Chapter 5 Lili #2
I shake my head, thrilled I can move without turning into a human sprinkler. “The 1698 Act of Grace would’ve pardoned him
from any highly disputed acts of piracy, if not for his political affiliations.”
Wren laughs, loud enough that Tate looks over. Then he mutes his mic and leans closer. “Whether he was a Whig or not is irrelevant.
He was guilty of piracy.”
“Not according to Margaret Ellison and her book, Pirates and the Crown.” It was a poorly researched book that I read last year, but it did indeed try to defend Captain Kidd. “Clearly, you haven’t read it, or maybe any books that go against more popular accounts.”
His expression sharpens, like he’s enjoying this too much. “Oh, Tourist Girl, I guarantee I’m reading all the right books.
Both Geoffrey L. Finchley and Eleanor Beecham ripped Ellison’s book apart for its absolutely embarrassing research practices.”
His stare grabs hold of mine, and for a moment, it’s like I’m not seasick at all. Because he’s right, they did.
But then a spray of cool water mists over us, and his expression chills with it.
“Look, I don’t have the time or the crayons to explain this to you if that’s the kind of nonsense you’re reading.”
My face heats, but before I can defend myself, Goldie interrupts. “Um, we own a house here, and our family comes from Nantucket,
so you should maybe call her Local Girl.”
“Or Lili,” I say, turning my attention briefly to her and then back to Wren. “Can I ask you another question?”
His laugh is entirely humorless. “Can I stop you?”
Not about this. “What do you know about Kezia Gardner?”
His brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t hesitate to switch the mic back on. “I was just asked about Kezia Gardner. Show of
hands, who knows who she was?”
Only one woman in the back raises a tentative hand. Goldie turns to me with a grin and shoots her hand high into the air,
her bracelets jingling with the motion.
“Only two of you, huh?” Wren says, before meeting my gaze and adding, “Three.” He gestures toward the sandy dunes slipping
past us. “Kezia Gardner was the most notorious smuggler in Nantucket history, operating right along this shoreline.
“Married to a whaling captain, Kezia took control when the Revolutionary War crippled trade with Britain. She had a nimble mind and flexible morals, and refused to let her fortune disappear. Instead of bowing to new trade restrictions, she worked both sides of the Atlantic, protecting her ships and smuggling contraband goods. No one ever cracked her method of communication, but some claim she had a smuggler’s hole hidden among the blackberry bushes right along the harbor. ”
These are not commonly known details. I grip the edge of my seat as Wren continues.
“She dodged prosecution, but the people of Nantucket have their own form of justice. Many involved in legitimate trade lost
their businesses and even their homes due to economic instability while she grew richer at their expense. One night while
Kezia and her husband slept, a group set fire to their home in Quaise.”
A lump tightens in my throat. I already know how this ends.
“They survived but fled soon after, claiming the damp sea air was ruining her health.” His tone is skeptical, like he finds
the excuse laughable. “She died five years later, never returning to the island that made her infamous.”
His eyes lock on mine. “Does that answer your question?”
I nod, heart pounding. It really does.
Before I can say more, someone calls from the back of the boat.
“Now eventually you do plan to have mermaids on your mermaid tour, right?”
A few passengers laugh.
Wren’s mouth tightens but he gives a nod to the captain, and the boat makes a sharp left. My stomach flips in protest and
I squeeze my eyes shut.
“If you’ll all turn to your left as we round this cove—” Wren’s voice fades as a girl around Goldie’s age gasps.
“Look! It’s the mermaid!”
Goldie grips my arm so hard I lose circulation. “She’s so pretty!”
I risk opening my eyes—and okay, yeah, the mermaid is breathtaking.
Perched on the sun-warmed rocks, she’s framed by the glittering Atlantic, a cherry blossom woven into her long, glossy black
hair. Her golden-tipped aquamarine tail catches the light with every movement, shimmering like something straight out of a
Japanese legend.
Phones click, kids squeal, a boy near the back bounces in his dad’s lap. “She’s waving at me!”
Despite my nausea, I smile.
The captain slows the boat, letting everyone get the perfect photo. Wren recites a few practiced lines, but no one is listening,
not even me.
My stomach clenches as the boat drifts, so I clamp my eyes shut, breathing through my mouth until Goldie announces that the
mermaid is leaving. I force my eyes open just in time to see her dive into the water, her tail flashing once before disappearing
beneath the waves.
The moment the boat turns back toward the harbor, Wren says, “Thank you for taking the tour. Watch your step as you disembark,
and please remember to take all trash and belongings with you.” He switches off the microphone with a click, and just like
that, he’s done.
“I’m going to go get in line for ice cream.” Goldie bumps into me on her way off as soon as we dock. “I’ll meet you at the
bikes!”
I nod vaguely. Talking feels dangerous. Walking even more so. I focus on standing.
“Hey, ride’s over, Tourist Girl.” Wren’s voice drifts over my shoulder when I realize I’m the last guest on board. “Time to get off my boat before you turn any greener.”
“Uh, my boat,” the captain interjects, flashing me a grin. “And I do private tours.”
The idea of another boat ride nearly finishes me off. I shake my head slowly.
“No?” Tate props one foot on the seat and gazes dramatically out over the water. “The sea, she is a fickle mistress, but she
owns my heart. And if I have to choose between the two of you, pretty-girl-I-just-met, I’m sorry to say it’s the sea for me.”
Wren shoves him aside. “Would you just go help Eryn? I’ll meet you both back at the truck after cleaning up.”
Tate goes, and Wren’s eyes turn to me. “You gonna make it, or do you need a bag? I’d rather you not puke on my boat.”
I exhale slowly, leveling him with a look. “I thought it was the captain’s boat.”
“You’re still arguing?” He tilts his head toward the gangplank. “Maybe try getting on solid ground first.” I manage to step
onto the dock without humiliating myself, but Wren watches me like he expects me to drop.
“You took the ferry, right?” he asks, tying off a bag of trash in his lap. “Which means you knew you’d get sick today. You
barely glanced at the mermaid. So why take the tour?”
I hold up a finger, bending slightly to rest a hand on my knee. He rolls down the ramp as I mutter to myself under my breath.
“See? You didn’t throw up. You did not throw up on the boat, and you are not going to throw up now.”
“Let me get you a water.” Wren says.
I shake my head, take a slow breath, then straighten. “I’m good.”
“Are you?” He sounds skeptical.
“I will be good,” I amend. “And I’m sorry for arguing with you on your tour.”
He studies me. “You were technically right about Dorcas. And the Andrea Doria.”
I grin. “You were right about Kidd.”
“Oh, I know.” He doesn’t grin, but I kind of get the feeling he wants to.
“And you’re right that I’m not interested in mermaids. What I want is a lot more important.”
“Oh yeah?” He tosses the trash bag into a nearby can. “And what’s that? A coupon for another Nerissa T-shirt?”
“Is that my prize for fact-checking your tour speech?”
He laughs.
The sound is rough around the edges but surprisingly nice. I tuck that away before I can think too much about it. “I need
a research partner for the summer. Someone who knows Nantucket history, specifically the Revolutionary War era.” I draw a
deep breath. “Kezia Gardner is my as-many-times-great-grandmother as Lawrence McCleave is your grandfather.” I rock my hand
from side to side. “Or near about.”
His mouth flattens. “And? Everybody around here is related to someone noteworthy.”
“My dad spent years trying to prove we got her story wrong and died before he could. The museums wouldn’t help him, and they
won’t help me. I think you can.”
Wren sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, I’m sorry about your dad, but McCleave’s is a mermaid museum. We don’t do real history.”
I study his face. “Then tell me how you know about blackberries hiding the entrance to her supposed smuggling hole?”
His jaw ticks. “I read it somewhere.”
“Where?”
He hesitates.
I step closer, watching his expression flicker, a subtle shift that catches me off guard. “You do have records at McCleave’s,
don’t you? Books and maybe even artifacts from before 1893? Things that not even the Whaling Museum seems to know about?”
His gaze lowers, and in that split second, I know.
My heart thuds in my chest, a warm rush of triumph and possibility spreading through me. “I don’t think you care about mermaids
any more than I do, but McCleave’s is literally your family’s museum, so why not help me and rediscover some of the actual
history I’m willing to bet you still have?”
He’s about to brush me off, his lips already parting to say something dismissive. But then he stops, his posture shifting,
his eyes narrowing in a way that suggests he’s weighing something deeper. He lifts his head, meeting my gaze with a deliberation
that makes my breath catch.
“I’m not saying we have anything,” he says slowly, like he’s testing the words on his tongue, “but if you want access, to
McCleave’s and to me for the summer, I’d have to get something out of it.”
His words hang in the air, a subtle unexpected challenge that makes my pulse speed up. I probably should ask more questions,
but the only word I say is “Anything.”