Page 32 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
But far fewer know this: The Amazon wasn’t always so wild. It wasn’t always untouched.
Recent satellite imagery shows man-made earthworks—networks of avenues, ditches, and other enclosures that suggest a portion of the Amazon once teemed with civilization. Long before satellites revealed any evidence, a handful of true adventurers set off to uncover what had only been legend at the time.
In the early 1930s, Edward Valentina was one of those explorers, encouraged by his wife, paired with his friend, and armed with only a hunch, a belief that the Amazon held untold secrets for whoever cracked it open. He kept a journal of his travels to South America, his trek across Brazil, and his adventures deep in the rain forest, documenting one of those legendary lost cities and the riches inside it.
Or so they say.
Only bits and pieces of his accounts still exist, housed at the Exploration Society, but he reportedly ventured deep enough into the heart of the jungle to find much more than wildlife—he unearthed proof of thriving civilizations that existed long before European explorers sailed across the oceans.
To find those accounts would be tremendous for my field.
To locate the treasures would mean mind-boggling TV ratings.
When I grab the dusty metal box hidden under the floorboard—secret compartment indeed—my heart thunders against my ribs.
The thump, thump, thump echoes in my brain, pounds in my ears. My fingers itch to yank open this box.
Because this has to be it.
This has to hold the key to Edward Valentina’s greatest adventures.
Time stands still as I imagine what might be inside. Finding the treasure for the family would be incredible. It would be one more mountain for me to climb, and I desperately want to be the best at what I do. I want to honor my father’s last wishes, written in the letter I keep with me, “to live big, to live your best life, to take every great chance that comes your way.”
That’s why everything that has my name on it—my shows, my books, my expeditions—needs to be excellent.
That’s my mission.
And as I glance at Presley, it occurs to me that I’m on the precipice of something great with her. That we’re heading down an uncharted path. I have no idea where it leads, but I want to follow it.
I want to follow it with her.
“What is it?”
I kneel next to the opening. The slat of the floorboard rests against the wall, as if it had been waiting for someone to step on it. To activate it. Maybe waiting for someone to find . . . this?
“It’s like a lockbox.” I can barely contain my excitement. “And it doesn’t even look like it needs a key.”
“Let me see, let me see.” Her voice brims with an enthusiasm I haven’t heard in it before, and I love the sound.
Rising up on my knees, I brandish the box, showing her a circular inset by the opening. “This has to be it, Presley,” I say, unable to tear my eyes off the find.
“Let me put on rubber gloves and take a look at it,” she says, ever practical, but I can hear the notes of longing in her tone. She’s not here simply to document a home. She wants something. She wants this to be important.
“Wait. I can’t believe I almost forgot. We need to record this.”
“But your crew is gone.”
“They are, but I can handle a camera too.” Setting the box on the floor, I take a small handheld from my jeans pocket. These days, a little camera works well enough for the occasional segment.
“Let’s do this right. We’ll put it on the desk. The light’s better there, since it’s right by the window, and I can open it carefully.”
“Now you’re talking.” I flash her a smile and she shoots one right back at me. Hers is full of hope.
I turn on the camera and shoot.
Tenderly, as if she’s clutching a fragile glass globe, she lifts the box and sets it on the desk, the sunset light streaming through the window, illuminating reddish tones on the box.
She purses her lips then blows air across the metal lockbox, little dust particles floating in a halo as she cleans it off with her breath. Then she reaches for a soft cloth from her jeans pocket, wiping away any remaining dust. With the box now clean, I take a better look at it. “There’s a . . . what is that?” I ask, pointing with my free hand to the opening and the raised emblem on it.
“That’s a ribbon.” She sounds like she’s trying to make sense of it too. “An emblem of a pink ribbon.”
Furrowing my brow, I zoom in on the marking. The similarities come together. Presley must figure it out too, because when I turn to her, we’re both smiling, giddy grins that come with possibility. “It’s the same style,” I begin, pointing to the mirror.
