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“Pregnancy brain? You know women have reported being forgetful when they’re pregnant,” I suggest.
“No! I’ll admit, I forgot to turn the computers off at the library several times, but I’d never leave my notes shoved between a dying fern and a bunch of atlases,” Eleanor insists.
She fiddles with the fraying edge of her sweater as I light the fire and prod the glowing logs with the nearby poker. Eleanor settles into one of the fireside velvet armchairs and flips through her notes at a furious pace.
“Just as I suspected, water damage!” She slams the notepad onto her lap with surprising fury. I walk over to her and peer over her shoulder at the large, wet stain covering her notepad.
“I swear, it’s Beatrix,” Eleanor says.
The minute she says her name, it’s as if all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.
“What makes you think that?” I ask as another surge of pain shoots up my arm.
“I found her diary last week at the library when you brought me food.”
So that’s why she’s been so standoffish all week. A surge of relief floods my system.
“Great,” I blurt. “I mean, not great. That’s annoying. I, fuck, I thought you were having second thoughts.”
“Second thoughts?” Eleanor prompts.
“About us, the twins, the whole thing. I know we’ve been moving pretty fast, and this was all sort of sprung upon you. You came here for a job, not a family.”
Eleanor’s face falls. She gets up from her chair, tossing the legal pad aside as she wraps her arms around my waist.
“No, Joseph, I could never! Sorry, I’ve been so stuck in my head this week. Work’s been a mess because all of my files of the diary transcripts have been deleted, even from my backup hard drive. I’ve spent the past week trying to re-read everything and cross reference my handwritten notes, which now look like someone tossed them into the ocean.”
“Now I’m sorry! I would lose my shit if the App crashed on me like that. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Well, it’s not like you believe in Beatrix or my work.”
“Eleanor, ever since that night in the attic, I don’t know what to believe. Besides, just because I’m skeptical of this town’s penchant for centuries-old gossip doesn’t mean I don’t value your work. You’re an incredibly skilled archivist. I helped Mother look over the applications for that job! Your CV put everyone else to shame. As for Beatrix, I’d say I’ve moved into healthy skeptic territory.”
Eleanor quirks up an eyebrow. “Really?”
“I’ve been having these dreams about Beatrix and my dad, or at least I think it’s my dad. He, fuck, Eleanor, he looks just like me.” I grew up only knowing my father through faded photographs and my mother’s rambling stories. In my dreams, we have the same eyes. He grips my good arm and begs, “Don’t look at her. Don’t look at her. Whatever you do, don’t look at her. As Beatrix skulks around my peripheral vision in a swish of skirts. I can’t decide if my dad’s presence is comforting or terrifying—it feels like a warning.”
“When did they start?” Eleanor asks.
“Last week. I haven’t slept a wink since.”
“Oh, Joseph,” Eleanor mutters, clutching my face. I try to focus on the present moment, the softness of her hands, the floral scent of her perfume.
“I don’t know what to do,” I admit.
“We don’t have to figure it out immediately,” Eleanor reassures me.
“But I’m telling you right now, I’m getting to the bottom of this if it’s the last thing I do.”
I see the blazing determination light up in Eleanor’s brown eyes as she scowls at her damp legal pad. “You know, Evan mentioned that Weatherby Books has a pretty extensive paranormal section.”
“Of course, they would.”
“Hey, don’t write them off that quickly! I think we should take a peek. Maybe it’ll at least tell us how to proceed. I don’t know about you, but whenever I have a problem, I like to read up on it before thinking about the next steps. Knowledge is power.”
I want to make a librarian joke, but Eleanor has a point, and a book seems like a better place to start than the loosely accredited websites I’ve found while panic-Googling at three in the morning.
“Weatherby books is right by Sacre Coeur. We could make a date out of it. I could see if we can get a table for tomorrow night. I know the maître’d.” Sacre Coeur is the only restaurant on this island that knows what a Michelin Star is. I’ve been meaning to take Eleanor there since I met her.
