Chapter Fourteen
It takes me a full week to finish reading Grams’s existing books, plus familiarize myself with the notes for A Siren Calls, plus make a plan for the weeks to come, but I do still love a good plan, and by the end of the day Sunday, I feel like I have a handle on what’s to come.
In Grams’s old office, above a waist-high bookshelf, large-scale calendar pages for November and December span the only wall not taken up with ocean-facing windows or floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.
Six a.m. to eight a.m. is blocked out nearly every day for Dylan’s run and workout and for me to complete tasks relating to my academic job search, loan applications, research on contractors, and anything else that simply needs to get done.
Also, showers. Eight to eight thirty is breakfast. Eight thirty to twelve thirty is writing time, with a fifteen-minute break in the middle.
We’ve allowed ourselves a full hour for lunch, though we both suspect we’ll often cut that time short.
In the afternoons, I’ll sort antiques, manage eBay sales, and move forward with high-priority renovations while Dylan follows up on his undisclosed plans for the boat, pursues modeling and copywriting jobs, and picks up gig work if needed.
Between jobs, he’ll help around the house.
Carriage house demolition. Wallpaper removal.
Making us dinner that isn’t pasta. Evenings are TBA.
We’ll write if we can. Deal with other things if necessary.
I only have one more call to make before my checklist for the week is complete, and I’ve been sitting on my bed for over an hour, phone in hand, scroll-stalling.
The last dregs of sunlight are fading outside my window, and I can hear Dylan shuffling in the room next to mine, the one we stripped and painted buttery yellow this summer.
His old one is no longer habitable, the room next to mine was in the best shape, and we no longer had a reason to camp out together.
So, we swapped out the mattress, he moved his meager belongings in, and here we are, with him on the other side of a very thin wall and me pretending that knowledge doesn’t keep me up at night.
Okay. Enough stalling. I shake off my nerves and hit “Call.”
Riley picks up on the third ring.
“Wow. An actual phone call,” he says. “Is this for medical reasons? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m calling you as my brother, not my doctor.”
“Oh, god. What did Mom and Dad do now?”
“Nothing, other than make me feel bad about my life choices.”
“So, the usual?”
“Exactly.” I have to laugh at that, and then, while Riley listens with his characteristic quiet patience, I tell him about our parents’ recent visit and the argument we got into about the house.
“I know you’re planning a wedding, and Mom and Dad have a point about the house not seeming worth the expense.
So far, every banker I’ve talked to shared their opinion, especially since I have no assets or income, which has been super fun to hear over and over.
But you know how I feel about this place.
I’m not ready to give up on it yet. I just need some help before another storm hits, the damage gets worse, and Dylan and I have to sleep on the boat. ”
Riley laughs under his breath. “Louisa would have a few thoughts about that.”
“You might notice I’m not using the group text.”
After another beat of soft laughter, Riley goes quiet.
Seconds pass, and they are excruciating.
I’ve never asked anyone in my family for money before, discounting my recent outburst with my parents.
I’m too aware that my lack of money has been deemed a personal failure, and drawing attention to that failure is pretty much the last thing I want to do.
However, given the low prospect of a bank loan and my lifelong distrust of the lottery, I’m out of options.
“I’ll pay you back,” I say when I can’t stand the silence anymore. “I’m only asking for a loan. Dylan and I are working on ways to bring in more income, but everything takes time.”
“I know,” Riley pushes through a rough exhale, and I can picture him dragging a hand through his always charmingly rakish hair.
“It’s just, well, Mom and Dad said you might ask.
Pretty sure they called all four of us. They said the sooner you saw reason and let the house go, the more likely you were to get your life back on track. They told us not to enable you.”
“They what?” I gasp out.
“I know. I know. It’s bullshit, but I’m not sure about getting in the middle of this. It’s not a good time to blow up the family. We just booked the wedding venue. Friends of theirs with that place right on the coast. Mom’s so excited. You should’ve heard her go on about the floral arch.”
“You told us you didn’t want an arch. Or floral anything.”
“Well, yeah, but you know Mom. She loves this stuff.”
I flop back on my bed and stare up at the ceiling, which is gloriously free of damage.
“She does,” I say. “And I get it. I shouldn’t have asked you for a loan. It’s my roof, my problem. Thanks for being honest. And kind. But, Ri? Don’t forget it’s your wedding, okay?”
Riley sighs, but after another awkward pause, we get each other laughing by imagining an extreme version of the wedding we both know our mother will plan every last detail of while Riley and Emil compliment each choice, afraid to offend her.
Ice sculptures abound. Doves are released.
Swans are procured. An eleven-course meal is catered, and everything has some kind of weird foam as a garnish.
An entire orchestra passes by the dock on a barge bedecked with forget-me-nots.
Drones fly overhead to create an outdoor balloon drop. Andrea Bocelli sings live.
The laughter helps, as does Riley’s ease with a bit of teasing. I can’t be mad at him for not pushing back against our parents, even while a small loan didn’t seem like too much to ask.
I call Eleanor after hanging up with Riley, though her disposable income is nowhere near his.
She confirms that our parents got to her first, but she also transfers me $2,000 and suggests I call Haley and Louisa as well.
I do, reluctantly, even though Haley has a kid on the way and Louisa has her own wedding to plan.
They match Eleanor’s donation, and by the time Louisa’s comes through, Riley has sent me $4,000, likely pressured into it by our sisters, but I’m not about to turn it away.
Together, with what I’ve already saved up, it’s enough to pay for the roof.
I’m left reeling in gratitude, no longer sure why I was so determined to move away from my family when I first applied for teaching jobs.
I might never have a close relationship with my parents, but my siblings are way more supportive than I remember them being when we were growing up together.
I suspect we were all wrapped up in our own pursuits, figuring out who we wanted to be, and I got so used to being compared to them, I started doing it to myself, wishing I was more extroverted, more likable, more attractive to boys, more drawn to interests that might make our parents proud.
But that was never my siblings’ fault. Not once.
Even if I never get another teaching job, and Dylan and I fail at writing A Siren Calls, and the boat sinks as the house falls down around me while he waves goodbye on his motorcycle, off to star in the Netflix adaptation of The Baller’s Final Score (because that definitely needs to be made into a film), these months have brought me closer to my siblings.
It’s enough to make up for missing my library and having anxiety dreams about my bank account balance.
It’s more than enough.
Monday morning at 8:30 a.m., I take a seat at Grams’s big rolltop desk, centered in the windows that face the ocean and provide a view of the Zephyr’s Revenge II at the end of the dock.
Dylan’s the more obvious choice to do the actual writing, but after years of paralysis on that front, he prefers to pace, lie on the floor, or do anything but set his hands on the keyboard.
I open a blank Word doc, create a title page, and type Chapter One.
“Okay. So,” I say while Dylan rests his hands on the back of the chair and leans over my shoulder.
He’s in the bulky cardigan I still covet, looking very writerly.
“When we left Zane and Euphoria, she was tied up and drowning in the sea, and he’d leaped in to save her after refusing to reveal the whereabouts of the Island of Diamonds and Desire.
Zane suspects Balbo and Euphoria have been meeting up behind his back, but he has no proof, only suspicious glances and missed assignations.
He knows there’s history between Balbo’s and Euphoria’s families, and he wonders if Balbo’s blackmailing her into sneaking him information she gets from Zane.
While he hates the idea, he’d be far more distraught to discover Euphoria is actively trying to betray him because her heart lies elsewhere.
He still loves her, even if his trust is tenuous. ”
Dylan pushes off the chair and begins to pace, linking his hands behind his neck.
“We start with the sea,” he says. “Then zoom in on Zane. He struggles to find Euphoria. Only when we think he might fail does he see her.” He returns to his spot behind me.
The wood creaks as he rests his weight on the chair back again.
“Maybe start with The sea was cold. We can change it later, but it’ll get us going. ”
And so it does . . .
The sea was cold. The shock of entry made Zane’s body snap to attention, rigid, tense, but only for an instant before his arms were stroking and his legs were kicking as he swam down, down, down toward the ocean floor, probing the depths—
“Is probing the depths too suggestive?” I ask.
Dylan raises a brow. “You’ve read the other books. What do you think?”
I snort out a laugh. “Probing the depths it is!”
—probing the depths for a hand, a foot, a strand of hair, a swish of silk from the hem of Euphoria’s gown where it escaped the confines of the ropes that bound her. She was down here somewhere, and he either left the ocean with her or not at all.
The sea swallowed his attempts to call out to his beloved as he used the reeds around him to pull himself left, right, forward, and back again.
She had to be here. He’d seen her fall, her cry of terror muffled by the gag Balbo had tied around her mouth when he’d threatened Zane with her death if he didn’t reveal everything he knew about the island rumored to hold the greatest treasure known to man.
Gold. Jewels. Spices. Enough riches to set a man and his crew up for life, and plenty beyond.
But what were riches if Euphoria lay at the bottom of the sea?
Stroke, kick, stroke, kick.
Nothing. Only reeds, rocks, and dark, frigid water.
His chest tightened. His lungs burned.
One more stroke. One more kick. One more pull to the right.
Nothing. Still nothing.
His vision, what little he had so far from the surface, pinholed, and all too soon, he was forced to kick off the ocean floor and propel himself upward.
He broke the surface, gasping for air as he made a quick scan of the shore. Balbo was no longer on the clifftop, but Zane caught a glimpse of raven hair and emerald-green silk disappearing through a narrow fissure in the cliffside.
His heart swelled with hope.
Euphoria had a fondness for emerald green.
In fact, she’d selected a dress of that very color when she left his bed that morning.
“She must be a hell of a swimmer,” I say. “The average weight of a woman’s dress at the time was around six pounds when it was dry. Her stays would be either steel or whalebone, so that would weigh her down further. And don’t get me started on the panniers and petticoats.”
Dylan suppresses a smile. “I think we can take a little license.”
I settle into a frown. “A little license or a complete sidestepping of reality?”
“You do recall that he’s half immortal, the last book included a ship made of bones and crewed by bloodthirsty ghosts, and she wears a magic amulet that allows her seven deaths?”
“That doesn’t mean she can swim like Esther Williams in multiple layers of clothing.”
The smile Dylan’s attempting to suppress breaks free, which suggests I’m at least as amusing as I am annoying. It’s not my ideal collaborative energy, but it’s something.
“She has to get away so she can link up with Balbo while Zane’s in the water,” he says.
I throw back my head and groan at the ceiling, wishing that doing so didn’t make me notice new water stains near the east wall. Thank god the roofer will be here in two days.
“Fine,” I say. “So Euphoria escapes her bonds and makes it to shore like the Olympic swimmer we’ve never known her to be. And now Zane’s eagerly anticipating their amorous reunion?”
“Possibly, but we should plant his suspicions as early as possible. Remind readers where they left off reading six years ago, when Zane and Euphoria’s relationship was already fractured.”
“Okay. So . . .”
Zane wiped salt water from his eyes, trying to clear his vision and his head.
Euphoria was safe on shore. Surely that was her, and she’d know to hide in the cave at the south end of the island until Balbo and his men were convinced she was dead.
She’d know Zane would find her there, that he’d always find her, and that his plunge into the ocean would come only seconds after her own.
Except Euphoria wasn’t heading south. She was scaling the rocks a little to the north, toward the deserted fort where Balbo and his men had encamped all week.
The realization hit him like a cannonball to the chest.
Euphoria didn’t want Balbo to presume she was dead.
She wanted Zane to make that assumption.
But why? he thought, and before he could answer that question or take a single stroke toward shore, a tentacled arm wrapped his ankle and dragged him under.
“Oh my god,” I say through an uncontrollable sputter of laughter. “I can’t believe we’re only on page two and we’ve already introduced a sea monster.”
Dylan’s eyes sparkle with mirth as he spins toward me, midpace.
“How many pounds does a mid-eighteenth-century sea monster weigh?” he asks.
“I think we can take a little license,” I toss back.
“What if the sea monster’s wearing a corset? And petticoats?”
“Then we’re writing a very different book from the one Grams had in mind.”
This draws out Dylan’s dimples, and I have to bite down my own smile.
Given my persistent draw to realism, I’m not sure how I’ll help write a scene in which a lovesick pirate fights for his life against a malicious octopus/dragon/seahorse hybrid ten times his size, but I have to admit, I’m having fun. So much fun. And we’ve only just begun.