could say I'm searching for inspiration," he said. "I'm supposed to be working on a new book. Easier said than done after the way the last one went down."

I wanted to say something encouraging, but I didn't have any idea what. The final book in the Casablanca Chronicles had been beautiful, but the ending . . . it was like driving down a gorgeous, winding highway, wind blowing in your hair, warm salt breeze on your skin, and then suddenly the road is gone and the car simply plummets into the sea. I remembered buying a second copy because I was sure that mine had been a misprint and was missing the last fifty pages or so. The critics had hated it. Literary legend to epic letdown, the rise and demise of the Casablanca Chronicles. It's like Huck Sullivan just gave up, the New York Times had printed.