Chapter 5
Thankfully, the leak in the roof wasn’t in either of their bedrooms. After the rain cut out that first night, a night during which Hannah and Minnie had sat in the living room, avoided one another’s gaze, and eaten the Thai food they’d had delivered an hour or so after they arrived, Hannah crept upstairs to assess the damage.
Droplets continued to come from the roof, forming a massive puddle in the middle of the hallway.
The wood was worn, cracked, and drooping.
Hannah squatted down to press her fingertips against the wood to find that it was sort of squishy, maybe from winter snow and springtime rain.
The real estate agent hadn’t mentioned this—nor had Natalie.
“Fixer-upper” was certainly the word for it.
Maybe because the wood was so damaged, one of the floorboards curled dramatically away from the others.
It gave the impression of having been slotted into place at another time.
Even the nails meant to keep it in place were loose, poking out dangerously.
Although this particular area of the hall wouldn’t be often traversed, as it was about ten feet from Hannah’s and Minnie’s bedrooms and another fifteen feet from the bathroom, Hannah didn’t like the idea of rusty nails sticking out like that.
Pulling her sweatshirt over her hand, she tugged at the nails till they came out.
The floorboard flipped up along with the last one, revealing a pocket beneath the floor.
And within that pocket was a plastic bag, slightly clear, so that Hannah could see a shoebox within it. Hannah’s heartbeat quickened. The plastic bag was speckled with rainwater, but it had done a great job of protecting what was inside. The shoebox was as dry as a bone.
Hannah’s pulse raced. Downstairs, she could hear her daughter’s music, playing from Minnie’s phone.
Hannah had promised Minnie a television, but it wasn’t going to arrive till the end of the week, and the house felt eerily empty without it.
It was as though, without other people’s stories on a screen, Hannah and Minnie didn’t know how to carry their own story.
Before she opened it, Hannah tried to imagine what was inside the shoebox.
Optimistically, she imagined stacks and stacks of hundred-dollar bills.
She imagined a map to buried treasure. She imagined old photographs of beautiful women who’d once lived in the house.
Maybe whatever she found would be so interesting that even Minnie would want to know more.
Maybe Hannah and Minnie could find a way back to one another, through fascination with whatever was in this box.
Slowly, Hannah shuffled the top off the box to find a stack of what looked to be letters.
Excited, she reached for the one on top, eager to dig in.
But that was when she heard from downstairs the sound of her daughter, sobbing.
She put the lid back on the shoebox, carried it to her bedroom, and hurried downstairs.
In a heap on the sofa that had come with the house, a sofa that seemed clean enough, Minnie was crying into her thighs.
A sad song played on her phone speaker, and her backpack was open, revealing the books and journals Minnie had packed from Miami.
For Hannah, who’d loved Minnie since she was merely an idea in her mind, seeing Minnie like this nearly broke her.
She dropped onto the sofa and wrapped her arms around her daughter, willing her daughter to feel her love.
It was then that she saw the photograph beside Minnie of her and her ex-boyfriend Gavin at the formal autumn dance, to which Minnie had worn a plum gown and slow-danced with the boy of her dreams. After returning home that night, Minnie had privately told Hannah that she’d never been happier.
Hannah had loved that Minnie opened up to her then.
She willed Minnie to tell her about her broken heart now, to share how angry she was not only with Hannah but also with Kendall.
Instead, Minnie groaned into Hannah’s arm, “I need to be alone.”
The spell broke. Hannah pulled back, nodding. “I’ll put the leftovers in the fridge,” she said, because she couldn’t think of anything else to offer.
Minnie sniffed and sniffed. She packed up the photograph and her books, then hauled one of her suitcases and her backpack upstairs to her bedroom.
Earlier, Hannah had offered to make Minnie’s bed for her, to put the sheets and the pillows on, but Minnie had scoffed and said she could do it on her own.
That first night at the new house, Hannah hardly slept.
Although the rain had stopped, the winds seemed only to ramp up, tearing at the siding on the already-busted house.
Hannah wore a massive university sweatshirt and a pair of thick sweatpants, but she shivered in bed, worried that Minnie was just as cold down the hall but too stubborn to ask for help.
Too worried about her own life to deal with anyone else’s, especially someone who was probably dead, Hannah had shoved the shoebox of letters into the bottom drawer of the dresser and promptly forgotten it.
The following morning, after less than three hours of sleep, Hannah hauled herself out of bed, took a lukewarm shower, and went to the kitchen to make coffee.
Minnie was already up. Hannah could hear her shuffling around her bedroom.
They had plans to go to Nantucket High School together this morning, where Hannah would check Minnie in.
As there was only a little more than a month left in classes till summer vacation, Hannah had offered to homeschool Minnie, half-hoping Minnie would agree so that they could bond and heal together.
But Minnie had said, “If we’re really going to move to Nantucket Island of all places, I guess I want to make a friend or something.
” Hannah had agreed that this was rational.
A few minutes before they planned to leave, Minnie appeared downstairs. She wore jeans, a thick coat, and a black turtleneck. She’d put on more eye makeup than Hannah had ever seen her wear. She looked older and sophisticated.
“You look good, honey,” Hannah said.
Minnie half rolled her eyes.
Hannah drove Minnie to a nearby bakery for breakfast, where Minnie selected a pastry with cream.
Hannah ate a bagel with cream cheese and drank another coffee.
When they returned to the car, it had begun to rain again, and Minnie groaned.
“It’s seventy-eight degrees in Miami,” she stammered, buckling her seat belt. “And this car is ugly!”
Hannah didn’t respond. Everything Minnie said was a fact, after all. The car really was ugly.
Inside the Nantucket High School head office, Hannah filled out a form about her daughter’s previous school career.
At the same time, the guidance counselor asked Minnie several questions about her interests and plans.
Minnie said she wanted to go into business, like her dad.
“He always said that the most important thing about managing a team is showing them your confidence, that you don’t second-guess yourself, and that you have a clear vision,” Minnie said proudly.
“It sounds like you have leadership potential,” the counselor beamed. “Are you interested in after-school activities? Maybe the National Honor Society?”
Minnie said she wanted to get her bearings before deciding what kind of student she wanted to be here in Nantucket. Hannah sat quietly as Minnie signed up for her classes—classes she’d spend a month in before transitioning into summer, then her junior year of high school.
“We’re so thrilled to welcome you,” the counselor said. “You’re going to love it.”
When it was time for Minnie to head to first period, Hannah gave her daughter a hug. Minnie was stiff in her embrace, clearly counting the seconds before she was released. “Good luck today, honey,” Hannah murmured.
“I hate it here,” Minnie whispered back, before hurrying after the counselor and disappearing around the corner.
“What a wonderful girl she is,” the woman behind the front desk said, beaming.
Hannah couldn’t speak. Rather than return home to her fixer-upper, she decided to head over to the Nantucket local newspaper.
Prior to the move up north, she’d emailed with the head editor a few times, who’d told her to stop in for a chat when she arrived.
The editor was a guy named Marshall Albrecht, who’d majored in journalism at Northwestern before working as a travel journalist for many years.
After that, he’d moved to Nantucket, where he helmed a staff of twelve.
By the looks of things, the Nantucket newspaper didn’t exactly move mountains with its publication.
They covered pie-eating contests, sailing news, and other local events.
But Hannah needed a job. She wondered if Marshall would be willing to open the paper up to other kinds of stories and harder-hitting news.
She couldn’t imagine herself writing about anything silly. She’d come too far for that. She’d ruined her life for journalism, for the truth.
Upon entering the newspaper offices, the secretary—a twentysomething named Laurie—stood to greet her.
“You must be Hannah Moore. He’s ready for you.
It’s that door right there.” She pointed toward the only enclosed room in the entire place, where most newspapermen and women and photographers worked at computers.
Hannah entered Marshall’s office to find that it was not unlike Josh’s, as though all newspaper editors around the world followed a similar script.
A few years younger than her, Marshall wore horn-rimmed glasses and a button-down shirt and was halfway through a pastry that looked to be from the same bakery she’d taken Minnie to that morning.
He stood, brushed the crumbs from his hands, and shook her hand.
“Hannah Moore, it’s a pleasure.”
“Thank you for seeing me.” She sat down and tried to imagine how this conversation would go. She imagined him gushing over her writing and demanding that she come on as a staff member.
“I’ve just finished reading your most recent article for the Miami Times,” Marshall said. “Really fantastic stuff.”
Hannah’s heart fluttered. “Thank you.”
“I mean, really. Some of the best writing I’ve read lately. Correct me if I’m wrong, but is Kendall Moore your…”
“Ex-husband,” she finished.
“Wow. That’s some dedication to journalism right there,” Marshall said.
Hannah couldn’t tell whether he respected it. She kept her face neutral. “I’ve read some of your work, as well,” she said. “I really loved the piece about Belgium. About…”
Marshall waved his hand, as though that were yesterday’s news.
“I used to do stuff I was proud of, sure. But these days, as I’m sure you know, we’re up to our ears with Nantucket events, silly stories that make the islanders smile.
Honestly, it’s been a load off my mind. Do you want to know the last time I was threatened? It’s been years, now. I don’t miss it.”
Hannah remembered all the letters and emails she’d received in the wake of her Miami story, threatening words that she eventually hadn’t been able to read.
“I imagine it’s nice,” Hannah offered.
“I don’t miss the other side of this,” he told her. “But I have a hunch that you would.”
Hannah furrowed her brow, preparing to lie.
He held up his hand. “Suffice it to say, even if we could accommodate a harder-hitting piece or two, I don’t know if we could pay you what you’re worth. Looking at your résumé is intimidating for most of our staff.”
Hannah didn’t know what to say. Although she wanted to argue with Marshall, she guessed he was right. She was too good for this job, and she also wasn’t keen on making herself smaller for it. But before she could figure out how to respond, Marshall’s phone rang.
“Marshall Albrecht,” he answered curtly. And then, he got to his feet with shock. “You don’t say.”
Hannah was well-versed in matters of panic. She knew something was wrong.
“We’ll have someone come out there immediately,” Marshall said to whoever had called. “Thank you.” He hung up and sat down, his face drawn. He looked Hannah dead in the eye and asked, “Did you bring all this big city drama from Miami with you?”
Hannah cocked her head. Her first thought was Minnie—that something had happened or she’d acted out at school or run away already. But it couldn’t be.
“What happened?” Hannah asked.
“There’s been a mysterious death,” he said. “A wealthy man from Nantucket. One of our council members, in fact. Thomas Bard. He was found in the water.”
Hannah knew that a death like that in such a small, tight-knit community was a shocking thing. Probably, Thomas was beloved. Probably, a scandal was involved. She felt her journalistic instincts coming on strong.
“Do you want me to head out and ask a few questions?” she asked, sure that this kind of story was one that Marshall would give to someone like Hannah.
But Marshall shook his head. “Like I said, money’s tight at the paper, and we have staff on hand to cover this. But hey, maybe we can accommodate you down the line? Keep us in mind if you have any pitches. Oh, and welcome to Nantucket. Don’t be a stranger if you see me around.”
Marshall shook her hand again, then led her out the door.
As she headed outside, she heard Marshall call out for one of the newspaper staff to come into his office for a meeting.
She dared a glance back to see a man in his early thirties, excited, eager to dig his heels into this story.
She ached with jealousy, then turned back to walk the rest of the way to her crummy secondhand car.