Hunter's Hope Read online

  Hunter’s Hope

  M.J. O’Shea

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Hunter’s Hope © 2020 by M.J. O’Shea

  Previously Published as X Marks the Spot

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This one’s for all the people who had to listen to me talk about secret codes and missing treasure and historical monuments for weeks on end. I was a little obsessed with research.

  Also, thank you again to Ari. You gave me so much information and helped me bring to life so many places I’ve never been. At least not yet!

  xoxo MJ

  Author’s Note

  For this book, I used a lot of real historical monuments and buildings. With artistic license to create a story comes a bit of bending of reality, so some of these places may have a few new features that most likely don’t actually exist.

  But, hey, who knows… they could really be there!

  —MJ

  Chapter One

  If anyone had told Alo Green that by the time he turned twenty-three he would’ve been around half of Europe in two weeks, held priceless art in his hands, been shot at, dug for treasure, and fallen in love, he’d have stared at them like they’d lost their mind. Things like that didn’t happen to people like him. Things like that didn’t happen to anyone in the real everyday world.

  But they did. Happen. Sometimes he’s still not sure if he dreamed it all.

  “Alo, you’re going to miss your train if you don’t hurry!”

  Aloysius Green checked his phone. He had exactly five minutes to get out of the house. Ten if he really felt like taking an invigorating morning sprint to the subway station. Alo wasn’t a big fan of running on his best day. Certainly not with a messenger bag full of books in the still warm humidity of a balmy September morning.

  “I’ll be right down, Mom. Can you put my breakfast in a bag?” he called.

  It might have sounded presumptuous, but Alo knew there was breakfast. There had been breakfast every day since he left the house the first time when he was five years old and starting kindergarten. Logic and experience told him that certain fact wasn’t going to change overnight.

  Alo glanced longingly out his bedroom window at the high burnished blue sky and the sun that glinted at him through slowly yellowing leaves. He’d always liked autumn in New York.

  Autumn was probably just as nice in other places, but Alo wasn’t likely to find out anytime soon. He hadn’t ever spent the season anywhere but his home city, and he didn’t really want to change that.

  There was something special about how the air on the Upper West Side turned from heavy to crisp and floated up through streets and brick and gilded leaves. The way the light glinted off the windows and turned the city into some sort of pinky-bronze halo, the way he could smell the change.

  Everything felt new in the autumn. Like a beginning, somehow, rather than the end of another year.

  It was mornings like the one right outside Alo’s window that tempted him to throw open his windows and let all the sunlight in, just bask in it for a few moments, but Alo had places to go. Very important places.

  He got dressed quickly in a button-down, some khakis, and a pair of loafers, grabbed his glasses and a cardigan in case it got cold later, and slung his leather messenger bag over his head. It was only the third week of term—not the time to be late because he’d gotten distracted stopping to smell the breeze.

  He jogged down the stairs to where his mother was putting breakfast in a paper bag for him. Twenty-two and still at home. Yup. Alo didn’t have much to say about that, not that anyone was asking. It probably wouldn’t be the sexiest thing to tell a guy he might be trying to pick up, but he loved the home he grew up in, and New York was expensive. Plus, he wasn’t a fan of cooking. Why bother, when his mother could do it for him?

  His hottie-magnet factor didn’t much matter anyway. When was the last time Alo had tried to hook up with a guy? That would be never. Just like getting out to see the world, Alo doubted trolling for men would be a habit he picked up anytime soon.

  “What time are you finished today?” Charlotte Green asked as Alo skidded into the high-ceilinged kitchen to grab his breakfast and nearly knocked his head on one of the copper pots hanging from a rack in the center of the ceiling.

  Mom. She was overprotective, nosy, constantly on his case to settle down with a nice man. He might get a bit impatient with her from time to time, but he loved her more than life itself. She was wearing her usual—yoga pants and a zip-up track jacket. Charlotte Green was fifty-two, but she looked thirty-five. Alo gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  “Not until after six. I have a meeting with Professor Perry after class, office hours, and then a shift at the library.”

  Alo was only weeks into his PhD program at Columbia, where he’d also attended four years of undergrad. His concentration was medieval history; he read and spoke Middle English, French, German, and Italian; and he knew more about the succession of various European dynasties than most people knew about the Kardashians.

  Wasn’t the most exciting conversation topic at dinner parties, he’d found, at least not ones outside of his department. Beyond the more flashy aspects of history, most people weren’t interested.

  But Alo was proud of what he’d accomplished so far. It would be even better once he graduated and hopefully got a position in some university’s isolated ivory tower—the further away from normal day-to-day life, the better, he’d always thought.

  “You want me to save some dinner for you, sweetie?” his mom asked. Alo wasn’t sure in what universe the answer would’ve been no, but he decided to answer her anyway.

  “If you don’t mind, that would be great. What are you making?”

  “Roast chicken, green beans, and spaetzle with onions and butter.”

  Alo would’ve been happy to sit in his mom’s kitchen and shovel her food in his face all day, maybe take a few walks around the neighborhood to let it settle. Again, not possible. He had far too much to do.

  “That sounds delicious, Mom. I’d love if you could save me a plate. I need to get running, though.”

  “Have a good day, darling. Be safe.”

  She’d said that every day during his undergraduate degree, and it seemed that not much had changed over the past three months of summer. Alo smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be fine, Ma. You have a good day too.”

  He shot out the door and toward the closest subway station with only minutes to spare to catch the train after the one he usually took. He had to make it six train stops and all the way into the middle of campus before his first class started. Alo figured he should be fine. Probably.

  “Afternoon, Dr. Perry,” Alo said as he slid into his chair after a long day of lectures.

  Alo’s office hours tended to not line up with the professor’s, but once a week they were in the office at the same time, and Dr. Perry made time to meet with him before his shift started. Alo was starving, so he pulled out the sandwich he’d bought earlier and didn’t have time to eat.

  His coursework was already piled sky-high and only getting higher. He remembered when he’d thought his undergrad work was a challenge. Right. That was just an appetizer.

  “Afternoon, Alo. I’ve told you to call me Rich more than once. It’s going to get awkward if you
keep calling me Dr. Perry for three years.” He smiled.

  Alo imagined it was supposed to be comforting. It wasn’t. Dr. Perry seemed like a nice enough guy, but he was still Dr. Perry. He was dark-haired and sophisticated, smart, married to a physicist, and known internationally in the academic world. Alo was terrified of him.

  “Are we going to discuss your paper?”

  “Y-yes. That was in my schedule.”

  It wasn’t very common for Alo to get intimidated by someone like he was with Perry. Most people annoyed him, to tell the truth. Especially when he had to explain things to them again and again. He found himself wanting to impress Richard Perry, though, which usually turned out with him getting tongue-tied and awkward, instead of sounding even remotely professional. He had already thought a few times that maybe he should’ve found an advisor he didn’t respect quite so much.

  “Great. Before we get to that, will you look over these Intro to Medieval History essays and give me some comments by Friday? They’re on courtship rituals, contrasting nobility in England and France. I’m sure it’ll keep you riveted for hours.”

  Alo cracked a grin. “I’m sure it will.”

  The rest of the day was what was becoming normal. His office hours, some time doing research, library hours, and a quick walk to the subway station on West 116th before he collapsed on the train, half-asleep.

  By the time Alo got home, he felt like he was about to fall over. He’d done a research internship during the summer, but that was only a few hours a day. Nothing was like getting back into a regular schedule.

  The weather was still hot, probably would be for a few more evenings. The cool lightness of morning usually settled into sweaty sunsets and warmth shimmering up from the pavement.

  Getting back to his parents’ street was always a bit of culture shock after spending the day in the middle of a grassy campus where he could nearly forget he was in Manhattan, surrounded by city and skyscrapers and noise. His parents lived in a perfectly nice neighborhood. They had a townhouse that they’d owned for years—passed down from Alo’s grandfather when he’d decided the heat of Miami was more to his liking.

  Grandfather. Alo felt a stab of guilt.

  He hadn’t seen his grandfather since he started college, and that felt like another lifetime. So many things had changed since he was eighteen. Alo pushed the family guilt out of his head. He had too much on his plate already to have time to deal with all of that.

  Alo unlocked the door to his house, walked in, and hung up his coat and bag by the door, just like he did every day. In the little alcove by the front door, there was a coat rack jammed full of coats, and a hutch filled to the brim with baskets of mail and little knickknacks. The house looked like a home, for sure. The only home Alo remembered. Well, he, remembered grandpa’s beach house in Miami too, and he missed it. Summers there had always been fun, hot, and relaxing, filled with laughter and his cousins all around. It was quieter in his family’s house, warm still, and cozy. But quieter.

  “Is that you, darling?” his mother called from the kitchen.

  Alo followed her voice to where she was perched at the high round table with a pencil and a puzzle book and a cup of tea. Alo had always loved the kitchen. It was spacious and warm—hadn’t been updated much over the years, other than an appliance here and there, which just seemed to blend into the vintage surroundings. The floors were still tiny black- and-white honeycomb tile, and the walls were covered as well with pale green subway tiles. The cabinets were white wood, and tall enough to require a step stool to reach the top shelf. The ceiling was still pressed copper, slightly tarnished, and a big window right by the table looked out into their tiny back garden. A huge cream enameled AGA perched in the corner, where his mom usually had something cooking. Other than his parents, of course, Alo would miss the kitchen the most when it came time for him to find his own place.

  “Hi, Mom.” Alo felt like he could breathe again, after a day of barely catching his breath.

  “You had such a long day, dear. You must be starving.”

  Food. It was how his mother showed affection, in a long-standing tradition. The more food she gave him, the more tired, upset, or stressed she seemed to perceive him to be. Alo’s mother bustled out of her chair and toward the oven she’d probably set to keep his dinner warm.

  “Mom, I can do it.”

  “Psshh. Nonsense.” She waved at him impatiently. She had a point. He’d rarely done it himself before. “Sit. Sit.”

  Alo slid onto the stool across from her and pulled her puzzle book over to his side. He solved a few questions on the puzzle, which would probably drive his mother insane, but then he smiled and slid it back.

  “Anything good happen today?” she asked.

  Alo shrugged. “Professor Perry gave me a whole stack of essays to grade. It’s nice that he trusts me with them.”

  Charlotte tsked. “He just didn’t want to do his job. He’s using you.” She rarely trusted other people with the care and feeding of her only child. He figured someday soon he’d convince her he was an adult.

  “Hopefully it’ll be my job in a couple of years, Ma. I’m glad for the practice.” In other words, subject dropped.

  “So, I had lunch with your Aunt Sylvia,” she said, changing the subject. Charlotte Green was always good at taking a hint. “She took me out for cupcakes too, no matter how many times I tell her I don’t want the sugar or the gluten.”

  And of course his mom would also eat a cupcake every time, no matter how much she faux protested. Alo chuckled.

  “What did Sylvia say?” he asked. Usually everything. Alo’s mother and his dad’s youngest sister had been best friends since the day his parents started dating, according to everyone. Alo imagined that had to have been a little awkward for his father when he was trying to have alone time with his new girlfriend. Still. Nothing had changed over the years.

  His mom made an annoyed face. “Sylvia said Grandpa’s being stubborn. They want to move him back up here into her guest room, but he won’t do it. He can’t take care of his house anymore.”

  “Why won’t he move back?”

  “Says he hated the winters twenty years ago and he still hates them now. But they’ve managed to wrestle him into an assisted living apartment since he won’t move in with the family.”

  “The Miami house is gone, then?” Alo asked. He had a pang, remembering the days of sun and fruit and salt water.

  “It will be soon.” Charlotte reached out and put her hand on Alo’s arm. “Nobody wants to take care of it. Grandpa decided to sell. Your Uncle Robbie is shipping a bunch of Grandpa’s stuff up here for your dad to look through. I think he has something for you too.”

  Alo had visions of his faded blue rubber snorkel, or that shell necklace he’d made for his grandfather when he was eight. He was surprised when his mother said it was a stack of old letters.

  “Why would I want Grandpa’s letters?” Out of all the possible memorabilia from that house... some letters Alo had never seen before wouldn’t have been on his list.

  “They’re not his. They were his mother’s. They were written during the war by your great-grandfather.”

  Alo remembered hearing stories about his great-grandfather—Ira Greenblatt his name had been. Apparently he’d been quite a character too. Alo’s grandfather didn’t remember him; he’d been a little boy when they were separated and moved to the States, but Ira had left quite the legacy in family lore.

  “I’m sure there could be some interesting historical references in there. I wonder if another part of the history department could use them.” Alo shrugged. “They won’t fit into my research at all.”

  His mother gave him a quick, disapproving look. “The letters are for the family. This doesn’t have anything to do with your school.”

  Alo was intrigued by his mother’s sharp tone. It wasn’t like her, especially during what he had thought was an idle conversation. “What do you mean?”

  “How do I put thi
s?” His mom remained silent for a few moments before taking a deep breath. “Your grandfather was always convinced Ira was trying to tell his wife something in those letters. She never thought the same herself, but he was convinced.”

  “What are you talking about?” Alo asked. He’d never heard a word about the letters or anything in them. His mom was being cryptic at best. Really weird at worst.

  His mother grew quiet and looked at the table. Both signs that Alo knew well. Something was up with the old letters, and she didn’t want to be the one to tell him. He was officially curious.

  “I’ll wait until you look at the letters when they get here. You’ll see. There are a few... odd things about them.”

  “Okay. Sounds good.”

  Alo shrugged and went back to his dinner, which was in fact as delicious as he’d hoped that morning when he left. His mother returned to her puzzle for a moment, and then to a few minutes of nagging, which was an Olympic sport as far as she was concerned. Then they cleaned up, and Alo went to grab his work for the night—letters forgotten. His family liked to make a big deal over nothing anyway, and his mother had a flare for the dramatic. He had better things to worry about.

  I’m going to need some coffee.

  He had a thick stack of essays to grade and not a lot of time to do it. He wondered if his mom was right. He sure as hell wouldn’t want to read a bunch of freshman essays if he were the professor. He supposed that was the point of protégés like him. Do all the heavy lifting in the name of education.

  Alo sat at the kitchen table for a long time that night, with coffee, essays on medieval courtship rituals, and a niggling headache that he couldn’t quite shake, even after a dose of ibuprofen and an extra coffee.

  If it was already like that at the beginning of the term and he had barely even cracked his own work yet, he couldn’t wait for the rest of the year.