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Chapter Twenty-Five
Wes was in the shower when his phone rang. His gray hair was thick and curly with shampoo suds. As he reached to turn off the water, Beatrice called, “It’s the historian! Want me to pick it up?”
“Yes, please!” Wes’s heart thudded. He’d been expecting this call. He washed out his hair and stepped onto the rug to dry himself off, listening as Beatrice greeted the very first historian who’d come out to the Sunrise Cove after the construction workers’ discovery: Dr. George Whitehead. He’d emailed Wes yesterday to say that he was on the verge of discovering “a great deal about Martha and Matthew Sheridan.” He wanted to speak to him personally to disclose what he’d learned.
“He’s just walking through the door,” Beatrice said to Dr. Whitehead as Wes entered the living room in his robe. Beatrice’s eyes were enormous as she passed over his cell.
“Hello, George. How are you?” Wes walked to the window and peered out at the sparkling June morning, hoping to calm himself. Ever since he’d begun the brand-new dementia medication, he’d had bouts of anxiety that made him feel he was losing control. Dr. Hamilton had said that was a normal side effect and nothing to be worried about—as long as the benefits outweighed the negative side effects.
“Morning, Wes. I’m sorry about my cryptic message yesterday. I was so wrapped up in research that I hardly pulled myself away to eat or sleep,” George said.
“Is that right?” Wes laughed nervously.
“Your family history really sparked something in me. I feel like a young and hungry PhD student again,” George said.
Wes’s stomach twisted into knots. He knew better than to believe that that meant George had discovered only good news. Historians loved all kinds of stories, especially dark ones.
“Could I invite you and your wife to dinner tonight?” George asked. “I’m happy to meet you in Martha’s Vineyard.”
“We’ll come to you,” Wes suggested. Something about having George in the house he shared with Beatrice, discussing the intricacies of the Sheridan family’s past, felt wrong to him. This house with Beatrice was his fresh start. No other Sheridan had ever lived here. It was untainted by the past.
George sent instructions to get to his place in a suburb of Boston. Beatrice was excited for a little trip, throwing snacks and drinks into a picnic basket and talking to herself and Wes without alerting him which dialogue was meant for whom. Wes put on a pair of slacks and a button-down and sat at the edge of the bed, thinking about the immensity of the day ahead. For reasons that he could only attribute to the medication, his thoughts felt sharper; he could follow his train of thought further than before. And when he took to his ledger to record what George had said, he recalled everything with startling accuracy.
“Beatrice?” Wes said, walking back through the living room to find her in the kitchen.
Beatrice stopped her frantic packing and peered up at him.
“I’m starting to notice a difference,” he said quietly.
Beatrice knew exactly what he meant. She cleared the distance between them and threw her arms around his torso. She shook with tears, then mopped herself up and suggested they stay the night in Boston as the ferries were often awkwardly timed after dinner. She viewed it as a celebration, a night away. “A pre-wedding honeymoon.” Wes agreed.
Wes retreated to the bedroom to pack a bag for the night. He considered what he’d learned last night about Amanda’s baby. According to a text from Audrey this morning, Genevieve’s fever had broken around midnight, thank goodness. It meant that Amanda would be allowed to represent herself in front of that wretched man’s parents. The Arnouts. The people so sure of themselves and their goodness that they were willing to destroy anyone who doubted them. Wes checked the time and realized Susan and Amanda were about to enter court. He threw beautiful thoughts across the sound to the Nantucket Courthouse. He hoped they could feel his love.
Chapter Twenty-Six
From the Diary of Martha Smith
April 9, 1865
The war is over. The South has lost. The slaves are free.
April 10, 1865
Yesterday, I was too ecstatic to write much more than that. Matthew came downstairs, flung open the trapdoor, and said, “It’s time for you to live your life again.” I picked up Mary and took her into the sunshine. God has never made a more beautiful day. Mary stretched her legs and sang her songs, then waddled up and down the beach in front of the Sheridan place. Her eyes were big and shining. The Sheridan children couldn’t get enough of her: a new playmate. And I sat on the sand and wept into my hands. Eventually, I asked Matthew if I could borrow one of Wendy’s bathing suits, and I waded into the freezing-cold water and raised my arms to the sky and felt more alive than I had since I was a child. Before I knew what it meant to be a slave. Before I knew how entrapped I was. I imagined that I could feel the rapture of so many thousands of slaves across the country, discovering what freedom means for the first time. And I sang and danced and ran back up onto the sands to take Mary in my arms and cry.
Matthew made up a bed for Mary and me in the main house. It was the first time I slept above ground since our escape from Georgia.
Matthew and I woke up before the children this morning and went to the water. He asked me if I was thinking about heading north to find my sister and husband now that it was safe. I said of course, it was always on my mind. But Matthew told me he wasn’t sure I should. “You don’t know where they are; you have no way to make money; you have no community. If you stay here, I can help you.” I wasn’t sure what to make of it. My head was filled with questions. He said, “Ever since Wendy died, we’ve been like a ship without an anchor.” I told him I know how to cook and clean; that I could teach his children to read and write. But I also told him that I wasn’t planning on being a slave. I wanted days off sometimes. I wanted a wage. He smiled and agreed. I couldn’t believe it! I had the strangest fear he was going to beat me instead.
April 16, 1865
An actor shot the president yesterday.
Matthew stopped me from running back downstairs in fear. He said, “The war is still over. The slaves are still free. But we have lost a great man.” And we mourned together. It occurred to me that I am one of his only friends. And it’s true that we’ve become quite close since we lost Wendy. We needed one another: me in the basement and him with four children and no wife.
What will the future hold? We have no leader. We are an aimless and broken nature. How will we heal?
July 11, 1865
