Chapter 23 Lili
Twenty-Three
Lili
All day at the museum, Wren and I avoid each other as much as possible. Every glance seems too loaded, too full of unsaid
things, so we both just keep our heads down. And as soon as my shift is over, I don’t stay to pore over Kezia’s diary with
him for a few more hours like I normally would. I just leave.
When I get home, the house is unnervingly quiet. The usual soundtrack—the rhythmic hum of saws, the buzz of sanders, and the
’90s music Mom loves to blast—is all absent. It’s as though all the life we’ve poured into this house since coming here has
been sucked out.
I call out but no one answers. Even the simple click of a door opening upstairs is missing. I shoot off a quick text, but
it remains unread. It’s only after I notice the car is gone that I let a small thread of concern unspool in my chest. Maybe
Goldie’s still sick, and Mom took her to the doctor? The thought lingers, but I can’t decide if something feels truly off
or if it’s just my own guilty conscience lingering.
After popping up to my room to finally change into fresh clothes, I find myself out on the porch, sitting with my legs pulled up to my chest, waiting.
The air is warm, but cooling as the sun sets.
Time drags, and I stare out at the gravel road and listen to the wind as it rustles through the trees.
An hour passes before I finally hear the distant rumble of Mom’s car engine.
“Hey,” she says as she climbs out of the car, a takeout bag dangling from her hand. Her voice carries a mix of exhaustion
and surprise, like she’s still catching her breath from the day. “I didn’t think you’d beat me home, or I would’ve left a
note. Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“Not long,” I say, the words coming out a little too casual, but my gaze drifts to the empty passenger seat. “Goldie’s not
with you?”
“She was up before me this morning, fever gone, and too antsy to stay cooped up in the house. I checked with Mrs. Mayhew and
she invited her over to explore some of the things her husband left behind.” She steps up onto the porch, but then freezes,
her eyes narrowing in sudden concern. “Please tell me you haven’t used the upstairs sink?”
I frown, confusion crossing my face. “Yeah, I washed my face?” And brushed my teeth and everything else I would have done
that morning if I hadn’t woken up in Wren’s truck and panic hadn’t pushed all those thoughts right out of my head.
Mom shoves the takeout bag into my arms, then bolts through the door and upstairs, muttering under breath, “Please, please,
please be okay.”
By the time I get upstairs, she’s standing in the bathroom doorway, leaning slightly, her face drawn but carrying the relief
of someone who’s just escaped a disaster. A weary smile pulls at her lips. “False alarm. Everything’s fine.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice hesitant as I try to peer around her into the bathroom. “What was almost not fine?”
“The fifty-plus-year-old pipe that burst up here yesterday.”
My mind reels for a moment, the guilt from earlier taking a backseat for the moment. “Wait, what?”
She sighs, pulling me back toward the stairs as she speaks. “Just use the kitchen sink for now, okay? Graham said there shouldn’t
be any issues until the parts I ordered come in, but I don’t want to take any chances.”
“Fine. I won’t use the bathroom. But who is Graham?”
She glances over her shoulder at me, looking slightly surprised that I don’t know. “Mr. Callaway, from the church.”
“The architect?” I vaguely remembered Mrs. Mayhew introducing us to a well-dressed guy with a hint of salt in his pepper-black
hair and laugh lines around his eyes that made him look older than he probably was. I guess maybe I saw them chatting together
last Sunday too, but I didn’t know they had much more than casual exchanges. “When did he go from Mr. Callaway to Graham?”
Mom cuts me a look at my teasing tone. “When he saved my butt and all the floors upstairs in this house yesterday.” She steps
into the kitchen, and I follow, watching as her hands rest on the counter. She stops for a second, then laughs softly. “I
guess I can laugh about it now, but I was in full panic mode when it happened. Everything I tried to do just seemed to make
it worse. I was up there with buckets and every towel in the house, trying not to wake Goldie.” Her voice flattens as the
memory plays out. “Did you know there are only five plumbers on the entire island, and all of them were either at other houses
or off when I called?”
“You should have called me,” I tell her, almost annoyed that she didn’t. I don’t know anything about plumbing, but I could’ve at least helped empty buckets. She shouldn’t have had to deal with that alone, though clearly she didn’t.
“Well, I called Graham instead,” she says, turning to inspect one of the new cabinet hinges. “He must have rounded up half
the church, including one of his sons, because he showed up with a small army after I called him. And then he stayed to wring
out towels with me long after everyone else left.”
“Wow, that was . . . really nice of him.”
Mom stops pretending to look at cabinet doors. “It was a hectic situation, and we should all be glad to have a friend here
who knows something about repairing the plumbing in these old houses.”
I stand there watching her, wondering if there’s more behind her smile than just gratitude. “Graham it is then.” I hold her
gaze, and she’s the one who looks away first. “And I’m glad we have a friend here who’ll help like that.”
She shifts slightly, a quiet laugh escaping her as she rubs her forehead. “Don’t say it like that,” she says, but there’s
a faint twitch at the corner of her mouth, something reluctant and almost amused.
I widen my eyes. “I didn’t say it any particular way.” Except I kinda, maybe did. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world
for her to meet someone who’s handy in one of the few ways she’s not and who’s kind enough to spend what is a pretty big holiday
around here sopping up floors.
“I’ll have to say thank you on Sunday,” I add, the teasing gone now.
The situation could’ve turned into a real nightmare if they hadn’t been able to fix it.
My own morning keeps replaying in my mind, and I can’t help but imagine how much worse it could’ve gone if Eryn had reacted differently.
I know I was pushing boundaries with Wren last night, emotionally if not physically.
And unlike with the floors in our house, damage was definitely done.
Mom pauses in the act of unpacking the food. “Graham never said, but it was my fault. I’d been messing with the sink earlier
in the day even though I don’t know what I’m doing. It was going great until it wasn’t.” She pulls out another container,
the plastic crinkling in her hands. “I told myself I wouldn’t touch the pipes, but after all this time here, I started thinking
that if I was just careful enough, nothing would go wrong.” Mom keeps talking, oblivious to how still I’ve gone at her words.
“And what happened? I nearly flooded the whole house.”
I opt out of taking my bike when Mom sends me to get Goldie; it’s not too far to walk, and right now, I need to feel the ground
under my feet. The crunch of gravel and the soft give of the dirt beneath my sneakers. By the time the Mayhew house comes
into view, I’ve managed to piece myself back together, at least on the surface.
The house is similar to ours—saltbox style with traditional gray siding and white trim—but it’s been better cared for over
the years. The shutters are freshly painted, the lawn neatly trimmed, and a row of vibrant hydrangeas lines the walkway. It’s
the kind of place that looks like it would be used in a “Visit Nantucket” ad.
I draw a deep breath, preparing my polite smile and hoping Goldie won’t be too hard to extricate.
Exhaustion from last night is catching up with me, and all I want is to get home.
Just as I’m crossing the yard, the front door swings open, and my sister steps outside, calling back over her shoulder, “I will! And thank you!”
She stops short when she sees me. “What are you doing here?”
I cross my arms. “Hi to you too. Glad you’re feeling better.”
She rolls her eyes and drags her feet across the grass toward me. “Hi.”
“Better.”
“But seriously, what are you doing here?”
We start walking back toward our house. “I got home early, so Mom sent me to get you for dinner.”
“Ooh, you got home early. Are we supposed to throw a parade?”
I blink at her, taken aback. “What’s with the attitude?”
She shrugs.
“Anyway, I’m going to be home a little more from now on.” Who knows how long this break from doing research with Wren will
last. I watch Goldie to gauge her reaction. “I thought you’d be happy.”
Another shrug.
“We can go thrifting now.”
That perks her up. “Now?”
“I mean, not now now; Mom’s waiting with dinner. But I don’t have to work tomorrow.”
“We can go back to Mrs. Mayhew’s! She has the coolest stuff; you won’t believe it.” Goldie is already turning, and I have
to catch her arm to stop her.
“You just left. And I’m sure she has her own dinner to eat.”
“She likes it when I come over.” Goldie jerks her arm free with a little more force than necessary, considering I’m barely
holding it.
“Fine, whatever, but we’re not going back right now. I told you we’ll go somewhere—”
“—tomorrow. Yeah, I won’t hold my breath.” That’s a lot of sarcasm for most ten-year-olds, but Goldie is a pro. She doesn’t
even look at me when she says it.
“Hey.” I stop walking, and she takes a few more steps before reluctantly stopping too. “What is with you?”
“How do I know you’ll even be around tomorrow? You weren’t here yesterday. Or last night.”
Ice trickles down my back. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not stupid. I know you didn’t come home.”
That ice pierces through to my insides. “Why didn’t you say anything to Mom?”
“Because now I know something that you don’t want her to know.”
“You’re going to blackmail me?” Who is my little sister right now?
She smiles at me coldly, and I shiver. “We’re going thrifting tomorrow.”
“I already said I’d take you. You don’t have to do it like this.”
“This way, you can’t break your promise. And I want to show you Mrs. Mayhew’s house too.”
I shake my head and start walking, quickly passing her. She hurries to catch up.
“It’s not gonna be terrible,” she tells me. “Just wait until you see inside.”
I don’t answer her.
“Where were you last night anyway? With Wren?”
“I was doing research and accidentally fell asleep.”
“If that’s true, then why didn’t you just explain it to Mom?”
“Because I didn’t feel like getting into it. And I don’t feel like getting into it with you either.”
“Are you still looking at Kezia Gardner’s diary?”
I’m not even going to ask how she knows about that. “Yes.”
“Can I look at it?”
“No.”
She’s silent for a minute, and I have a strong suspicion that she’s considering forcing me, but she doesn’t.
“I could help.”
“No, you couldn’t. Dad, me, and”—I hesitate for some reason, not wanting to say Wren’s name—“a museum expert are struggling
with it. What could you possibly do?”
“I just wanted to see it,” she mumbles under her breath. “Why is it so important anyway?”
She’s deliberately walking slowly to drag this out, and I’m seriously tempted to just leave her behind. Instead, the words
gush out of me. “Because Dad died before he could prove that she wasn’t the villain everyone said she was, so now I have to
prove it for him. And it’s really hard, and I feel like I don’t have enough time. The time I do have, I’m constantly being
pulled between you and Mom and the museum, and now things with Wren are more complicated, and I don’t know if I can do it
all, okay?” I gasp after it all pours out of me.
“Okay,” she says quietly. Then, “I won’t say anything to Mom. You don’t have to come with me tomorrow.”
We stay quiet until we reach the door. “We can do one or the other—thrifting in town or Mrs. Mayhew’s. Which is it going to
be?”
Her face scrunches up as she thinks. I’m surprised this is such a hard decision for her. Thrift stores are like her Disneyland. Finally, she sighs. “Mrs. Mayhew’s.”
“You’re sure?”
She doesn’t look giddy about it the way I expected, but she does look determined. She gives me one firm nod.
“Okay then, tomorrow it is.”