Page 19 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“Not really.” I stop there, worried I’ve already said too much, but since Dylan hasn’t judged me yet . . . “But if they’re enough to work from, I might want to sell them the books.”

He blinks at me for what feels like forever, batting his ridiculously dense lashes. His eyes would be compelling without them, but with them . . . with them, it’s no wonder he graces book covers and gets people to buy lettuce, even if he hasn’t bought a vegetable for himself in years.

“Let me guess,” I say when he remains silent. “You want to write them, too.”

“I did, then,” he says. “Now? I don’t know.”

“Now?” I ask.

“Mm,” he mumbles, and the sound sticks in his throat, as though even that’s hard to say. He’s running his full gamut of tics and twitches. The neck scratch. The face rub. The restless eyes. The shift from foot to foot. A dozen follow-up questions press at my lips, but his writing is obviously a much more sensitive topic than his modeling career, so I opt to pivot.

“One last question?” I ask.

“As long as I can still refuse to answer it.”

“Of course. This isn’t meant to be an inquisition.”

“Sorry.” He shifts as though he’s about to step farther away from me, but he stops himself and plants his feet firmly on the floor. “Just, well, you know already. Go ahead.”

I do know, I think. Living together is an adjustment for me, too, but I go ahead and ask.

“Do you think she wanted the books to be written? Even if she couldn’t write them?”

He nods without hesitation. “I know she wanted her story to continue.”

“Even though she didn’t leave her notes where someone could easily find them?”

“Maybe she was worried the work wouldn’t be done well.”

I flinch, instantly defensive. “And you think I wouldn’t do it well?”

He shakes his head. “From what I know of you, I suspect you do almost anything well.”

“Oh,” I say, and this time I’m the one who needs a minute. So I swallow, and swallow again, and run through my own gamut of nervous gestures, while he waits, watching me, until I’m composed enough to say, “Then I guess we should keep looking for those outlines.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess we should.”

Chapter Seven

For the next two days, we hunt for the outlines, overturning drawers, shaking out books, moving furniture aside, and tapping for hollow sounds in the floors or behind the paneling on the first-floor walls. It all feels a bit Agatha Christie, but knowing my grandmother, a sliding bookshelf or secret compartment isn’t out of the question. We don’t find the outlines, but the search turns up other rewards. Conversations with Dylan are becoming less stilted, and the attic reveals a whole new treasure trove for potential eBay listings. It’s also home to a lot of spiders and several mice, but Grams kept the best stuff—the real antiques—safely packed away.

Eventually, I’m forced to pause the search and deal with the listings I put up a week ago. Almost everything sold, including coins, sailing tack, small barrels, trunks, costumes, manacles, peg legs, piratical flags, treasure maps, and a lot of theatrical weaponry. I’m thrilled at the total income, but apparently, I’m not the ultimate planner after all, because I listed over three hundred items without considering how I’d package and ship them. Carrying them one load at a time to the nearest post office in Blue Hill would take several days, and even the thought exhausts me.

Dylan finds me swearing to myself in the parlor where I’ve been storing the items.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Fine,” I say absently.

“I walked past here half an hour ago. You haven’t moved.”

I blink myself to attention, turning to face him. He’s in jeans and another concert tee for another band I’ve never heard of. Jungle Bungalow this time, which is fun to say but offers little suggestion of what kind of music they play. I’m also in jeans and a tee, though my tee is plain white. I don’t own any concert tees. I don’t even own any striped tees. Come to think of it, I don’t own any colored tees. I’m not sure when I expunged every hint of pattern or color from my wardrobe, but it’s been a while, and only now that I’m comparing my wardrobe to Dylan’s do I realize it wasn’t a conscious choice. It was more of a subliminal disappearing act. An evolution I should give further consideration when I’m not solving a more immediate dilemma.

I explain that dilemma to Dylan, and without a word of the criticism my parents have trained me to expect whenever I don’t plan well, he whisks out his phone, locating the nearest truck rental and a general store where we can pick up packing supplies. I’m so stunned by his swiftness to help without judgment or question, I don’t realize right away that he said we.

He must see the surprise on my face, because his neck pinks and his shoulders inch up.

“I don’t mind giving you a ride,” he says.