Meanwhile, Back at the Ranch

"And you'll believe me?"

"We'll see. Give it a try."

"Jack, I'm worn out from all this. It's been physically exhausting for me. Tell me one thing, do you find me attractive?"

"When you won't even tell me your name? Hell, no. How could that be a basis for attraction?"

"Well, physical attraction, then. Do you think I'm sexy?"

"Yes, but about the way I might think a prostitute is sexy. But even if a prostitute were sexy I wouldn't trust her, so I couldn't say I was attracted to her."

"Oh, you're just impossible. I'm trying to find a handle on you, and I can't."

"Simplest thing in the world. Try telling me the absolute truth for a few hours without a lapse."

"Well then, I'll tell you something truthful. And it's something that surprises me. I find you sexy. I'd like more than anything for you to take this tee shirt off me and do whatever you want with me. I'd even like you to punish me for being naughty. Spank me. Dominate me. Hurt me. Please."

"No."

"What can I do for you?"

"Nothing now. You had your chance and you blew it. All that you had to do was tell me the truth. You insist on trying to gain control so you can manipulate me. I'm not having any more of it. I'm going to throw you out. You can try to find some other victim. Go and get your clothes together. Put them on or throw them over your shoulder, I don't care. I'll give you five minutes and then you're going out that door. Go ahead, get moving." I stepped into the kitchen area and grabbed the timer, set it for five minutes, and showed it to her. Then I went back into the kitchen, poured myself another cup of coffee, and sat down at the table with it and a book that had been on the windowsill. I was so angry that my hands were shaking the book and I had to hold it firmly against the tabletop to read the words.

The timer was just about to buzz when she appeared. She had got dressed in the clothes that I had last seen when they were a sodden mess, and I had to admit that she made a good appearance. She was carrying the tee shirt, which she dropped on the table. She turned toward the door, said, "Thank you," and she was gone. I breathed a sigh of relief, locked the door and hooked up the chain, and went in to take a shower. It wasn't that I needed another one, just that I wanted to feel that I had washed her off me and was rid of her.

I slipped on clean slacks and a loose fitting shirt, and was about to sit down to write when the doorbell rang. I pretended that I didn't hear it. It rang again. I opened the door a crack. There she was. I was starting to shut the door when she said, "Wait. Give me a chance to start over. Please."

I didn't say anything, just opened the door and watched her walk in, not like a beaten puppy but with a confident stride. She set down her briefcase and a small purse with a shoulder strap on it. "Where the hell did those things come from?"

"The trunk of my car, of course. Your trouble is that you're so text oriented that you don't even think about lies being acted out with props. In this case, it was really the absence of solid props, and the use of a large amount of water as the final closer."

"What do you want this time?"

"Same thing as before. Help. Information. Willingness to participate in an investigation as a partner. Maybe a little pat on the ass. How about it, interested?" With that she opened her coat and stood before me totally naked except for her shoes, which had about four inch heels. My jaw must have dropped, because she stepped forward and used her forefinger under my chin to close my mouth. I'd been gawking while she was talking. "Let's start this out on a positive note. After all the inconvenience I caused you, I really owe you something. Something better than you can get from anybody else." While I was trying to understand what was happening her hands were busy with my belt and then I felt my slacks and underwear slither down my legs to the floor.

For the next hour there was not much conversation. Little snippets like "Oh yes, right there. Oh that feels so good," "Deeper!" "Harder!" That, and the occasional scream. And moans! Don't forget the moans! Lots of moans! We were gasping for breath, lying on our backs on the living room floor, when she said, "That was the best sex I've had since I was a senior in high school."

"Don't get back into the lying mode, because I don't want to throw you out again. You're too good. If I ever recover, I want some more of that."

"Not lying. There was a football player who raped me, except he was so good that after we rested I raped him back. All these years since then I've been unable to match that, until now." She rolled to her left, onto my limp body, and kissed me long and deep, until I felt something wet on my cheek.

"Are you crying?"

"Yes. I'm letting all my emotions drain out through my tear ducts. Just wrap your arms around me and hold me for a few minutes. Or hours. You wanted honesty; this is it. Don't start complaining."

Finally the crying stopped. I broke our embrace to reach up for the tissue box, and she curled almost into a fetal position on top of me. "Jack, tell me the truth. Could you ever love me?"

"If you define love as raw sex, then I could. Anybody could. It's when the thinking and talking start that you get into trouble."

"Then let's start over with some foreplay and you could do me again. And again, and again. I think you're right. We go at sex cooperatively, doing it together, not to each other but with each other and for each other. Forget everything else and let's just keep fucking until our bodies are totally worn out. Maybe by then we'll have figured out how we can get along together, and the control issue can be forgotten."

"Wild as it seems, it's worth a try. Change positions so we can sixty-nine a little."

"How about so we can sixty-nine a lot?" She scrambled to get turned around and silence reigned again, except for some heavy breathing and soft slurping sounds.

An hour later we were both out of breath and completely limp from head to toe, once more lying on our backs breathing hard. "Any idea how many orgasms you had?" I asked her.

"I lost count. For about half an hour there it was like a long continuous one, sort of rising and falling but never completely letting up in between. How about you?"

"I know I ejaculated three times, maybe four. But I was having lots of dry orgasms in addition to all that, and I couldn't keep track. More than I ever had in one day, that's for sure. In fact it might have been more than I've had in the last year. I'm pretty sore, I think. And sort of numb, which is probably a blessing. I suspect that it may take me a week before I can have sex again. Or walk. And I don't care. At last we found out something we're good at. No lying, no hassling over control, no dirty looks, no pretending anything at all."

"Just think, Jack, maybe this is the moment of truth that we can build a relationship on. Like the foundation of something wonderful."

"Well if this is supposed to be our great moment of truth, I think you'd better tell me your name."

Chapter three

"I already told you that my name's Brewster."

"You already told me a bunch of things. Don't you have a first name?"

"What would you like it to be? Any suggestions?"

"Well, it could be a month, like April or May or June."

"How about October?"

"No, that doesn't have quite the right ring to it. Try again."

"Do you like Matilda?"

"No."

"Gwendolyn?"

"No."

"Well, there's always the name my mother gave me: Susan, and you can call me Suzy. Like that?"

"Yeah, I do. Suzy Brewster. I could get used to that. At first it sounds like somebody very petite, with a round face and freckles on her nose. But you aren't like that at all. You're tall and slender and willowy and graceful."

"Don't forget my cute round ass and big tits. Don't those make me seem more Suzy-ish?"

"They make you seem more delicious, and for that you could be named anything at all. What does it say on your driver's license?"

"Susan."

"Now, what about that wonderful story about the Chickahominy Indians? Where'd you get that?"

"That was, and still is, all absolutely true. Disappointed?"

"No. I'm pleased to find out you told me the truth about something. If it's true."

"It really is. It's not that I wouldn't have made up some background, just that I couldn't have invented anything better than that. It's exotic and yet completely American, all at the same time."

"Now that we've negotiated an identity for you, what do you want from me?"

"Just what I told you earlier. But there's more to it than I told you. Before we talk about that, I'm dry; what do you have to drink?"

"All sorts of stuff. More stuff to drink than to eat. Help yourself to anything in the refrigerator."

She came back opening a water bottle, and tossed one to me. "Nothing like sticking to basics. Now where were we?"

"Lying here on the floor, wasted but satisfied. Having fucked me into submission, you were about to sell me the Brooklyn Bridge."

"Brooklyn. Funny you should say that. Hempstead was hired to go to Brooklyn to help supervise the building of the Monitor, but he had been working on a sailing ship in Virginia. It was to be small and fast to run the blockade, and he had raised money from a bunch of investors to finance its construction. He didn't want to abandon it totally, so he buried the critical pieces of it, and he buried the money right along with the pieces of the ship. The only person who knew where all this stuff was buried was his Chickahominy wife. Hempstead went back to Virginia at the end of the war. His wife wanted to get back to the land of her ancestors. He died shortly after that. People who knew about Hempstead asked her where the stuff was buried, and she acted confused and sent them the wrong way. Now nobody knows where his money is. But it's mine and I want to find it."

Chapter four

I sat on the floor, stark naked, looking up at a beautiful girl similarly attired who had just explained away a day and a half of irrational behavior by saying that she did it because she wanted me to help her do something that was totally impossible. So I did the only thing that made sense in that situation: I unscrewed the cap from my water bottle and took a long drink. But maybe I should have tried something stronger because when I swallowed, recapped the bottle, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, and looked up, she was still there and nothing had changed.

"Look, . . ." I'd forgotten her current name.

"Suzy." she prompted.

"Thank you. Suzy. Look, what you seem to be suggesting can't possibly be done. You've gone to a lot of trouble to recruit me for this, this, this . . ."

"Wild goose chase?" she suggested.

"Close enough. You obviously attach a great deal of importance to this quest. It must mean a whole lot to you. You plan to exhaust both of us trying to find what cannot be found, and in the end you're going to feel frustrated and maybe become unhinged the rest of the way because of it. It seems a shame because I've been coming around to the idea that you might be a nice person underneath all your irrational behavior. It would be better, and it would save a lot of trouble, to face up to the silliness of this idea right now and get some therapy to get over it, and then live the rest of your life as a sensible, reasonable lady. I view you as a luscious sex object with a screw loose somewhere, and if you don't get help I think you're doomed to a life of great unhappiness, which will be contagious and contaminate everybody you come into contact with."

"That was a waste of your breath. Why didn't you just say no? And why are you so condescending to me?"

"If you can figure out why you're going around acting like a nut case, maybe you can figure out why I treat you like one. I don't have the slightest idea what you're going to do or say next. I hope you're not violent. Most people's behavior has a little bit to do with cause and effect, but you're totally a loose cannon on the deck. Illogical. Unpredictable. And believe me, I really don't want to say no, any more than I really wanted to toss you out on your ass before. I'd love to find some common ground with you, some mutual interest that we could work at together and build respect and affection, because you're a dynamite sex partner. But to work together there would have to be some small chance of success, and this search for Confederate riches is doomed from the start. Let me make the situation clearer. You say that Hempstead hid some money at the beginning of 1862. People who knew a whole lot more about it than you and I do, started to look for it by 1865. Nobody has found it in all the 150 years that it's been hidden, for one simple reason: it was hidden. Not lost, not misplaced, hidden! Hidden means it can't be found! And another thing: maybe somebody dug it up on the sly and it's not there any more. Or suppose it was in paper currency. If it was Confederate money, it was worthless even before the war ended. If it was in a more stable paper currency, the paper might not have survived 150 years in the acid soil of Virginia. So we're probably talking about some stash of money that's of no value at all by now."

"Look, Jack, cool down. I think you're starting to feel an attachment to me, and you're disappointed at the prospect of losing me over this project. Take another drink of water and listen to me. This isn't as harebrained as you seem to think.

"First of all, I'm neither a lunatic nor a moron . I took my bachelor's degree in History at UVA and earned a 3.95 GPA in the process. I completed my master's in History also, with a dissertation on the reconstruction of Virginia during the first thirty years after the Civil War. I've been urged to work toward a doctorate, but I've been getting too much pressure to sleep with the man who would be my major professor, and he doesn't appeal to me. But that's immaterial. I'm not an idiot, and I have done some research on this money I want to find. And another thing: I'm the sole surviving relative of Hempstead, so that money belongs to me!"

"Why wouldn't it belong to the investors?"

"Because there's no paper trail to document their investment. This had to be a real under the table deal. If it were made public, the money would have been confiscated to help arm the troops and all the partners in the shipbuilding scheme would have been thrown into prison. What we're looking at here is free enterprise in its most raw, basic form."

"Any idea how much we're talking about here?"

"Somewhere around fifty thousand US dollars. Now here's where it gets interesting. It was all in gold,

and the Union government had fixed the price of gold at around twenty dollars per Troy ounce. So there would have been about 2500 Troy ounces. Hempstead hadn't got very far along with his sailing vessel because in wartime Virginia it was so hard to get big pieces of wood and haul them to his shipyard, either as logs or as lumber, and he couldn't hire any workers because all the able bodied men were in the Army of Northern Virginia. His frustration with the project was one of the reasons that he decided to take the job in Brooklyn to work on the Monitor, even though it meant changing sides in the war. If you assume that twenty per cent of the money had been spent, the amount of gold that we're looking for is reduced to about 2000 Troy ounces. But today that gold is worth about $1500 a Troy ounce, so the stash could be worth three million dollars!"

"Well, if it's really there, that could be worth searching for. But it's yours, as you said before. Since we're talking motivation by greed, what do you want me to do, and what's in it for me?"

"The first thing I want you to do is pool your research with mine and help me figure out where we ought to look. But beyond that, I want you to be my partner, providing muscle and brains to the search, and if we find it, help to protect it and handle it sensibly."

"There's a lot of 'we' in there. Do you have in mind that we would own the gold jointly, as equal partners?"

"That seems fair to me. What do you think?"

"Try to imagine how we might feel if gold fever strikes us. We could become bitter enemies, or we could become closer than ever. But I think the best antidote to unbridled greed would be to commit to some good, generous use for some of it. How about committing a third to some good works like a foundation or something, and then we split what's left, so we each get a third of the total. Then if your numbers are right, we each get a million."

"I like that. And if this dream comes true, I hope we can still be friends and lovers."

"Is that what we are? Really?"

"Yes. In my mind, that's the highest calling there could be. And even if we get totally frustrated in our search, we must never take our disappointment out on each other. Friends and lovers forever, no matter what."

"Do we seal it with a kiss?"

"If we can move the conference site from this hard floor to your nice, soft bed, we can seal it with a lot more than that!"

Attending these business meetings can be a tough job, but somebody's gotta do it.

Chapter five

I'm not completely sure what happened next, and by "next" I mean the ensuing sixteen hours or so, but we emerged from our meeting physically drained, emotionally exhausted, and slightly sticky to the touch. My oversized shower stall was the perfect place to deal with any issues that remained to be straightened out between us, but the "straightened out" metaphor proved inadequate for the occasion. I guess you could say that it fell flat, but it might be more accurate to say that it hung limp.

Over coffee in the breakfast nook, Suzy perked up slowly. "You wore me out. I mean it. I've never met anybody who could please me as thoroughly as you do."

"Thanks for the compliment, but I have to admit that it's all a blur. What began as a planned assault on your senses wound up as purely instinctive, just a sequence of stimuli and responses. Almost like conditioned reflexes. But for me it felt glorious! Thank you!"

"Do we have to move today? Can I just stay in one position and let my body recover gradually?"

"Well, at some point we'll have to get something substantial to eat, but there's no urgency about that. I think when our coffee is finished we'll have a race for the sofa.

"I've got a better idea. If you'll help me for a minute, I can strip the bed and put on clean sheets, and we can lounge there together, with enough room to curl this way or that until our bodies can get back to normal."

"You're on." I chugged the last half cup and we got together on the domestic task, which pleased me because we seemed to work together in a natural rhythm, without a lot of discussion about who should do what. I sat on the edge of the freshly made-up bed, struck by the thought that we cleaned up our mess just the way we made it: teamwork.

I wondered if there's any truth to the old folklore about there being someone out there who's just right for you. Could this maddening creature be my soulmate? Is there really such a thing? I stretched out on the crisp sheet and Suzy did the same, and when our bodies relaxed into natural resting postures we were touching gently from our shoulders on down. How perfectly we fitted together! And how wonderful it felt!

I was just drifting off to sleep when Suzy whispered, "Jack, can you hear me?"

"Yes. Is there something on your mind?"

"I'm afraid."

"Well, don't be. I'm right here to take care of you. You're safe here with me."

"No, that's not it. This is different. I'm afraid that I love you. I never planned it to happen this way. Is that going to spoil everything for us?"