Chapter 14 Lili
Fourteen
Lili
Twenty minutes later, we both go quiet as we pull up in front of my very historical, very not accessible home.
Before, when Wren dropped me off at night, it had just been a shadowed outline, a place I disappeared into while he drove
away. I don’t think either of us considered the logistics before, but looking at it in the afternoon light, the problem is
glaring. Short of army crawling up the front steps and through the door, I don’t see how he’s supposed to get inside.
I’m sure he’s done worse living on Nantucket, but I’d rather he not have to struggle just to get inside my house. But since
feeling bad doesn’t actually solve the problem, I start thinking. “How many inches of clearance do you need on each side to
fit through the door?” I ask. “And are you okay with me pushing from behind if it’s tight? Taking the door off the hinges
is probably the easiest first option, otherwise—hmmm,” I mutter, chewing on my bottom lip.
When I glance at Wren, his eyes quickly dart away, like I’ve caught him staring.
“We’re not taking the door off,” he says, his voice uncertain, as if he’s trying to convince himself as much as me. “Back door?”
I brighten. “That could work.”
There’s only a slight step up over the threshold in the back, which Wren pops up and over without too much difficulty.
I follow behind him, the now smooth-as-butter floorboards creaking as I move through the living room. There’s a mug on the
table, probably mine, still half-full from hours ago. Before I can make it to the study, Mom’s voice calls down.
“Lili? Is that you back already?”
I hurry to the base of the stairs, tilting my head up to answer. “Yes, and I’m not alone!”
A beat of silence. Then, clomping footsteps.
Goldie appears first, leaning over the railing at the top of the stairs. “Hey, Tour Guy.”
“Yeah, hey,” Wren says, but he’s looking at me as if I told her to call him that.
I didn’t, but I’m happy to take credit for it.
A second later, Mom emerges. I’ve told her about Wren, of course, but I still introduce him.
“Wren, this is my mom, Mia. Mom, this is Wren, my sort of . . . boss?” I turn to him for maybe a better word, but he seems
fine with that one.
Mom smiles warmly. “It’s great to finally meet you, Wren. Lili’s told me about your family’s museum. It sounds incredible.
I hope I’ll get to see it before we leave.”
I watch Wren closely, half expecting him to tense at the mention of the museum, but he just shakes her hand. “Great to meet
you too. And you’re welcome anytime.”
Mom eyes me, a silent Why are you home unannounced with company? written all over her face, but before I can explain, Wren does it for me.
“Lili thought I might like to see some of her dad’s research materials. Help us figure out what’s already been done and what
we still need to cover.”
Hearing him say my name makes something flutter in my chest. I know he’s only doing it to be polite in front of my mom, but
still—I like it more than I should.
“If you don’t mind, that is,” he adds.
Mom waves a hand. “Oh, I don’t mind at all.” She starts toward the heavy door off the stairs, then hesitates. “You know what?
I really need to finish getting the upstairs windows open. I’ll never understand why people keep painting them shut, but these
have at least five or six layers on them.”
“I’ll try not to keep her long,” Wren says, nodding toward me. “Hopefully she’ll be upstairs to help you in no time.”
I shoot him a glare that he pretends not to see.
“That would be great,” Mom says. “But please don’t rush on my account or I’ll never hear the end of it. Goldie and I can manage
today, right?”
Goldie scowls. “She makes us wear masks.”
Mom places a hand on her shoulder, steering her toward the stairs. “That’s because we tested, and there’s lead paint. And
what don’t we do with lead paint?”
“Mess around,” Goldie drones.
“Right.”
As they pass behind Wren, Mom turns to me and mouths, He’s really cute, then gives me an exaggerated thumbs-up.
I shoot her a pointed look, my eyes growing wide. I can’t believe she just did that right behind him. To be fair, I never mentioned that he has a girlfriend, but I definitely don’t need her telling me things I already know.
“Your mom seems nice,” Wren says, all innocence, once they’ve gone upstairs to start the windows.
I look at him deadpan. “Uh-huh. Don’t think I don’t know what you just did. If I end up upstairs chipping away at lead paint,
I’m dragging you up there with me.”
He muffles a laugh while I unlock the study. The door creaks open and he squeezes through the narrow doorway after me, his
knuckles scraping against the frame. I wince.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Did you get cut?”
He doesn’t even hear the question as he stares at the piece of furniture in the center of the room. “Is that a Lombard desk?”
Of course that’s what he notices before checking if his hands are bleeding. “I’m not sure. Goldie’s looking into it. All we
know so far is that the carved leaves all over it are called acanthus and there are exactly one hundred thirty-seven of them.”
“That’s an oddly specific thing to know.”
I just shrug. “My sister likes to count things.”
His fingers trail over the polished wood. “If it’s real, it probably cost more than my truck. You could sell it.”
My reaction is immediate and vehement. “I would never.”
“I wouldn’t either.” He looks away from the desk, his gaze catching mine. “But most people would.”
His eyes hold mine, and for a second, I almost forget to breathe. My fingers twitch at my sides, and I have to force myself
to look away.
“Anyway, this is it.” I step back so he can see the room.
“All the books on those two bookcases are Nantucket related. The ones on the far left focus on our family history, including his notebooks on the bottom shelf. The one I brought you is about Kezia, but we should check the others just in case.”
I crouch down, reaching for the first notebook. But before I can pull it out, Wren’s voice breaks through the quiet. “What
about boxes or maybe the drawers in the desk? Did you find anything in there?”
I twist on my heel, frowning at the unexpected question. “Yeah, I found his Kezia notebook.”
He shakes his head, his frustration rising. It’s clear he’s looking for something more. “Nothing else? Maybe some pictures?
Or did he have a computer?”
“Now who’s being oddly specific?” I raise an eyebrow, irritated that he’s already got something on his mind that he’s keeping
from me. “No, no computer. He was strictly analog. Why don’t you just tell me what you’re looking for?”
He hesitates for a second, like he’s debating whether or not to speak. Then he says, “I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s a lie. You’re obviously thinking of something.” I walk toward him, my voice sharpening with the frustration
of not knowing something he clearly does.
His jaw clenches as he meets my gaze. For the first time since I’ve known him, I catch a hint of discomfort, a flash of something
almost guilty.
“Years ago, a guy came into the museum. He didn’t care about any of the mermaid stuff, and it was off-season, so it wasn’t like we had a lot of people around. He and my dad got to talking, and the next thing I knew Dad was letting him in the back room to look around.”
Something about his tone makes the hairs on my arms stand up.
“I was just barely in high school at that point,” he continues, “still trying to teach myself how to take care of all the
items McCleave’s had collected over the years, but I knew enough not to just let some guy wander around unsupervised. So I
stayed back there, watched him like a hawk. He walked around, taking in everything, but he only asked to look at one thing.”
My heart skips. “What?”
Wren pulls something from his bag, and my stomach flips when I realize it’s a dark blue archival box. He places it carefully
on the desk and lifts the lid.
The scent of leather, dust, and something faintly musty wafts toward me as I catch sight of a book inside. It’s old, with
a cracked leather cover that’s charred almost black in places. My heart rate quickens as I step back. “What is that?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been able to read a single page of it. I didn’t think anyone could.” His voice is thick with frustration,
his fingers gripping the edge of the box. “It was clearly in some kind of fire, and there’s water damage, too. The pages are
stained, smudged . . . I couldn’t even tell how old it was. When I found it, wrapped in burlap, there was no info on it. No
provenance. Nothing in the ledger. Best guess is my great-great-grandfather got it at an auction in the twenties.”
“But this guy . . . he knew?”
“I don’t know how he could.” He meets my gaze again, his eyes clouded. “He didn’t say anything. Dad and Tate came and went, but he just sat there at the table, not touching anything. Just staring at it for hours.”
My breath feels too shallow, like it’s trapped somewhere in my chest. “And then?”
“I had to leave for a few minutes, and when I came back, he was gone. I never saw him again.” His eyes lock onto mine, and
I feel a knot twist in my stomach. “Until today, when you showed me that photo of you with your dad.”
The world shifts beneath me. Everything clicks together—too many pieces falling into place at once. “He must’ve thought . . .
now you think . . .” I can’t wrap my mind around it fast enough. I lift my eyes to Wren, searching, but he just shakes his
head.
I take a step back, trying to steady my breathing. “Okay, wait—let’s go back to the book. Is it a diary? Could it be another
Kezia diary?”
He blows out a breath. “If that’s what he’s referencing in his notebook, I guess he could have taken pictures or something
in those few minutes I was gone.” His tone turns skeptical. “But he would have had to spend every moment of the last four
or five years trying to read it, and even then I’m not sure it’s possible.”
We both lean in toward the desk, our attention fixed on the cracked leather-bound book that looks more like a relic than a record, but my thoughts drift elsewhere.
I think about those last few years, the space between me and my dad, the conversations we never got to have because of the possibility Wren is voicing.
He shut himself off from so much, even ignoring the warning signs of the illness that ultimately took his life.
A tightness creeps into my chest. It’s not something I can put into words yet, but it’s there.
A small, unsettled feeling that follows me as I stare at the book.
“Where’s your dad’s notebook? Can we look at it?” Wren asks, pulling me back to the present.
I hand it to him, my fingers brushing his as I do, and I try to focus on that warmth even though I don’t follow him to the
other side of the desk.
“Hey,” Wren says, his voice quiet. “You okay?”
I don’t respond at first, the question hanging in the air. Wren sets the notebook down and moves closer to me, his gaze steady.
“Lili?”
It’s the first time he’s said my name just for me. The sound of it fizzes through me, quick and bright, like the first sip
of something sweet and sparkling. It’s ridiculous how much I want to hear it again.
I press my lips together, pushing the feeling aside before it can turn into something I have to deal with. Instead, I focus
on the book, on the thrill that’s been there all along. “Let’s see what’s possible.”
I open Dad’s notebook, while Wren slips on a pair of white gloves he also brought and carefully opens the other one. I turn
page after page of atrocious handwriting that looks like a doctor was trying to write behind his own back. While running.
I have to smile thinking about how some of Dad’s postcards had taken me literal hours to decipher, and those usually only
contained a few lines. Looking at a full page makes my eyes want to cross. Occasionally, something stands out, if it’s repeated
enough. The number forty-three, for one, and as I stare, something else.
I stop turning pages, the oddest sensation trickling through me as I glance between the two books, like I’ve got my emotions crossed again and I’m not feeling the way I’m supposed to.
I know Wren sees it too because he lets out a laugh.
Most of the ink on the aged, faded page of the mystery book has bled beyond recognition, smearing and staining until the entry
is all but lost. But in the corner, untouched by the damage, is a drawing of an intricately knotted rope.
My fingers tighten around the edge of my dad’s notebook as I stare down at the page I’d already been studying. Carefully sketched
in the margin is the exact same knot.
It hits like a current—recognition, certainty, yes.
I sit up straighter. Everything in me is buzzing. All that time, all the guessing, and now something solid. Finally.
I look at Wren and grin so wide my cheeks hurt. He’s already smiling back.
Before I can overthink it, I launch over and hug him. Quick, tight, completely on impulse. My whole body needs somewhere to put that feeling. But when his arms come up around me after a moment, I let myself hold him just a second longer.