Once Upon a Caribbean Summer: Once Upon a Summer

PROLOGUE

THE GULF COAST, JULY 1627

Even above the high-pitched scream of the wind, Captain Esteban Ontario Alvarez thought he heard the wails of his passengers below. He cast aside concern for the overindulged Castilian merchants, feeling his ship shudder and groan beneath his boots as they crested another enormous wave. If this storm did not soon abate, they would all perish.

He squinted his eyes against the constant spray of the sea and struggled to maintain hold of the helm. His first mate stood to his left, a soldier to his right, all three of them giving their full weight against the seas that threatened to rip the wheel from their grasp and send them spinning.

The wind was relentless in its drive toward the coast. Soaked to the skin after battling the storm on deck for hours, the crew was clearly losing the war. Jesucristo, the captain grunted through clenched teeth, willing himself not to lose his strained hold on the wheel. Sálvanos, por favor. Jesus Christ, please save us.

Capitán! Capitán! Screaming over the wind, Alvarez’s cabin boy struggled valiantly to make his way across the deck to his superior. He fell, was swept against the ship’s starboard railing with the next big wave, then picked himself up and pushed forward once again. Esteban watched out of the corner of his eye, his heart in his throat, but was unable to leave the wheel. If he gave an inch, they’d lose control of La Canción.

La Canción, the grandest ship to ever exit Veracruz’s port...

Capitán! The boy pointed frantically, seemingly unable to form another word as terror overwhelmed him.

"Sí, Alvarez choked out in agitation. Qué..." Yes, what?

But at last, he saw what had stricken the poor lad. Tierra. Land. They would break apart on the reef if he didn’t slow them down or change course immediately. With a quick gauge of the wind, he knew changing course in time was fruitless. La ancla! La ancla! he yelled at the boy, wanting with everything in him to release the wheel and run for the anchors himself.

The boy clung, monkey-like, to the torn sails, railing, masts—anything he could grab—as he made his way forward to the one thing that might save them. The ship, a giant that weighed over three tons, rocked chaotically. So steep was the incline from starboard to port, the boy knew that even if they did manage to slow their rapid advance, they were in serious jeopardy.

But he could not release the weighty anchor alone. The boy heaved open a hatch and scowled at a frightened sailor clinging for his life belowdecks. The anchor! the boy screamed. ’Tis our only hope!

The chagrined man hurriedly climbed the ladder-like stairs, and immediately set to helping the boy release the huge iron hook with wet, desperate hands.

The six-hundred-pound weight sank quickly, pulling with it leagues of chain. They could feel when it struck the ocean floor a minute later, dragged across sand and loose rocks for a moment, then sank its teeth into a massive coral reef.

The ship lurched at the force of the anchor’s braking power, throwing every loose object and body aboard.

Captain Alvarez and his men were thrown from the helm. As Alvarez dug his fingers into the cracks of the boards, trying to climb back toward the wildly spinning wheel, he wondered what might be happening belowdecks. Was the hasty building schedule telling? He knew the mahogany ribs, weaker than oak, were likely straining under the burden of heavy seas and a taut anchor chain. Was the planking popping? He’d seen that builders had only secured them with two nails, when ten was more common. He’d known the risk; he’d considered it worthy at the time. Now? Now, he wished he’d insisted on better craftsmanship.

Beneath him, waves gnawed at the interior clamp that held the anchor to the ship. It took only one more massive, watery monster to yank the teeth from their sockets. The captain felt it at once.

We’re moving again! Alvarez screamed, glancing frantically to the swiftly approaching reef, white waves spraying upward. Abandon ship!

Seeing that they were drifting, his man on the upper deck swiftly threw a second anchor, unaware that the interior clamp was gone, and that there was nothing below to keep the anchors from merely sinking beyond the wounded ship. He threw a third. A fourth. Holding the last one, he gazed hopelessly from the quickly approaching rocks to the chain in his hand, knowing that all was lost.

THE GULF COAST OF TEXAS, Five Years Ago

In this region, Mitch had rarely scuba-dived with visibility as great as this: eighty feet in any direction. He looked left to his friend Hans, provoking a moray eel with a stick, then right to Chet, meticulously studying the coral reef and its inhabitants. He smiled around the regulator in his mouth. As far as he was concerned, this was heaven.

Catching sight of a lavender-and-gold striped Spanish grunt fish, Mitch stroked through the water with legs well used to such exercise, following the beauty with ease. Over the rise of coral he discovered a huge pile of rocks and moved to investigate. Such exploration had lately become the focus of Mitch’s dreams. On each dive he imagined finding vases, ballast piles, anchors: the beginning clues of valuable and ancient wreck sites. Ever since his introduction to Nautical Archaeology 101, he’d had nothing else on his mind, much to his mom’s chagrin. Mitch knew that she was just biding her time before bringing up law school again.

He tried to dismiss the thought of actually finding a wreck on a casual dive off Galveston, but as much as he tried to banish the idea, he found himself returning to it again and again. It would only take one treasure salvaged to convince his mom that it wasn’t just a pipe-dream. Or maybe she’d have to have an emerald necklace that once belonged to a Spanish queen or a Celtic cross that once hung from a devout monk’s neck...Yeah, that might convince her.

He smiled. Then. Then she would not keep hounding him about the cost of a perfectly good education squandered away on a schoolboy’s dreams. Just one. Come on, God. Cut me a break? He laughed at himself, recognizing that God had more important things to do than hand him a treasure map. Yet he couldn’t stop himself from hoping that he just might.

Mitch fully realized that chasing the siren call of one ship after another might leave him perpetually poor. Yet it was not just wealth that enticed him. It was the anticipated thrill of a find. That was the spark that lit each successful treasure hunter’s eyes when telling of their discoveries. Just one, God.

The Spanish grunt darted away, and Mitch turned his attention to several multicolored queen angels, their heavenly wings waving to him as they ate from the pile of ballast stones on the ocean floor.

Ballast stones.

Mitch caught his breath and held it. He closed his eyes slowly and then opened them, expecting the pile to disappear.

It did not. He rose fifteen feet—to a depth of about forty-five feet—eager to catch the attention of his buddies. Hans spotted his wave first and pointed Chet toward him. Seeing his pals en route, Mitch moved back to the pile, carefully examining each rock—without moving them—as Professor Sanders had advised.

Sometimes the kind of ballast rock—used to weight a ship—could help a diver narrow down the ship’s port of origin. If there really is a ship around here, he chastised himself silently, willing himself to calm down. He dusted off the rocks but couldn’t tell what kind they were. Chet was better at geology; when he got a look at their color and texture, he might identify them. Mitch moved on when Chet arrived and began studying them.

Thirty feet away, in the direct line of the current, he found another large, lichen-covered pile. After investigation, Mitch discovered that the pile was made up of hundreds of earthen jars, such as the kind crews once carried, filled with fresh water or delicacies, like olives. Many were intact, covered with crusty coral and mussels.

Mitch abandoned the vases to see what else he might discover. As he crested the next rise, his breathing became more labored. Could he possibly be seeing this? There, scattered between what was clearly the rotting remains of a ship’s timbers, lay thousands of gold coins.

His friends soon joined him, and the trio excitedly filled the mesh bags at their waists with as many coins as possible, then swam to their raft sixty feet above. Clinging to the sides, they hooted and shouted while throwing their bounty on board.

Well, boys, Mitch said, grinning broadly, I think I finally know what I want to do when I grow up.

CHAPTER ONE

BOSTON, PRESENT DAY

After Bryn’s grandmother’s funeral, Christina Alvarez agreed to go grab breakfast with Bryn and her cousin, Trevor, before they all flew out to their respective homes. As college friends, they’d spent tons of time together. But this was the first chance they’d had to catch up in years, and Christina was eager to help remind Bryn of some good things in life, perhaps easing some of her pain she suffered from losing her grandmother. It didn’t prove to be too arduous a task. In short order, she and Trevor had pried it out of Bryn—she was falling in love with Eli Pierce, up in Alaska.

Back in love, Christina corrected herself. Bryn had always had a thing for that man. She hoped that they’d finally be able to make that summer romance something that lasted through the year this time. And yet doing so would certainly compromise her friend’s dreams. Christina knew she’d long wanted to work for a prestigious hospital here in Boston. She studied her friend; Bryn fairly glowed as she talked about flying with Eli and the beauty of Alaska. Was she seriously contemplating risking her dreams for some guy?

Christina took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She wouldn’t challenge Bryn about it now. She had enough to deal with. And they weren’t as close as they once had been; did she really have the right to ask her? All I know is that I’d never let a guy get in the way of my dreams...

So what’s up next for you, Christina? Trevor asked, turning toward her and taking a sip of his coffee.

Well, I’ve completed my degree with my graduate thesis on the Spanish sea traders and the importance of the port of Veracruz—

Ah, the long awaited Ph.D. has finally been attained, Trevor teased, stabbing a piece of sausage. Took you long enough. Now what?

She ignored his friendly jibe. "I could teach, in time. But this summer...well, I’ve still got those doubloons and family folklore on my mind. I want to know, once and for all, if La Canción existed as anything other than a figment of my ancestor’s imagination. So I’m going to spend the summer investigating."

You’ve always thought it was more than family legend, Bryn said gently. But you must’ve learned something new to commit the whole summer to the task. I can see the spark of intrigue in your eyes—what’d you find?

Christina grinned and nodded. Last Spring I went to Seville and spent weeks in the Archives of the Indies.

The Archives? Trevor asked.

"Yes. El Archivo de las Indias. It’s the best resource that treasure-ship hunters have today. Unfortunately, it’s also in the worst shape. There used to be records kept of every Sevillian ship that came back from the New World loaded with gold. The records themselves are highly detailed, but poorly kept. You should see the place, she said, taking a sip from her mug. The basement of the building is filled with old documents in stacks five feet high. It’s a total disaster. But I have a grad school friend living in Seville—a historian named Meredith Champlain. She’s an expert in translating Spanish documents dated from the fourteenth century on. So she helped."

And you found another clue? Trevor prodded.

I did, Christina said, feeling a thrill of excitement roll down her neck. I got a lead on where my ancestor’s ship might have gone down. She kept the location to herself, even though she knew it was silly; these two were old friends. But in the field of treasure hunting, one only shared what they had to; it was a cardinal rule.

Well, if you ever give up on your ancestor’s ship, maybe you could find our great-great-grandfather Shane Donnovan’s final resting place, Bryn said after a long moment, glancing at her cousin. I don’t know if he carried anything of great value at the time, but he was last seen leaving Rio. They think he was caught in a storm. All hands went down with the ship.

I actually wanted to talk to you guys about that. Before I finished school, I learned more about another Donnovan, Christina said.

You did? Bryn asked, blinking in surprise. Trevor leaned in too.

Yes. Part of our graduate work was to dive and record a wreck captained by a man named Donnovan off the coast of Maine.

Not our great-great-grandfather’s last—

Oh, no. If I thought it was him, I would’ve given you two a call. But the location wouldn’t make sense for him. I did find reference to another wreck off the coast of California, and the records show it was captained by a Shane Donnovan. Your ancestor was a part of the Gold Rush, right?

Yes. It’s really what made him a success, Trevor said excitedly. So...you think he went down with that ship in California? Not off of Rio?

I think it’s possible.

Would you like to see his logs? I think our grandfather still has them. Maybe his ship went down with some of that California gold. Could be worth your while.

She nodded in agreement. Maybe. Someday. Right now, I just... She looked to her scone, carefully breaking off a piece. "I think I’d better chase La Canción while I have the chance. As soon as I take a job at a university, I’ll likely be chasing other people’s dreams. Donor’s dreams and the like."

I know a treasure hunter, Trevor said. He was a classmate of mine at Texas A&M. Found a gold ship right there in the Gulf. He made a mint and outfitted his own operation. Been at it for five or six years now. He sat back in his seat, scowled and took another sip of coffee. Ah, never mind. Last I’d heard, he’d turned into kind of a jerk. You probably don’t want to work with someone like that.

Treasure hunters aren’t known for their stellar personalities, Christina said. Nautical archeologists team up with them for their equipment and permissions to excavate in certain waters, not to date. What’s his name?

MITCHELL CRAWFORD LAY awake in his bed, roiling in unhappy thoughts. He had failed to find sleep’s peace the night before, consumed as he was by thoughts of his only sister’s death. Each time he dropped off for a moment, he had been awakened by his niece’s incessant crying. As the little girl let out another wail, he glanced at the clock—5:05 A.M.

Mitch threw a pillow over his head and willed the child to go back to sleep. He had his own grief. How could he deal with the sorrow of two small children? Heck, I don’t know the first thing about kids.

Ten minutes later, he heard the kid quiet. Talle, his Cuban housekeeper of five years, opened his door without knocking and went straight to the long vertical blinds. She drew them back from one dramatic window, then went to the next to do the same.

Talle! he moaned. I’m trying to sleep!

The middle-aged woman dolefully glanced back at him and pulled the third window’s blinds open too. Then she paused, took a deep breath, and gazed out at the ocean. It is a beautiful day, sir. It would do the children good to go out with you. Her English was nearly perfect, each syllable carefully enunciated.

Mitch sat up, rubbing his face in irritation, trying to focus. They said they want me to?

No. But you see, sir, I cannot take care of them all the time and clean this huge home and cook. She busied herself with picking up his clothes from the night before, gathering them in a wicker basket.

It’s not forever, Talle—

It’s been two weeks. The girl cries all night. The boy is sullen, angry. He sneaks food like a little thief and yesterday, he threw mud into the pool!

They’re just kids—

Kids who need a full-time nanny. I cannot do all that you’ve asked of me. You must hire a woman. For now, I can arrange for my niece Anya to come. She can stay through the summer.

Fine, Mitch said wearily. Just get her here within a couple of days, okay? If I don’t get some sleep, I’m gonna scream.

She cast him a cold look, reminding him that she’d been missing as much sleep as he had. I’ve taken the liberty of calling her already. She’ll be here tomorrow. That said, she left the room.

Mitch flopped back against his pillow and shook his head. Even though she pretended as if he were the boss, Mitch knew Talle kept him in order as tidily as she ran the house.

After a moment, he made himself rise and walked to his window. Kenna had stopped crying at last. He looked out over the blue-green Caribbean sea, in the direction of the big island, San Esteban. The palm trees lining the beach swayed in the trade winds, sending the salty, musty smell of the water to his nostrils. He loved his tiny island, Robert’s Foe. But was it really the best place to raise his sister’s children?

Oh, Rachel, he said sadly. What were you thinking in sending them to me? I don’t know how to raise kids! His fingers raked through his hair. How could she have given him this burden? Couldn’t she have made her friends their guardians, people who knew the children? Someone who knew anything at all about parenting?

Kenna and Josh had stayed with the Johnsons, Rachel’s friends, for the two months that Mitch needed to finish work on his current dive site. In reality, he’d stretched out the work, still trying to decide if he could take them. But from the start, the Johnsons—with five kids of their own—had said they could only help through the transition. And the children’s father, a deadbeat who’d abandoned Rachel when she was pregnant with Kenna, was not to be found. With no other family members, either Mitch had to take them or put them up for adoption.

That thought had been intolerable. His own flesh and blood out in the world with strangers? He knew his own mother—a woman who had died while he and Rachel were in college—would turn over in her grave if he sent them off to live with another family.

But as soon as the children arrived, Mitch feared he’d made a mistake. Within twenty-four hours, he knew it. The kids needed a mother. And a father with more patience than he had. Who was he to even try? He’d envisioned a life as a bachelor sailing the islands; not settling down, getting married, having a family.

Mitch left the window and went to take a shower. The hot water did little to alleviate his angst. He stood under the spout, thinking. Why, God? My sister and mom are gone. Why take them and leave these poor kids no one but me?

Mitch heard no answer. Glumly, he turned off the water, toweled off, and dressed. There were bigger things to worry about than the kids, he decided resolutely. Like locating another find.

It had been almost six years since Mitch and his friends happened upon the mother lode of treasure ships, La Bailadora. Afterward, he and Hans had established Treasure Seekers, Inc., while Chet invested his portion of the profits and went after an academic career as a geologist. Since then, Treasure Seekers had located and salvaged eighteen ancient ships. None had held such wealth as the first, but the excitement of the work and the substantial potential riches to be gained drove them onward. They made a nice living and had chosen for their headquarters the island of Robert’s Foe: a tiny spot on the map, amid a chain of islands northeast of Cuba.

On Robert’s Foe, their modest wealth went a long way. Mitch’s home sat on the crest of a hill that sloped down a hundred feet to meet white sand beaches. The house had been built by a drug baron caught by international agents, and Mitch had purchased it for half of its worth. He loved it, and Robert’s Foe became his private paradise.

Paradise, except for the loneliness. Hans had married a loving Cuban girl named Nora some years back, but Mitch never had time to