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They spent the next hour poring over vague entry after vague entry, searching for clues. The name seemed vaguely familiar to Amelia, but she couldn’t quite pin it down.
Soon enough, they were burnt out. Every line seemed to hold some suggestion of what the first entry hinted about. Though they didn’t get through the whole thing, it was clear that there were wide gaps in when Nora had decided to write—not only because of the chronological expanse between entries but because she’d torn many, many pages out. Perhaps the entries she’d torn out were the most specific ones. The most revealing. Wrought of truth and emotion, like those four she’d left with Michael.
There was no other specific mention of Gene. Yes, some romantic pinings, but each of those did not name anyone, and each felt, well... like it was about a different man. Or boy, in the earlier cases.
“Let’s take a break,” Amelia suggested. “We’ve learned nothing more than the fact that Mom was a girl with a secret. Lots of secrets, probably.”
Clara slid from her seat and took her mug to the sink, rinsing it dutifully. “I agree. I’m ready to hit the beach for a walk or something. It’s officially summer. Let’s act like it.”
Megan checked her wristwatch. “All right. Sounds good to me. We have lots of time before Brian and Sarah get in, and I have nothing to do.”
“Well, I have a lot to do,” Kate complained, her expression sour. “And I have company coming.”
“Company?” Amelia asked, wiggling her eyebrows.
Kate glanced away, clearly suppressing a smile. “Matt is helping me get started on some things around here. I can’t wait around to get started. I need income now.”
“What about your realty job? And your house? What’s the latest on those?” Megan piped up from her squatted position at her bag. She’d been rummaging for a bathing suit, apparently. Of them all, Megan was treating the day like a vacation. It put Amelia in the mood to rent a kayak and head out on the open water.
Holding up her palms and now smiling broadly, Kate confessed, “I quit. And I dropped the price on the house. I’ll need to get my furniture out here soon, probably. My old boss said they’re expecting to get some nibbles today.”
“That’s great, Kate,” Amelia offered sincerely. She was happy for her older sister. After a lifetime of doing what was expected of her (generally speaking), it was nice to see the Type-A Perfectionist making choices that only she wanted to make. In fact, Kate was even more enjoyable to spend time with. Some of her neuroses and anxieties had seemed to subside in favor of a relaxed attitude, generally. Amelia wondered if it wasn’t also the reunion with her high school sweetheart that had allowed Kate to loosen up. She hoped so.
“Okay, Kate, you do your thing with Matt. We’ll take a break in the sun. Sound good, girls?” Amelia asked, clearing the last of the table into the sink and filling it with hot tap water before squeezing dish soap in.
“Perfect,” Clara agreed. Megan nodded, too.
***
As soon as her naked toes curled into the warm sand, Amelia was transported to her youth. Images of herself as a child, building sandcastles with her sisters flooded her brain as Megan and Clara strode ahead toward the marina.
Loud calls from the nearby dock floated across the water and into Heirloom Cove.
Clara turned around ahead, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand. “Maybe we should walk the other way? Away from the Village?”
Amelia shrugged. “I like walking near the marina.” And she did. Amelia loved being in the presence of people—strangers or acquaintances. Friends, too. She missed the friends she’d made in New York and elsewhere. Keeping touch had gotten harder as time passed on. Being around the dock where she hung out as a teenager, made her feel safe.
That was less true for Megan and Clara. Megan wasn’t shy, and she probably didn’t identify as an introvert, but she could take or leave people. Clara, on the other hand, would be happy as a clam to tuck herself away in a corner of her apartment with a book for hours (if not days) on end.
Still, something in Amelia was drawn toward the harbor, and so she pointed in the opposite direction of where Clara wanted to go. “Let’s walk to the Village, get an iced tea to go, then walk back up the shore.”
Their sandals dangled in their hands, and the three moved rhythmically across the beach, closer to the boat traffic on the water and foot traffic in town. Tourist season was just beginning to heat up. As a teen, it was Amelia’s favorite time of year. It was the time of year she was most likely to find a boyfriend which had often been Amelia’s central goal—apart from nailing a main part in the school musical. That dream never did pan out. Once she finally signed up for voice lessons when she was nineteen, the teacher accused her of being tone deaf. All the grit in the world can’t make up for being distinctly unable to carry a tune, young lady. This is why the arts are The Arts! Talent! Chance! You have none!
It was the harshest advice she’d ever received, and the second most useful. The first most useful came from an acting teacher in Louisville, where she’d spent a spell in hopes of joining their summer stock. That teacher reminded the whole class—all ten of them—that You don’t have to take a class to become an Actor. You just go out there and audition. Simple as that.
Hah. If only.
Of all the years Amelia had spent chasing her dream, there was only one summer she recalled finding true happiness, fleeting though it may have been.
Autumn, just before she moved west, Amelia and her mother and sisters took a girls’ trip to Massachusetts. Although Nora, Kate, Amelia, and Clara each wanted to stick to the basics—Boston, New England Clam Chowder, Harvard, Foliage, and so forth, Megan insisted on dragging them to two of her bucket-list locales, as she dubbed them: Salem, the site of Puritanical witch fervor, and Fall River, a tiny, out-of-the-way industrial town that had long ago been home to one of America’s most infamous women: Lizzie Borden.
During the Fall River day trip, which was a brief tour of the teetering Victorian house in which Lizzie had been accused of committing patricide, the quirky owner recognized Amelia’s flair for memorization and presentation. On the spot, she offered Amelia a summer gig to give tours and help keep up the property.
It was almost a no. Amelia planned to be in California the following summer, performing in Shakespeare in the Park or taking tickets at the Chinese Theatre, if all else failed.
But Megan had pushed her, literally pushed her, into the cash register where they were purchasing hatchet earrings as souvenirs. “She’d be perfect,” Megan promised the woman.
And just like that, Amelia filled out the application and bought a plane ticket to return in May.
Which she did.
It was the best summer of her life.
Had the Borden house not been sold in the following winter, Amelia would have done it again every year until her death. She loved being a docent of the macabre. If she didn’t know any better, Amelia would have thought she had a little of Megan’s dark spirit living inside of her somewhere.
But it wasn’t the ghoulishness of the job that Amelia adored. It was the interacting with guests. Putting on two shows a day. Hosting a captive audience and bringing oddball history to life.
After that summer, her sisters encouraged Amelia to find similar positions in other museums around the country. Or, perhaps she could have worked as a Civil War re-enactor, they implored. But Amelia believed in fate above all else, so when that season of her life had ended, she pressed ahead with her previously scheduled plans.
As Amelia and her sisters neared the dock, she slipped her hand into her front pocket and rubbed her father’s watch.
Maybe fate was at it again.