“I still want to work on the house. I wouldn’t be volunteering full-time.”
“When are you going to research Kezia Gardner? Not while you’re volunteering, right?”
“I don’t know how that’s supposed to work yet. I wanted to talk to you first, but I’ll figure it out.”
She studies me, her green eyes searching mine. “And Goldie? All the things you promised to do with her? Is one boat ride all she gets?”
I shake my head. “I’d be doing this for her too. She doesn’t remember Dad the way I do. To her, he’s more like a character in a story than a real person.”
Mom inhales deeply and looks away. “That’s because he spent too many years chasing after history—years he took from you and your sister.”
I know she feels that way. But I can’t. And I have a whole stack of postcards reminding me why.
“That’s why I need to do this,” I say quietly. “I finally have a chance to show her that he did something important with his life.”
Her voice wavers when she says, “You two were the most important thing he did with his life.”
I shift, uncomfortable, my gaze slipping from hers.
“Lili.”
I glance back at her, startled by the softened tone of her voice.
“I understand this is important to you,” she says, carefully, like she’s weighing every word. “I know you wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t.” She hesitates, then exhales, thoughtful. “I also know how badly you wanted to come here to feel closer to him, and if this is how you think you need to do that... then okay. I won’t stop you.”
A slow, uncertain smile tugs at my lips. “Really?”
She hesitates again, then nods. “But promise me you won’t disappear the way he did.”
“I won’t.” My answer is immediate. Certain. “I promise.”
She presses her lips together, searching my face. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
Eight
Wren
Bright and early Monday morning, Tate strides into the museum’s back room with Tourist Girl trailing behind him.
“—probably going to involve some janitorial work,” he’s saying, his voice full of fake encouragement. “But nothing a plunger and a can-do attitude can’t handle.”
She hesitates just inside the doorway, looking thoroughly distraught at the idea. I bite back a laugh, but my attention catches on her outfit—high-waisted sailor-style shorts in a soft red, matching flats, and a sleeveless white top tied at the waist. It’s the kind of thing you’d expect to see in an old summer postcard, like she should be leaning against a vintage convertible with an ice cream cone in hand. Instead, she’s standing in the dusty back room of a museum, framed by bookcases full of Nantucket history books and an old dehumidifier rattling in the corner.
It’s not that she looks bad. If anything, she looks too put together, especially in a place where the unofficial uniform is wrinkled T-shirts and an air of mild discontent. Case in point: Tate, whose shirt is both wrinkled and vaguely insulting. Today’sselection simply says:Newport: Because Some People Fear Happiness.
“You’re not going to be cleaning bathrooms,” I say, dragging my focus back to my laptop.
Tate turns to me with an exaggeratedWhat gives?expression. “What?” he says, all innocence. “She’s asked what kind of work she’d be doing. I’m just giving her some possible options.”
She lets out a small breath, visibly relieved, though she still clutches the strap of her red bag like she’s already regretting showing up today.
“Bye, Tate,” I say flatly.
He sighs dramatically but heads out, muttering something about wasted opportunities under his breath as he goes.
“So, he works here too?” she asks after a moment, her voice light but probing.
I nod, keeping my eyes on my screen. Then I remember that he’s about to own his own boat. He won’t be here much longer. “For now.” I’m happy for him, but I’ll hate it when he’s gone. “Give me a minute and we’ll talk about what you’ll actually be doing around here.” When a beat passes without so much as a sound from her, I look up, half expecting her to have left too.
