Chapter 25
Wes was in the shower when his phone rang. His gray hair was thick and curly with shampoo suds. As he reached to turn off the water, Beatrice called, “It’s the historian! Want me to pick it up?”
“Yes, please!” Wes’s heart thudded. He’d been expecting this call. He washed out his hair and stepped onto the rug to dry himself off, listening as Beatrice greeted the very first historian who’d come out to the Sunrise Cove after the construction workers’ discovery: Dr. George Whitehead. He’d emailed Wes yesterday to say that he was on the verge of discovering “a great deal about Martha and Matthew Sheridan.” He wanted to speak to him personally to disclose what he’d learned.
“He’s just walking through the door,” Beatrice said to Dr. Whitehead as Wes entered the living room in his robe. Beatrice’s eyes were enormous as she passed over his cell.
“Hello, George. How are you?” Wes walked to the window and peered out at the sparkling June morning, hoping to calm himself. Ever since he’d begun the brand-new dementia medication, he’d had bouts of anxiety that made him feel he was losing control. Dr. Hamilton had said that was a normal side effect and nothing to be worried about—as long as the benefits outweighed the negative side effects.
“Morning, Wes. I’m sorry about my cryptic message yesterday. I was so wrapped up in research that I hardly pulled myself away to eat or sleep,” George said.
“Is that right?” Wes laughed nervously.
“Your family history really sparked something in me. I feel like a young and hungry PhD student again,” George said.
Wes’s stomach twisted into knots. He knew better than to believe that that meant George had discovered only good news. Historians loved all kinds of stories, especially dark ones.
“Could I invite you and your wife to dinner tonight?” George asked. “I’m happy to meet you in Martha’s Vineyard.”
“We’ll come to you,” Wes suggested. Something about having George in the house he shared with Beatrice, discussing the intricacies of the Sheridan family’s past, felt wrong to him. This house with Beatrice was his fresh start. No other Sheridan had ever lived here. It was untainted by the past.
George sent instructions to get to his place in a suburb of Boston. Beatrice was excited for a little trip, throwing snacks and drinks into a picnic basket and talking to herself and Wes without alerting him which dialogue was meant for whom. Wes put on a pair of slacks and a button-down and sat at the edge of the bed, thinking about the immensity of the day ahead. For reasons that he could only attribute to the medication, his thoughts felt sharper; he could follow his train of thought further than before. And when he took to his ledger to record what George had said, he recalled everything with startling accuracy.
“Beatrice?” Wes said, walking back through the living room to find her in the kitchen.
Beatrice stopped her frantic packing and peered up at him.
“I’m starting to notice a difference,” he said quietly.
Beatrice knew exactly what he meant. She cleared the distance between them and threw her arms around his torso. She shook with tears, then mopped herself up and suggested they stay the night in Boston as the ferries were often awkwardly timed after dinner. She viewed it as a celebration, a night away. “A pre-wedding honeymoon.” Wes agreed.
Wes retreated to the bedroom to pack a bag for the night. He considered what he’d learned last night about Amanda’s baby. According to a text from Audrey this morning, Genevieve’s fever had broken around midnight, thank goodness. It meant that Amanda would be allowed to represent herself in front of that wretched man’s parents. The Arnouts. The people so sure of themselves and their goodness that they were willing to destroy anyone who doubted them. Wes checked the time and realized Susan and Amanda were about to enter court. He threw beautiful thoughts across the sound to the Nantucket Courthouse. He hoped they could feel his love.