The Rattled Bones(81)

I lean against my gram and her strong shoulder, the way she stands still and straight and as dependable as a lighthouse. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“I’ll miss ya too, Rilla. I can’t think of a finer feeling than loving someone so much that ya miss them.”

I smile and let out a small laugh. My gram. “You’re one of a kind.”

“I should hope so. How boring would a world full of Eleanor Murphys be?”

Not so boring, I think.

*

After everyone left last night, the peninsula returned to its quiet rhythms of the sea lapping, the gulls calling. I wrote a letter to my mother. I told her about the girl discovered on Malaga, but I didn’t tell her my role in any of it. Instead, I wrote about going to school, how good Gram is doing. Keep it light—that’s what kept going through my head. Maybe because I hope we’ll have time to talk later. Or maybe we’ll exchange letters for a while. Exchange stories.

Gram meets me in the driveway, hands me a small box of bottled herbs, which I settle onto the middle of the bench seat in my dad’s old truck. For strength, for adjustment. Gram, watching out for me always.

Gram hugs me, short but sweet. I know she’s not big on good-byes. “See ya soon,” she tells me.

“Can’t keep a seal from the sea.”

She smiles then, her full smile.

It’s a good smile.

“This is the last one.” Sam places the final cardboard box into the Chevy’s bed.

“You sure you’re up for this road trip?” I ask.

“Haven’t got anything better to do.” He winks and goes around to the passenger side. The creak of the pickup’s old door is as familiar as my father’s voice. Sam has so much work to do when he gets back, has school of his own to return to. Even though the USM boat fire was deemed an engine malfunction due to exposed wiring meeting with gasoline, I know Sam feels obligated to work twice as hard to try to repay the university for the craft that was destroyed.

He’ll drop me off at my freshman dorm and return Dad’s truck to the peninsula. Next year I’ll be allowed a car on campus and I’ll take Dad’s pickup with me, as planned. “The closest I’ll ever get to college,” Dad used to joke.

I get in the driver’s seat, behind the wheel, and turn the key. The motor coughs out its dependable rumble.

Sam has his phone out, scrolling through tunes for our long drive down the coast. He puts on “Won’t Get Fooled Again” loud enough for Gram to hear. She stands in her garden, her hands on her hips. She raises an arm and waves. I press my hand to the glass for what seems like a long time.

When I put the truck in drive, we bump along Fairtide’s gravel driveway. In the rearview mirror I see Gram surrounded by the bulging blooms of white hydrangea bushes, the sea at her back, Malaga behind her.

I turn onto the highway that stretches along the coast, heading due south, straight for my future.

A bee darts across my windshield, carrying a story.





Acknowledgments


I am so grateful for the village of readers, writers, family, and community that made this book possible.

Thanks first and foremost goes to you, dear reader. For picking up this book. For your dedication to so many books. For supporting authors everywhere. You are passionate and tireless and my craft would mean nothing without your love of the written word. Thank you.

A ridiculously huge thanks goes out to authors Kali Wallace, Kathleen Glasgow, Amber Smith, Adrianna Mather, Sarah Glenn Marsh, Lilly Richardson, Tayler Warren, Rebecca Podos, and Karen Fortunati—for your early reads of this book, your keen insights, and your gorgeous endorsements.

Many of the details for this book were gleaned from the hardworking women and men who serve as stewards of ?Maine’s working waterfront. I’m grateful for all the support I received from the women and men fishing the Atlantic. Thank you to Maine Coast Heritage Trust for protecting the island of Malaga and the Phippsburg Historical Society for protecting Malaga’s history. Thank you to the Damariscotta River Association’s Archaeology Field School. My great thanks and gratitude go to the students, authors, and researchers working to tell the real story of Malaga.

I’m beyond grateful to so many authors who have supported me in my writing journey. To Marci Lyn Curtis, Laurie Elizabeth Flynn, Carrie Firestone, Kerry Kletter, Elly Swartz, Bridget Hodder, and Lindsay Currie for being the purest forms of lovely. To Ashley Herring Blake, Sonja Mukherjee, Meghan Rogers, Chris Bernard, Jenny Bardsley, Estelle Laure, Catherine Lo, Brooks Benjamin, Victoria J. Coe, Nicole Castroman, Michelle Andreani, Natalie Blitt, Jennie K. Brown, Erica Chapman, Jill Diamond, Jennifer DiGiovanni, Julie Eshbaugh, Emily Henry, Meg Leder, Kathy MacMillan, Kerri Maniscalco, Jennifer Maschari, Jenny Moyer, Kathryn Purdie, Erin Summerill, Laura Shovan, and so many more! Your brilliant novels are only a shadow of your supportive, brilliant spirits.

Thanks to Darcy Woods for being sunshine and laughter—much needed ingredients when cooking up a novel! To Shea Earnshaw, Marisa Reichardt, and Janet B. Taylor for being the most hilarious support group any girl could ever wish for. You make me wonder how I got so lucky.

The hugest of thanks goes to Marisa Reichardt. Your keen eye and rad reader instincts helped give this book its beating heart. Thank you for the countless texts, emails, DMs, phone calls. You are my first laugh most mornings and my most precious person. Thank you for always being there. For being you.