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Then, I slowly make my way up, step by step. It felt scary at first, but two weeks later, I’ve got a system. Right foot first, always inch my hands up as far as they’ll go. Enter on my knees and fling myself forward, careful to not hit any loose nails.
The attic is lit by a singular ancient lightbulb that needs to be screwed in to work. I grope around blindly in the dark for a moment before my hand lands on the smooth glass surface and twists it three times to the right. A dim orange light fills the space, illuminating the half of the room where the floor is missing. Every time I peer over the edge, I’m glad I’m not afraid of heights.
I balance my weight on the balls of my feet and walk along the edge of the room carefully as a cat. My workstation is in the back corner. What was once a pile of musty documents is now a series of three neatly labeled cardboard boxes.
Tomorrow is my first presentation about my findings to the library board, and I’m impressed, not with myself, but with the sheer depth of information that was simply rotting away for centuries.
I found the original architectural plans for the house and the town square, the sales ledger for the town’s first grocer, Martin and Adelaide’s marriage certificate, and a work order for Isaac Walton, presumably Beatrix’s older brother. It’s a treasure trove and a trump card: Joseph keeps saying that he’ll believe the stories when he sees proof, and I’ve got proof.
My crown jewel is Beatrix’s diary, outlining her and Martin’s affair in a careful curlicued script, like this entry on September 5, 1833:
Martin says he’s grown another heart. He cannot bear to be away from me. It’s barely a fortnight, and I am unable to imagine my life without him. He leaves treasures in the eaves and alcoves: silk ribbons for my hair, a brass ring symbolizing his devotion, a book of Shakespeare’s sonnets. I read the words and think only of him. He says that he does not love Adelaide. He calls the marriage a fool’s errand.
Isaac says I am the foolish one, but he knows nothing of love. He doesn’t know how Martin looks at me, how it ignites a fire deep within me—something powerful enough to burn down a life.
I’ve spent the past week transcribing what I can decipher from her diary entries, which start in August of 1833 before stopping abruptly on January 2, 1834—two days before she died.
Tonight, I’ve set my sights on a box of original maps of the island I found in the corner.
I unroll the first map carefully, feeling the parchment crumble beneath my fingers.
The floorboards creak behind me, the unmistakable sound of someone shifting their weight. My breath hitches. I whip around to see a figure standing before me. The dim light outlines his … khakis.
“Are you getting ready for show and tell tomorrow?” Joseph drawls. He kicks one of the boxes with his foot. Instinctually, I reach out to protect it.
“Careful,” I snap.
He laughs and sits beside me. The attic is cramped. Our thighs touch, and I can feel his body heat radiating through his khakis. I’ve never considered khakis to be sexy, but Joseph radiates an undeniable magnetism, even if he is an asshole. We’ve moved on from outright disdain to a carefully curated tolerance. He says hi to me in the kitchen every morning now, and I have to remind myself to ignore the crystalline depths of his eyes.
He thumbs the map I’m holding and a piece disintegrates on the corner. “Are you going to look for buried treasure after this? I’ll save you the trouble: us Idylewylde’s may have made some terrible investments, but we never buried anything on the beach.”
“I have my first big presentation with the library. Not that you care,” I quip.
The light is dim, but I swear I see a flash of hurt in Joseph’s eyes.
“I care about the work you’re doing,” Joseph starts.
“Really? Because all you do is make jokes about me snooping, and now you’re fucking with my materials. I know this is a game for you. I know you think I’m another harpy trying to steal your family’s money, but I don’t give a shit what you think. I’m here to work.”
“And I respect that. I know how hard it is to get work done in this blasted house. I—" Joseph gets up and brushes the soot off his khakis. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Thank you,” I say primly.
Joseph stares at me for a beat too long, and I feel a blush creeping up my face. Joseph looks at me like he’s about to say something. Instead, he shakes his head and turns away, leaving me to the crumbling pieces of his family’s legacy.
I wake up at seven the next morning, even though I don’t have to be at the library until 8:30. I’m too excited to try and get any more sleep. I roll out of bed and re-check my materials for the twentieth time.
I get ready for the day and greet Iphigenia in the kitchen. She’s concentrating on a crossword puzzle, legs crossed, and lips pursed.
“Do you know a synonym for “angry” that starts with an I?” she asks.
“Irate?”
“Oh, you are a genius! Are you excited for today? I ran into Evan at the supermarket the other day, and he’s chomping at the bit to see your findings.”
I pour myself a bowl of cereal and sit across from Iphigenia. “Is he now?” Evan seems like the least excitable person on planet Earth. I can’t imagine him getting angry or displaying any excess of emotion.
He’s a quiet, African American man with a Ph.D. from Harvard and a cardigan collection that should be in a museum. He’s deeply astute and prone to getting lost in thought. I appreciate working with him. He feels no need for small talk. We spend our days working quietly, side by side. He tells me the best places to find extra staples or more laminate.
