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“No. Joseph. Her son.”
“Oh, shit! You mean the brooding hot guy? I see him stalking around the porch sometimes, and it’s so intriguing. He’s got that Heathcliff thing going on,” Izzie gushes. I feel warmth flood my cheeks as I study the foam on the top of my beer. I haven’t told anyone about what’s happening with Joseph and me. It feels too new to be part of the Weatherby rumor mill. I want to stay in the dreamy first weeks of a relationship with him when it’s only us and the outside world disappears.
“He’s a nice guy,” I say.
“Come on, you’re blushing!” Cora squeals.
“Do you have a crush?”
“When you put it like that, it sounds juvenile. We’ve been seeing each other, but keep it on the DL,” I admit.
“Oh, we’ll keep that under lock and key, but that doesn’t negate that it’s juicy! Thank God for you. The library hasn’t been this interesting since Izzie had that fling with the dude who manages the baby goats at the petting zoo.”
“We met during Storytime.”
“They locked eyes over a Richard Scarry book, and it was over.”
“Until I realized that he cares about his goats more than he ever could about a human woman.”
“His loss, honestly.” Cora drains the rest of her beer in one gulp. “I’m grabbing another; does anyone need a refill?”
“Sure,” I say. I hand her my empty glass and allow my shoulders to relax. It feels good to be outside the house for a night.
Izzie studies me while we wait for Cora to return with our refills. “How do you sleep?” she asks.
“Fine, I guess? I mean, I take melatonin.”
“No, no. I mean, in that house. How do you fall asleep at night? I’d be far too freaked out.”
“You get used to it. It’s an old house, so there’s a lot of creaks and bumps in the night, but it’s nothing unusual.” I neglect to mention how most of my dreams have a guest star and wipe my sweaty palms on the front of my skirt. I tie my hair in a loose knot with a hair tie from my wrist.
Izzie’s jaw drops.
“What happened to your neck?” she asks. I trace the faint outline of the jagged scratch that spans from my neck to mid-back. I’ve grown used to it, and some days, I wonder if it will scar me. Mostly, I pay it no mind, except for the horror clouding Izzie’s green eyes.
“Oh, nothing. I fell and scratched my neck against the corner of one of the old pieces of wood in the attic.” It’s a physically impossible excuse, but it’s what I can come up with.
“You should see if you can file for workman’s comp or something,” Izzie says.
Cora returns with our beers, and we put it to rest. We spent the rest of the night talking and laughing. It feels so good, so normal, that I feel almost untouchable. How can Beatrix exist in a world where I do something as typical as grabbing a beer after work with some friends? Maybe my dreams have been so vivid lately because I’ve been so immersed in the archival materials. If I spend all day thinking about it, it’s bound to show up in my dreams at night.
After requisite glasses of water and reassurances that we’re okay to drive, we settle the checks and walk each other out to our cars.
The drive back to Idylewylde is peaceful. The moon peaks through the trees, illuminating the beach parallel to the road. I haven’t explored the beach yet; there’s something about knowing that’s where Beatrix died that freaks me out. It almost feels disrespectful.
I can’t deny the closeness I’ve felt growing between Beatrix and me.
It’s a magnetic pull.
Every night, it gets harder to ignore. I feel like I need to help her. I spend my days going over the details of her death in a continuous loop in my mind. Still, without the technology of an autopsy report, the details are almost impossible to verify.
I can’t shake the suspicion that Beatrix didn’t kill herself. The fact of her death is too neat and straightforward-- the perennial story of a woman driven to madness by a man older and more powerful than she. But I've spent hours reading her diary. Beatrix was smart. She was tenacious. She wouldn't go down without a fight.
When I wake up, I’m freezing. The biting air stings my eyes.
I reach for a blanket, and that’s when I realize I’m not in my bed.
My eyes snap open, and I realize that the sound of lapping waves isn’t a white noise track. It’s real.
