I come to a halt outside the building that would have never been on my list in a million years. “Mrs. Mayhew, this isn’t—I mean, I appreciate the kind thought, but thismuseum”—I have to force myself to even use the word—“isn’t going to be of any help to me.”
Mrs. Mayhew only smiles. “Have you ever been inside?”
“No.” Dad had refused the one and only time I’d asked. He’d said there was nothing in there but fairytales masquerading as fact, and with an island as rich in history as Nantucket, it was better left for the tourists, which we were not. Despite the fact that our family only visited during the summers, Nantucket was in our blood.
“Well, then you don’t really know, do you?” She lets her arm fall from my shoulder and gives me a gentle nudge. “What could it hurt?”
Three
Wren
Bethany is late. Again.
Which means instead of leading tours—where at least I can slip some actual history into the fiction on display around here—I’m stuck behind the gift shop counter, ringing up plastic snow globes filled with iridescent glitter, seashell-shaped bags of mermaid poop slime, and overpriced T-shirts that sayI Met the Real Little Mermaid at McCleave’s Mermaid Museum.
The register, as always, is fighting me. Two out of every three attempts, it refuses to cooperate, blinking back at me like it knows I can’t do a damn thing about it.
At least the shop is empty now, except for one girl.
She’s about my age, maybe a little younger, but I’d have noticed her even in a crowd. Not because she’s loud or trying to draw attention—she’s not—but because she doesn’t look like the usual flip-flop-wearing, sunburned tourists who roll in off Main Street. She’s wearing a sundress with a ribbon in her hair, like she walked straight out of a black-and-white movie.
She doesn’t even glance at the shelves, heading straight for the arched entrance to the exhibits.
Then she hesitates. Doubles back. Drifts toward the round table in the center of the shop, fingers skimming over the T-shirts before picking one up.
“Which one of you will Goldie like enough to forgive me for ditching her today?” she murmurs to the fabric.
A minute later, a shirt lands on the counter.
“Hi,” she says, her voice light and neutral, the kind of greeting you give to strangers without thinking about it.
I nod and start ringing her up—or I try to, because naturally, the register picks now to rebel.
“I had one of those,” she says, watching as I jab at the buttons. “I worked in this vintage clothing store in Arizona, and I swear the register had a personal vendetta against me.”
Tourist. Called it.
I don’t bother responding beyond a quiet “Hmm,” still trying to get the stupid machine to cooperate. It finally does, spitting out a receipt like it expects a thank-you.
I bag her shirt and slide it across the counter. “Anything else?”
She smiles again, not forced, just easy. “Actually, I had a question—” She glances at my name tag. “Wren.” Then at the words beneath it.“Oh, you’re a guide. Perfect. When does the next tour start?”
It doesn’t.
I check my phone again—nothing from Bethany—before answering. “We’re short-staffed today, so you’ll have to settle forthe placards by each exhibit.” Then I shrug. “But you can make up whatever you want. It’s all fiction.”
The words land like I just popped her beach ball.
“Is there maybe a curator or collections manager I could speak with?” she asks, still hopeful.
I almost laugh. “Nope. But there is a full-sized mermaid skeleton waiting for you just through there.” I nod toward the museum’s main hall. “Captain Lawrence McCleave ‘discovered’ Nerissa during a whaling expedition in 1893. Before that, this place was a cabinet of curiosities—his wife’s way of sharing all the interesting finds her husband brought home, and turning a profit at the same time.”
She turns toward the exhibit. I can’t see her face, but I can imagine the expression well enough.
Most people expect drawings. Models. Cute little Disney-esque displays for kids to laugh at.
They do not expecther.
