“And you believed him?” I asked.
George smiled sheepishly. “Not at first. But then I found this old journal of his. It had cryptic notes and sketches of the property. One page had a big X right where we’re digging.”
I had to admit, it sounded intriguing. “What do you think it could be?”
“In my wildest dreams? Gold coins, rare jewels,” George said, his eyes lighting up. “But honestly, at this point, I’d be happy with anything. A few thousand bucks could really help.”
I nodded, understanding all too well. “Yeah, life’s expensive these days.”
We fell into a rhythm, digging and talking. George shared more about his job loss, and I told him about the struggles Karen and I had been having with our house finances. Despite the craziness of the situation, I felt a sense of connection with him—two guys, different backgrounds, united by the possibility of treasure buried in a backyard.
“You know,” I said, pausing to stretch my aching back, “even if we don’t find anything, this has been… kind of fun?”
George looked surprised, then grinned. “Yeah, it has, hasn’t it? Thanks for not calling the cops on me, Frank.”
We both laughed, the sound echoing in the night.
But as dawn approached, that hope began to fade. We had dug halfway to China and found nothing but rocks and roots.
George slumped against the side of the hole. “I really thought… I was so sure…”
I felt for the guy. “Hey, it was worth a shot, right? Come on, I’ll give you a ride home.”
We started filling in the hole with dirt, but eventually, we gave up and piled into my car—turns out George had taken a cab over to my place. The ride was quiet, both of us lost in thought.
When we pulled up to George’s house, a woman rushed out the front door. This must be Margaret, I thought.
“George!” she cried. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick!”
George climbed out of the car, looking like a kid caught in trouble. “I’m sorry, honey. I was just…”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed as she saw me. “And who’s this?”
I stepped forward, extending my hand. “I’m Frank. We bought your old house last year.”
Recognition flashed across her face, followed by embarrassment. “Oh no. George, you didn’t.”
George hung his head. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I really thought…”
Margaret turned to me. “I am so sorry about all this. My husband’s been… well, he’s convinced there’s treasure buried here.”
“It’s not crazy!” George protested. “My grandfather—”
“Your grandfather was a storyteller,” Margaret said gently. “Remember what the lawyer said about his estate?”
George looked deflated. “But I was so sure…”
