“Did you read it?” When she doesn’t answer, I soften my voice. “Lili, did you read it? And remember I can’t see if you’re shaking your head.”
There’s a watery laugh coming from her end of the phone. “No, I didn’t read it. Edmund has terrible penmanship and”—she clears her throat—“there are a lot of creases. Someone folded and unfolded it many times. It’ll take some time to transcribe it.”
Which means it was reread again and again. Kezia wanted to make sure she didn’t miss a thing. If it’s real.
“It might be fake. Or about nothing. Or about literally anything else.”
I hear her sniff. “See, I know it’s bad when you start being nice to me.”
I am acutely aware of Eryn sitting quietly beside me during this conversation and, while there’s no judgment coming off from her, there’s plenty going on within me. Because I want to rush over to Lili, to be there for her, and dig into this thing until she’s smiling again. Hearing her break on the phone like this is killing me.
I glance over at Eryn. “I can’t meet you right now, but I’ll try to call you later and—”
Eryn takes the phone right out of my hand. “Lili? Yeah, he’ll come. No, it’s fine. I hope you guys can find something helpful. Sure, okay. Bye.” Then she’s pushing her door open.
“Wait a minute, what about going to eat?”
“I’ll come by the museum later,” she replies. “This sounds kind of urgent, doesn’t it? And I’m not sure that I got all the seawater out of my hair.”
“Yes, you are. Why not just come with me?”
“Because I have no idea who Edmund Harry-whatever is or why you looked so upset hearing his name. I’d just be in the way, and bored. Go,” she says again, this time from outside the truck. “It’s better this way, trust me.”
Several minutes later, I see Lili pacing in front of the dirt road that meanders off to Mrs. Mayhew’s home. She’s chewing on her lip andsqueezing her elbows, but the second she looks up and spots me, it’s like all the tension leaves her body.
And slams right into mine.
She crosses the front of my truck to the passenger door. I lean over to push it open for her, tracing her features when she sweeps her bangs to the side and smiles at me like I’m the best thing she’s seen all day too.
I swallow. “You okay?”
She nods a little too quickly. “I said I wanted answers, right?” She squeezes her fingers around a puffy leather photo album in her lap. “So why do I feel like I’m adrift on the ocean and there’s this huge wave waiting to capsize my raft?”
“Because you might be holding something that condemns your ancestor.” I keep my tone gentle. At this point I’ve invested in Kezia’s story too. Lili even had me doubting myself a little after she debunked the Mitchell account.
“I want it to be fake,” she confesses.
“I know.”
Her voice is barely audible when she lowers her head and adds, “But I don’t think it is.”
“Hey,” I say, reaching out to push her fallen hair back from her face. It’s the first time I’ve been the one to reach out and touch her. My fingers graze the side of her cheek as she turns to look at me with eyes that have gone shiny. “Let me see.”
She lets me ease the album from her grip, and then we’re both holding our breath as I open it.
The shiny, plastic film encasing the letter catches the sunlight at first, forcing me to lift the album up at angle to see it clearly.
The letter is written on paper yellowed from age with slightly frayed edges and a tear on the bottom right corner. The ink has faded to a brownish-black, typical of how iron gall ink from the time would have aged. I try to keep my breathing under control as I carefully turn the protected page over. The wax seal I’m both hoping and dreading to find isn’t there, but the roughly round stain it left attests to the letter once having been sealed.
Lili is fidgeting beside me, waiting for a verdict that she knows she’s not prepared for. “Is it—?”
I shake my head, not an answer, just a delay. “I don’t know,” I finally tell her. And then, because I know she won’t be satisfied with a simple yes or no—which history rarely gives us—I let her in on where my thoughts are.
“Without testing the paper, I can’t say for sure how old it is, but McCleave’s has documents from the same time period and, with allowances given for the amount of handling, I wouldn’t argue with the date on the front.”
“What about the name?” Lili presses, and not just with her words; she’s leaning into me to better see the letter.
“I’d have to do some research and compare the handwriting with other known examples from Edmund Harrington. I’d just be speculating at this point.”
