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ChapterSeven
The front-desk manager at the Nantucket Island Courthouse had always had a not-so-secret crush on Jeremy Farley. This was something the rest of Jeremy’s colleagues liked to tease him about, especially when Jane found little tasks for him to do that brought them closer together. There was always a lightbulb to fix or a delivery truck to drive, or a canned-food run to make, all of which involved Jane and Jeremy. Jeremy had given the idea of taking Jane out on a real date brief consideration but had soon shoved it away. Jane was about ten years younger than he was, with hopes to have a family of her own one day. Jeremy had already done the “family thing.” He was exhausted by the family thing. He’d had enough.
“You are going to break that woman’s heart,” Jeremy’s colleague, Mark, commented. He sat beside him at the circular table in the break room, unzipping his lunchbox. The plastic wrap around his tuna sandwich was coated in tuna muck.
“I am not. I told you, I don’t flirt back. I’ve never given her any reason to think we’re headed toward any kind of future,” Jeremy returned.
Mark unwrapped his sandwich, wrinkling his nose. “But when was the last time you went on a real date, Jeremy?”
“All married people just want everyone else to pair up. But the truth is, you forget how nice it is to be alone.” Jeremy opened his brown paper bag and removed a delicious-looking burrito, one he’d purchased from the downtown Mexican restaurant only ten minutes before.
Mark blinked at the burrito, nonplussed.
“Besides, if I went out with Jane and it didn’t go well, what then? It would just be awkward at work,” Jeremy said.
“You’re a smarter man than I,” Mark told him. “I met my wife at my last job. The gossip was impossible to avoid.”
“I guess it’s good it worked out,” Jeremy said. “You and Minnie are thick as thieves.”
“Yeah. I just wish she’d pack a better sandwich once and a while.”
“No reason you can’t pack your own sandwich, my boy.” Jeremy jumped up from the table, no longer interested in dull chat about his single life. “Just remembered I have about a million emails to answer. I’ll catch you later?”
Jeremy sat in the solace of his office, both hands wrapped around his chicken burrito to try to keep it intact. His music app played Supertramp’s “The Logical Song,” one of his late father’s favorites. Beside the computer, his daughter peered back from the confines of a picture frame, her arms crossed over her chest and her teeth heavy with braces. He’d taken the photograph on a trip they’d taken together, just the two of them when she’d been twelve. Now, at age seventeen, she would have been a stranger to her former self.
As he chewed at the mushy tortilla, another email came through his inbox.
RE: MEETING TODAY
Hi, Mr. Farley,
Just want to make sure we’re still on to discuss Sarah this afternoon at three-thirty.
Jeremy rolled his eyes and answered with an automatic:Wouldn’t miss it.
Sarah was his constant worry. Even if he’d been in a coma, chances were he’d have awoken for the meeting with her high school counselor.
The counselor’s initial email had said,“We’re all worried about Sarah.”Obviously, there was something wrong. There had been for over a year, maybe longer. The email was later than late. He’d wanted to write back,“So glad you’re finally paying attention,”but he’d held himself back.What good would it do?
Jeremy finished his burrito and shoved the trash in the can by the door. He then washed his hands in the hallway bathroom and headed back to the archives, where he was hard at work categorizing wedding and birth announcements on Nantucket Island from the 1800s. It was a miraculous thing that Nantucket still had so many files on-site, proof that Nantucket Island upheld its history with more precision and more heart than most places he knew. But that was just how everyone he knew was on Nantucket— they loved details of their beautiful oasis in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. To them, the mainland practically didn’t exist.
The early 1800s’ marriage certificates featured gorgeous handwriting and illustrations, which seemed to demonstrate the personality of the couple or what was fashionable at the time. With gloved fingers, Jeremy pieced through the marriage certificates, taking photographs and uploading information into the Nantucket Courthouse Online Documents.
He tried to drum up a memory of the marriage certification he’d filled out twenty years ago but could remember nothing more than a few lines and a thick CERTIFICATE OF MARRIAGE at the top. With a flourish of his hand, he’d officially pronounced himself as “married.” Five years later, that same handwriting had declared him officially “divorced.”
You win some, and you lose some.
At one-thirty, Jeremy’s curiosity pushed him to search for divorce rates in the 1800s. He wasn’t entirely sure why he wanted to know. Memories could be so sharp, even ones from nearly fifteen years ago. He wanted to make sure marital pain wasn’t a newfound thing. He wanted to feel less alone.
Naturally, back in the 1800s, unhappy couples didn’t often divorce and simply sought refuge in separate households.Separate households— should they have tried that?Then again, Piper hadn’t even given him the courtesy of a conversation before she’d packed her bags and fled. The note?“IT’S OVER. I’M SORRY.”No mention of Sarah, their three-year-old child. No “I love you,” either.
The phone in the downstairs archives blared. Jeremy jumped up too quickly, wincing as sharp pains ran up and down his legs.
“Hi, there.” Jeremy scrunched his nose as the pain slowly dissipated. He’d been so lost in the thoughts of his divorce that he’d forgotten himself.
“Hi!” It was Jane, the front-desk secretary. Her voice was bright. “How are you doing down there?”
Jeremy groaned. “I’m deep in paperwork from the 1800s.”
