“Late night.”
Mom’s voice comes from inside the room, sudden but not surprising.
“Yeah, sorry. I was just on the porch and I lost track of time.” I walk in to see her sitting at Dad’s antique desk, a single lamp glowing beside her, its light casting soft shadows across her face. “You too, it looks like,” I add, nodding at the painter’s mask around her neck that’s covering part of the paint-spattered Britney Spears T-shirt she’s wearing.
She gives me a tired smile and lifts it off, setting it carefully on the desk.
“Goldie asleep?”
She nods but doesn’t speak. Her exhaustion is palpable in the way her body seems to fold in on itself, even without a word.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come right up to help you guys.” I move closer, the words tumbling out in a rush. “It’s just that Wren and I found something kind of big, in a lot of ways.” There’s an internal clash of excitement and apprehension that I haven’t fully reconciled with yet. Before I can try to explain, I catch the shadows under her eyes and the weary lines on her face. “Mom? Why don’t you go to bed?”
She stays where she is, looking around the room before settling on the area rug in front of the desk. “It’s the same one he had in his study in our old house. He spent so much time pacing on it.”
I hesitate, the sudden shift in topic catching me off guard until I look down at the faded patch she’s staring at, the stark evidence of Dad’s restless footsteps.
“Back and forth, back and forth, for hours on end. He’d miss dinner, wouldn’t come to bed, wouldn’t leave that spot for anything.” She spreads her hands out on the desk, pressing down. “Forever pacing because he thought the past was more important than the present.” She looks up at me then, her eyes heavy with sadness. “He missed so much making that path right there.”
An uneasy feeling creeps up my spine, and I step back from the rug instinctively, not wanting to add to the wear.
“We missed you tonight,” she says, her voice tinged with something deeper than tiredness. “All these nights lately. It’s not just working on the house. You’ve been doing your part, but we’re supposed to be doing it together.”
I lift my arms helplessly then let them fall back to my sides. “Mom, I’m trying to do the best I can. I know I’m not here as much as I want to be, but you agreed I could work at the museum and look into Dad’s research. Are you telling me you want me to stop?”
The thought alone sends a panicky flutter through me for more than one reason. I know it’s not the same, what I’m doing and what he did. I have to make the most of the limited time I have here. Wren’s not going to let me take Kezia’s diary when I leave Nantucket, and sure we took photos, but there’s no substitute for the real thing. I need to bridge the gap between what my dad started and what I hope to finish before I leave.
There’s also a little nagging thought in my mind that I want to do thiswithWren. I don’t examine it any more than that.
Thankfully, Mom shakes her head.
“It’s okay to look into your past, but your present is happening right now, too. This time in your life won’t come back once it’s gone.”
“I know,” I say, swallowing down the lump in my throat. “I’ll try to do better. I’ll even watchSpider-Manor any other superhero movie with Goldie this weekend if she wants.”
Even her smile looks tired when she stands. “I think she’d rather go thrifting. I haven’t been able to take her yet.”
“I can do that,” I say, aware that she’s exhausted in a way that has far more to do with me than with the renovations. I have to try and do better, which is why I don’t follow her up to bed. If I start working on the diary tonight, then maybe I can get home sooner tomorrow.
That worn path in the study rug sends me into the kitchen instead, where I’m immediately confronted by how busy Mom and Goldie have been in here too. All the cabinet doors have been removed and partially sanded. There’s still so much work left to do, and for some reason, that thought steadies me. It means I still have time.
Three hours later, sitting at the kitchen table with a half-eaten slice of toast slathered in Mrs. Mayhew’s blackberry jam, that hope has all but fled.
Bouncing between Dad’s notebook, the books Wren let me borrow from the museum, and the diary photos on my tablet has gotten me exactly nowhere. I’ve matched up and deciphered a fewdiary entries, but most of them are just birth and death records, notes about people she visited, or remarks on seasonal plants or weather patterns. Like this one from right before the start of the war:
1775 Friday, March 31. Been remarked by a number of aged people that there never was such a moderate winter since their memory but past fortnite more bad weather than all winter months.
Or this one about the miller and his wife:
1775 Thursday, October 26. Rode up to Fulling Mill—one Nichols an Old countryman keeps the mills here—he married at the Vineyard lately brought his family on—he lives in Nat Macy’s house near the mill—his wife appears to be an agreeable woman.
I finish the last bite of jam-covered toast, trying not to feel discouraged. It’s only one night. I can’t expect to unlock some hidden secret right away.
I’m about to put everything away and head to bed when a single word in one of Wren’s books catches my eye and ignites in my mind, lighting up everything around it. I frantically clean the jam off my fingers and swipe my tablet, scrolling through the photos of Kezia’s diary until I find the right entry. Then I double- and triple-check Dad’s notebook, implications bursting like the fireworks inside me, brilliant and beautiful.
I shoot to my feet, reaching for my phone to text Wren before I realize how late it actually is. I check the clock on the stove; it’s after one.
Biting my lip, I start typing anyway.
