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The wood gives way with a groan, and the archivist in me can’t resist digging my hand around the space between the closet walls. It’s tiny, maybe six inches deep and six inches tall. I grope around, pulling out an old piece of lace, a faded cyanotype photo of the beach, and a small black leather-bound book.
I open the book slowly. It’s dusty, and the leather is buttery and soft. The binding looks handmade. The inscription on the first page makes my jaw drop:
This book belongs to Beatrix Walton.
I immediately grab my phone off the bed and take a photo, hoping to show my boss on Monday.
I flip through the first couple of pages. The paper is delicate, but thankfully it doesn’t crumble at the touch. It occurs to me that I should be wearing gloves. Beatrix’s handwriting is spindly. I make out a couple of words: “Martin” and “devotion.”
Someone knocks on my door, and I jump, momentarily thinking it might be Beatrix.
“Eleanor, dear? Dinner’s ready if you’re hungry.” It’s only Iphigenia.
I need to keep the diary in a safe place. I close it and stash it in the innermost pocket of my suitcase before getting up and brushing the dust off my knees.
“Dinner sounds great. I’m starving,” I say as I follow Iphigenia downstairs.
“Good, I made a roast. We’ll eat in the dining room. It feels excessive when it’s only me and Joseph, but three’s a party!”
Iphigenia set up full table service for a whopping three people.
My chair screeches loudly as I scoot it back and take my seat, laying a cloth napkin on my lap. She’s brought out fine China and scoops a small mountain of mashed potatoes and roast onto my plate before I can tell her it’s enough.
“Eleanor, I don’t know if you drink, but I do have some lovely red wine from Martha’s Vineyard. I went back in June.”
“I’d love a glass."
Iphigenia beams as grabs three wine glasses from the China cabinet and uncorks the bottle of red.
She hands me the glass, and I take a sip. It’s sweet and full-bodied. “This is great.”
“Should you be drinking on the job?” Joseph harrumphs from across the table. He exudes an aura of distinct disdain. His steely gaze sharpens into a glare as I sip my wine. He takes a haughty sip. The red coats his surprisingly full lips.
“It’s after work hours, and you’re one to talk! His favorite activity is to sip scotch during meetings,” Iphigenia stage-whispers to me.
“It helps me think,” Joseph snaps.
“If only it would help you welcome our guest. I can’t believe how rude you’re being.”
“I can’t believe you’re giving money to a stranger to play detective in the attic for a fake fucking curse.”
“Joseph, language!”
“So, you don’t think Beatrix is real? The cab driver told me he saw her walking along the beach one night,” I say, hoping to shift the subject away from my unwelcome presence.
“Of course, he did,” Joseph and Iphigenia say in unison.
“He’s full of shit—"
“She walks the shores after midnight.”
“He’s fucking with you.”
“She calls out to kind souls who she thinks will show her the grace she lacked in life.”
“People in this town are nuts.”
“You’ll see at the library there’s all sorts of documentation.”
