The Sea Keeper's Daughters

by Lisa Wingate

  Clyde pointed the scissors, a twinkle in his eye. “Tell the barber to give you somethin’ that makes you look like a respectable young man, not some hippie boy. Never woulda let any son a mine in the door lookin’ like that. Neither would my daddy. Fella wants to be taken for a man, he’s gotta look like a man.”

  “Yes, sir.” Joel awkwardly tucked the hair behind his ears.

  I pictured the kind of relationship Clyde must’ve had with his own sons—authoritarian, dictatorial, demanding. A boot camp for mini recruits. Resentment, resistance, cross-purposes.

  Kayla caught my eye across the table, gave me a look that said, Well, miracle of miracles, they’re bonding.

  “We can, like, go downstairs and look some more,” Joel offered. “Kayla said she’d help.”

  “How much is left to search?” Maybe Alice’s suitcase of rough drafts was still here. Had I seen anything like that? Not that I could remember. Maybe my grandmother had thrown it away when it arrived, or emptied the letters from it. Perhaps it failed to show up here at all?

  It could’ve been discarded when the third-floor apartment was cleaned out after my grandmother’s death… .

  There were so many possibilities, and probably the least likely one was that the suitcase was still here, but if it was, I wanted it.

  Joel’s cheek scrunched around a purple-tinged eye. “There’s three hotel rooms we haven’t touched at all, but it seriously just looks like dishes and old furniture in those, and some more boxes. First pass, I’m guessing clothes and stuff. I dug up a couple old suitcases—just empty ones, though. I scoured those suckers—even the linings, in case somebody hid stuff there. Or the squirrel. I found a few old peanuts that squirrel dude had stuck in a coat pocket. Bet he’s really burned he can’t get in anymore. I heard somethin’ in the shop ceiling downstairs the other day. There were these two old chicks in lookin’ at the swimsuits, and they’re like, ‘What’s that noise up there?’ And I’m like, ‘Ummm … oh, that’s just the pipes.’ And the one lady says, ‘Son, my daddy was a plumber. That’s not pipes.’ And—”

  “Okay, time-out. I do not want to know any more about the squirrel,” I warned.

  “We catch him, I can make a pretty good squirrel soup,” Clyde offered.

  “We got a squirrel trap down in the shop, Old Dude.” Joel shrugged toward the door.

  Seemingly pleased with himself, Clyde rocked forward in his seat. “No sense lettin’ good meat go to waste.”

  “Ewww!” Kayla squealed. “Joel Coates, if you catch that squirrel and eat it, I am never kissing you again. Ever.”

  “Ffff!” Clyde snorted. “Squirrel’s good eatin’. In Vietnam …” He launched into a tale about grilled rat and other things I didn’t want in my mental queue.

  I took the opportunity to slip off and change clothes for the search downstairs. When I came out again, everyone was ready to go, including Clyde, who’d donned a cap and a pair of sneakers that still had beach sand clinging in the seams. He was sitting on the edge of his chair, the card table pushed away.

  “Are you sure you’re all right to be down there?” I questioned.

  “Joel’s gonna help me wrangle the stairs.” Clyde reached for the cane that had generated more than one sniping match between the two of us already. “And just to make y’all feel better, I’ll take this blasted thing.”

  My mouth fell open. I couldn’t help it. “Ohhh … okay.”

  “The boy can bring me boxes and I’ll go through the insides with a fine-tooth comb. Be faster thataway. You two girls can check dresser drawers ’n’ such. We’ll work it like a grid. That’s how we done it in the Army.”

  Joel clapped his hands, his long arms dangling loose. “I’ll shoot Boss Man a text. Dude was just askin’ what we were doin’ up here. Might be he’d come after he’s done at the shop.”

  A jolt of anticipation traveled from the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair. Warmth prickled into my cheeks. Could anyone see? Did it matter if they knew? Suddenly, I was primed and ready for Clyde’s grid search. “I guess we should get going, then.”

  Joel clicked the backs of his flip-flops together and saluted. “Operation hotel blitzkrieg commencing, Cap’n.”

  Kayla rolled her eyes. “You’re such a dork, Joel.”

  “I’m gonna have to teach you how to salute like a soldier.” Groaning, Clyde pushed to his feet, made a slow shuffle-turn, and limped to the coat rack for his jacket. Properly attired for the project, we started down the hall, moving toward our own Mission: Impossible.

  By the time Mark came upstairs after closing the Rip Shack, we were sweaty, dirty, and fairly hopeless. He arrived bearing gifts in the form of supersize slushies from the creamery. I updated him on our progress as he surveyed our mess. Kayla was searching the last of the old hotel dressers, and Joel had just carried the final few boxes to Clyde.

  “We were hoping,” I sighed, “but we haven’t found a thing. If there were more letters, or a suitcase with Alice’s rough drafts in it, it must be long gone.” That fact was hard to accept. Alice’s journey to the mountains, her nights of pecking out stories by kerosene light, her experiences, her thoughts … all that remained were the bits and pieces that had survived someone’s attempts at destruction. “Of course, her official copies could still be stored in a file room somewhere, but I don’t know how we’d ever find out. I read up on the FWP. Literally thousands of pages of source material were packed away after the project lost funding.”

  Mark seemed almost as disappointed as I was. “How about a little comfort food?” He handed me a drink. “If there’s any chance of getting at those documents, I think Benoit House Museum is probably your best source. They might have the contacts to pull some strings.”

  Gasping, I glanced at my watch. After six. I’d gotten caught up in the treasure hunt again, and the things that were supposed to happen this afternoon hadn’t happened. “I’m an idiot. I meant to call the museum again today and see if I could get any kind of update on the necklace.”

  Toasting me with his slushie, he turned away. “Go ahead and do what you need to do. I’ll check on the crew. Who knows, maybe we’ll find what we’re looking for in the last corner of the last box. Where there’s an unturned stone, there’s still hope of a gold nugget.” He winked, one tea-colored eye twinkling at me.

  My mind went as blank as a summer sky. I just stood there, watching him walk away. What was this thing that came over me when he was around? I didn’t have a name for it. I’d never experienced anything like it, but in a strange way, it seemed as if we’d always known one another—as if we’d been waiting all these years to end up in the same place at the same time.

  Was this the sort of whirlwind that had caught my mother as a seventeen-year-old girl, meeting a soldier who was from a completely different background, too mature for a schoolgirl like her and headed into harm’s way? Was this the hold that had continued to grasp her as the years went by?

  Was it possible for people to just know?

  The idea was like a handful of Mexican jumping beans. Explanations and emotions bounced everywhere at random, but the clearest one I could grab was, Whitney, if you walk out of his life without seeing if this is for real, you really are an idiot.

  He glanced over his shoulder, caught me looking, and thick lashes narrowed over the light fan of smile lines. He pointed to his watch, lifted an invisible phone to his ear, then gave me a thumbs-up.

  A tingly feeling traveled the length of my body and came to rest just below my ribs.

  I walked into the stairwell to make my phone call, afraid that if the news about the museum offer wasn’t what I’d hoped, the reality would hit hard. Everything rested on the price that my few found items might bring. With a good report from the museum, things could still work out for me, for Bella Tazza, for the Excelsior, for Mark, and maybe even for the charity project.

  I moved down a half flight again, leaned against the railing, and looked up the stairs, taking in the soft light from th
e windows above.

  “Here goes.” Hope fluttered and landed and fluttered again, skipping along as uncertain as a butterfly as I dialed the number and waited for the call to connect. What were the odds that someone might be there on a Sunday after business hours? If nothing else, I could leave another message, just letting Tandi know that I didn’t want to be a pest, but I really was running out of time.

  The phone rang, rang again. I composed a message in my head—polite, yet somewhat insistent. Business will be taking me back to Michigan even sooner than I thought. I was wondering if you’ve had any news about the items I brought in? I know you said next week, and it’s only Sunday, but I was hoping you’d heard something. I really would like to wrap this up before …

  Tandi Chastain was out of breath when she answered. I took the opportunity to tell her I was calling to check in.

  “I’m sorry for not getting back to you earlier.” She sounded frazzled. “We’ve been swamped all day. I’m hoping you’ve called because you found something else of interest in the Excelsior?”

  “Nothing like the items I brought in earlier.” I thought of Alice’s story, about the clues it provided to the necklaces and the people who called themselves the sea keepers. “But we did come across a little information about the carved pieces. There were some old letters here, and we found a new batch today.”

  “Ohhhh … really? Tell me more.”

  I hurried through an explanation, then finished with, “I think Alice may have sent the necklace and the scrimshaw carving here to my grandmother. Maybe she wanted Ziltha to have them for safekeeping, or maybe they were a gift. From what I can tell, though, Alice and my grandmother had a falling-out. I never even knew my grandmother was a twin. Honestly, I wish I had more time to look into it, but there are some business issues I have to tackle in Michigan. Do you have any idea what the pieces I brought in might be worth? It’s just … I have decisions to make before I leave Manteo. I can’t wait much longer. I’m sorry, I know I’m putting you in a tough spot.”

  “That’s okay. I’m glad you called me. I know that our museum board doesn’t want to lose the chance at what you have for us, and I know that our historical specialists would love to take a look at exactly what’s in those letters. I’ll work like crazy to get a meeting set up for tomorrow. Is that doable for you?”

  Relief spiraled through me. “Yes, definitely. Thank you. Monday sounds good. Just let me know what time.”

  A strange pause held the line just long enough to dim the euphoria, and then she added, “Whitney, I do need to be honest with you about something. When our university guy looked at the necklace and the scrimshaw, I thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head. It’s an exciting find, but there’s no way the museum foundation can make an outright purchase on something of that magnitude. Not right now, anyway. Your other Benoit items—the ruby brooch, the taffrail log, the manifest—are in a category we can handle. Somewhere between fifteen and twenty thousand dollars, total, from what I hear. They haven’t come right out and told me, but I know from experience that the board will ask you to commit the necklace and the scrimshaw to our collection on long-term loan, so they can be scanned and studied and compared to the other artifacts that’ve been found. The board hopes to eventually purchase all of these pieces, but we can’t yet. It’s hard to get funding when you’re still trying to establish the historical significance of something … and you can’t establish the significance without enough pieces to study. It’s a catch-22.”

  “Oh …” What now?

  “I know that’s not the news you were hoping for, but I’d really like you to consider agreeing to the loan. Adding your pieces would be huge for us. We’re working with the foremost authorities on the potential Lost Colony connection, but there’s a very wealthy collector from overseas who is after these pieces. We can’t study what is locked in some billionaire’s vault. America’s history belongs in America. End of soapbox, but please give it some thought.”

  “What about the value … if the pieces are authenticated?”

  A sigh, and then, “Similar items have sold in the six figures, but like I said, please give it a good think. Seven of these have surfaced so far, largely thanks to all the publicity from Evan Hall’s book last year. We’ve been able to bring three into our collection, but we’ve lost three, also. There’s actually a reason I have a strong personal interest. The project here started with a necklace that was found in my family. So when I ask you to consider committing the piece on loan, I know what I’m asking. Believe me, I’m not rich and I understand that the money is tempting.”

  “I’ll think about it. I will. But there are so many factors involved here.” She couldn’t possibly imagine how many. With that kind of money, a myriad of possibilities could open up—for me, for the Excelsior, for Bella Tazza, for Mark and his charity … for Clyde. If I could use some of the money to at least begin renovations and repair the elevator, maybe Clyde would be able to come and go from the building. Maybe we could hire live-in help for him.

  “Thank you for giving it honest consideration, Whitney. I know our specialist would like to see the letters you found too. Would you be able to bring them to the meeting?”

  “Sure. Yes, of course.”

  “Text my cell if anything changes.” She meant, of course, if you decide to seek a buyer elsewhere. “One more favor I’d ask is that you keep word of our meeting quiet. Gossip travels around the Outer Banks, and there’s so much random interest in the story keeper mystery right now.”

  “I understand.” We wrapped up the phone call with a promise to communicate first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, Tandi would move heaven and earth to bring important people to Hatteras Island by tomorrow.

  I hung up the phone and stood trying to take it all in, comparing two completely different options, weighing the benefits and sacrifices of each. What mattered most? The value of history preserved? The lives of the people who were here now? The good we might be able to accomplish if we were able to restore the Excelsior? My restaurant, my cousin, my employees? Finally defeating Tagg Harper?

  Could there be a compromise, an in-between solution? With the money from the ruby brooch and the Benjamin Benoit items, Denise and I could keep Bella Tazza limping along until the code commission hearing. If Mark was willing to help on the legal end, we might win the case… .

  What about the Excelsior? Where would the money for full renovations come from then? Unless I won the lotto soon, I didn’t have the funds to take on a project like this.

  I forced myself to put the brakes on my runaway train. One thing at a time. First, I needed to talk to Denise. These decisions would affect her more than anyone.

  Dialing her number, I tried to mentally organize the information, to lay it out like a well-planned presentation, but presentations led toward an end goal. In this case I didn’t know what the end goal should be. Hopefully Denise could lend a clearer perspective.

  But Denise didn’t answer. All I could do was leave a voice mail and fill her in, then walk back up the stairs, as confused as ever.

  On the second floor, Mark was alone in the storage room, picking up the bits of shattered glass and mattress stuffing still strewn around the floor. I stood outside the door and watched him a moment, tried to decide whether to cross the threshold. Should I share the news from the phone call? Should I keep it to myself until I’d made my plans?

  He turned as if he felt my presence there, sent a quizzical look my way. “What’s up?” Maybe he sensed the ongoing war inside me. The battle between old habits and new possibilities.

  “I just … got a little news from the museum.” A small surrender, a tentative step.

  He glanced at the cell, still dangling in my hand. “Good news?”

  “Yes and no, I think.” Tell him? Reveal? What if you’re only giving him ammo he can use to win the building? What if that really is all he’s after?

  Then again, what if it isn’t?

  “Sounds serious.” He
wandered closer, pulled off his gloves and tucked them in the back pocket of his jeans. “Want to talk about it?”

  I closed my eyes. Decision time. Yes or no? Yes or no … ?

  “Yes. Yeah, I do.”

  “All right, shoot.” Hooking a leg over the corner of an old dresser, he relaxed in a way that said he’d stay there and listen all evening, if that’s what it took.

  I pulled a breath, started out with the news from the phone call, but then everything else came spilling forth—the financial implications at Bella Tazza, the possibility of renovating the Excelsior, the uncertainty that could come with committing the necklace and the scrimshaw to museum loan. “And the thing is, my heart tells me it’s the right thing to do—letting the museum have those pieces. It honors Alice’s work. She wanted the stories of the Melungeons to be told, and the best way to do that is to give the museum access to her letters and the story keeper pieces… .” I paced the room, kicking aside pieces of broken hotel china left behind by Ruby’s battle with the squirrel.

  “But … ,” Mark prompted.

  “But my gut tells me I could end up needing the money. For the restaurant, for this building, for who knows what else? So many people are counting on me.”

  “It’s your decision to make. The things you’ve found in this building are yours. You get to decide what to do with them.”

  I turned his way, blinked at him. Was he telling me I should sell the necklace … or was he just testing me? “I’m stuck. I don’t know what to do.” There, I’d admitted it.

  “You want to know what I think?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I think we have a good shot at the code commission hearing on your restaurant. I’ve looked into it a little bit and talked to a few people, based on the information you gave me in the park. As for the Excelsior, with a little time and a lot of volunteer hours, I really do believe that we can get the funding to refit the second floor for the charity’s use. That leaves you with the question of the rest of the work that’s needed here. There again, I think we can bring in grants and historical preservation dollars. I know the Excelsior is in bad shape, but it’s one of two downtown buildings to survive all the waterfront fires in Manteo over the years. That makes it historically significant … and valuable to the town.”