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As I brush my teeth, I feel someone’s eyes on my neck. I spit into the sink and touch the welts on my shoulders. The flesh is no longer raised, but it still aches, and I know in my heart that Joseph isn’t the person who did this to me.
But then that raises the question: if it is Beatrix, did we summon her somehow? Is she angry that her diary is now on display for the public to see? Or is she trying to warn me?
Downstairs, Joseph hands me a muffin with a grin.
“Are these still the lemon blueberry ones?”
“Nope. Chocolate chip. I made them.”
“Since when do you bake?”
“Since the most beautiful woman I know lives upstairs.”
“Beatrix can’t eat, she’s a ghost.”
“Shut up.” Joseph swats my shoulder and pulls me in for an early morning kiss. His lips find mine with ease, and I grip the back of his neck.
We hear Iphigenia easing her way down the stairs in her telltale series of short stomps and abruptly pull apart. Even though we’re both adults, the prospect of telling Iphigenia that I’m “seeing” her son is too awkward to bear. She’d probably ask if we were dating, and at this point, neither of us knew the answer. We sneak into each other’s beds most nights, and Joseph cooks me dinner, but we’ve never been on a proper date or made any effort to define the relationship. I prefer it that way. It gives me ample time to still dive into my research without feeling like I owe part of myself to Joseph.
“Joseph! We’re out of coffee after this pot. Can you go to the store today?” Iphigenia calls.
Now that it’s October, her wardrobe is finally weather-appropriate. Today, she’s wearing a high-necked cream blouse and plaid trousers. I’ve never seen her wear pants before.
“Iphigenia! I like your outfit!”
“Oh, thank you, darling. I’m meeting with Gertrude Ives today. She’s in charge of the botanical garden. They might name a fern room after me.”
“Since when does the island have a botanical garden?” I ask.
“Since the seventies! Darling, you need to get out and explore the island more. We’re more than just the house and the library. I love the botanical garden.” She glances between Joseph and me. “It’s an excellent spot for a date, very romantic.” She grabs a muffin and winks.
“I, uh, wow, that’s cool. I’ll grab more coffee when I get out of work. You like dark roast, right?” I stammer.
“Oh, Eleanor, you’re a lifesaver!” Iphigenia gushes as I head out the door.
When I arrive at work, I shove my bag in the break room in the back and put my phone on silent.
I set up my desk for the day and started in on the pile of leftover work from yesterday. I’m halfway through digitizing the original maps of the island. The paper is thin, and the lightest amount of pressure can cause it to tear, so I have to go slow. I place the first map on the scanner at my desk, delicately place the cover over it, and press start.
“Hey, Eleanor?”
It’s my coworker Cora. She’s one of the librarians in the general reading room, but she sometimes works upstairs when it’s slow. At 6’1, she moves with the caution of someone used to being too tall for their own good. She wears her long, blonde hair in a narrow braid down her back and owns an eclectic collection of button-down shirts. Today, she’s wearing a dark black shirt with silver stars embroidered on it, dark trousers, and a bolo tie.
“Hey, Cora. What’s up? Do you need help with anything?”
Three months into my fellowship, I finally feel like I’m getting the hang of the finicky technology of the third floor. I know where to hit the printers to make them screech out documents, how to boot up the ancient computer connected to our microfiche catalog, and even how to decode the card catalog on the back wall.
“No, it’s nothing work-related. I mean, it kind of is. Some of the other librarians and I are grabbing drinks tonight at Trapdoor. Do you want to go?”
Trapdoor is the only bar in town patronized by anyone under fifty. On my drive back to the house, I saw the fading neon sign, red iron door, and the chalkboard outside the front entrance advertising whiskey as a soup of the day. It’s the kind of bar that would be a dime a dozen in Portland, but here, it feels rare because there are so few spaces dedicated to younger people. Weatherby is a bit of a retirement destination. And while that’s lovely for Iphigenia’s demographic, it doesn’t leave much for those ineligible for AARP.
I think about what Iphigenia said this morning about how I need to explore the island more. Maybe she’s right. I’d love to get to know my coworkers, and I haven’t had a night out since I got here.
“I’d love that. When were you thinking of going?”
“Six-thirtyish.”
“Perfect. I get off at six.”
