I shake my head, take a slow breath, then straighten. “I’m good.”
“Are you?” He sounds skeptical.
“I will be good,” I amend. “And I’m sorry for arguing with you on your tour.”
He studies me. “You were technically right about Dorcas. And theAndrea Doria.”
I grin. “You were right about Kidd.”
“Oh, I know.” He doesn’t grin, but I kind of get the feeling he wants to.
“And you’re right that I’m not interested in mermaids. What I want is a lot more important.”
“Oh yeah?” He tosses the trash bag into a nearby can. “And what’s that? A coupon for another Nerissa T-shirt?”
“Is that my prize for fact-checking your tour speech?”
He laughs.
The sound is rough around the edges but surprisingly nice. I tuck that away before I can think too much about it. “I need a research partner for the summer. Someone who knows Nantucket history, specifically the Revolutionary War era.” I draw a deep breath. “Kezia Gardner is my as-many-times-great-grandmother as Lawrence McCleave is your grandfather.” I rock my hand from side to side. “Or near about.”
His mouth flattens. “And? Everybody around here is related to someone noteworthy.”
“My dad spent years trying to prove we got her story wrong and died before he could. The museums wouldn’t help him, and they won’t help me. I think you can.”
Wren sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I’m sorry about your dad, but McCleave’s is a mermaid museum. We don’t do real history.”
I study his face. “Then tell me how you know about blackberries hiding the entrance to her supposed smuggling hole?”
His jaw ticks. “I read it somewhere.”
“Where?”
He hesitates.
I step closer, watching his expression flicker, a subtle shift that catches me off guard. “You do have records at McCleave’s, don’t you? Books and maybe even artifacts from before 1893? Things that not even the Whaling Museum seems to know about?”
His gaze lowers, and in that split second, I know.
My heart thuds in my chest, a warm rush of triumph and possibility spreading through me. “I don’t think you care about mermaids any more than I do, but McCleave’s is literally your family’s museum, so why not help me and rediscover some of the actual history I’m willing to bet you still have?”
He’s about to brush me off, his lips already parting to say something dismissive. But then he stops, his posture shifting, his eyes narrowing in a way that suggests he’s weighing something deeper. He lifts his head, meeting my gaze with a deliberation that makes my breath catch.
“I’m not saying we have anything,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the words on his tongue, “but if you want access, to McCleave’s and to me for the summer, I’d have to get something out of it.”
His words hang in the air, a subtle unexpected challenge that makes my pulse speed up. I probably should ask more questions, but the only word I say is “Anything.”
Six
Wren
“She offered to do what?”
Tate is sprawled in the open bed of my truck, twirling his captain hat around one finger while Eryn changes in the cab.
“Work at McCleave’s. For free,” I repeat, still not believing Tourist Girl had agreed. She hadn’t been thrilled by the terms I’d offered her; in fact, she’d looked distinctly uncomfortable, but she’d said yes.
Eryn slides out of the cab, fully dressed in cutoffs and a tank top, then hops up beside Tate. She folds her legs beneath her with effortless grace and tucks a loose strand of still-damp hair behind her ear as she turns to face us. “Doing what?”
