My flat smilewobbled at the edges, and I hoped the client didn’t notice through the screen as we signed off. The thirty-minute meeting lasted nearly an hour.
I had been working with the local maritime museum on various projects—one project in particular was digitizing their registry. They wanted it uploadedtoday.
I flipped to a clean page on my yellow legal pad and added it to the top of a brand-new to-do list—the last one was now a graveyard of half-finished chaos.
I loved a good list, but it seemed like I was always needing to start a new one before any of the tasks on the previous list were complete. My saving grace was the project I could start after the digitized registries.
I glanced at the shelf in the corner, my eyes settling on the thick, yellowed pages of my upcoming project.
A delighted giggle tickled my throat. Recently a client had dropped off a moldy, possibly cursed, wedding book from 1902.
She’d said itsmelled like secrets, and I couldn’t agree more.
I had earned a master’s in museum studies with a focus on archival preservation. After working at a university library for years, I had returned home to Star Harbor after my divorce.Now I ran a small but prestigious private practice specializing in the preservation, restoration, and appraisal of rare paper-based materials—books, letters, maps, photographs, ledgers, that kind of thing.
It wasn’t just restoring the photos or tracing my fingertips over the loopy handwriting that seemed to be lost in time that appealed to me. I was obsessed with what was hidden in plain sight.
Marginalia—the human traces left behind in books and letters. I liked knowing someone had been here before me. That their words mattered, even scribbled in the margins. Notes in margins, half-torn love letters, faded dedications ... a wistful sigh escaped me.
For the time being, that project would have to wait.
I swiveled in my chair to face the windows that overlooked the backyard.
A loud cackle escaped my throat. Pressed to the glass, tongues out, cheeks puffed, were Kit and Winnie.
They slid down the glass and dissolved into a fit of giggles as I stepped outside. Clippings and sticks were clinging to their hair, and there was a suspicious, opened jar of peanut butter at Winnie’s side.
I planted my hands on my hips and looked down at them. “What are you two up to?”
“Uh-oh. The fun police are here,” Kit teased, earning her another playful laugh from Winnie.
Winnie kicked her feet. “I was trying to catch a squirrel for a pet, and Auntie Kit thought I might have better luck with peanut butter.” To emphasize her point, Winnie stuck her dirty index finger into her mouth and sucked off the remaining peanut butter with a pop.
My nostrils flared as I inhaled and tried not to lose my shit on my little sister. “Is that so?”
Kit only laughed and shrugged before pulling herself up.
I helped Winnie to her feet, then crouched in front of her and dusted off her sparkly pink tutu. I held her hands as I looked up at her. “Remember, we talked about this. We can only make something our pet if wetrulyknow they want to be a pet. Remember that raccoon?”
Winnie frowned and nodded. “He didn’t want to be a pet.”
“That’s right.” I rubbed her arms. “Do you think a squirrel would want to be a pet in a cage?” I looked up at the sycamore trees at the side of the yard. “Or do you think he would be happier, leaping and running and living outside?”
Winnie grumbled and stamped her tiny foot, but relented. “Living outside.”
I stood and pulled her into an embrace, the smell of grass and peanut butter wafting off her. “I think so too.”
I turned her shoulders toward the back of our duplex and gently padded her forward. “Okay, go clean up. We’ve got to figure out where Amanda is.”
“Man.” Kit laughed, dusting off her hands.
“What?” I asked, walking after her.
“Selene Darling.” She chuckled. “Professional good time assassin.”
Carefree Kit shook her head and followed my daughter up the back steps of the duplex. My sister disappeared into the house, and I stayed behind in the yard, swallowing a sigh.
I stood with my hands on my hips, the scent of peanut butter and dirt clinging to the late-summer air. My shoulders were tight.
