Page 27 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“Didn’t she?”

No, I think, because even though I’m kneeling here with all of this incredible writing material, it’s by chance, not by design. Grams couldn’t have anticipated that I’d quit my job and move back here while struggling for direction, get egged on by my siblings to attempt something I never would’ve considered on my own, and that Dylan and I would figure out—without any instructions or even suggestions—that the notebooks were hidden in this old chest, clued in by a random reference in her books. Not telling my mother they were here was a simple oversight, an unfortunate consequence of Grams’s rapid decline in her final days. Looking for intention is a fool’s errand, seeing meaning and method where they don’t exist.

Then again . . .

Although she had her off days, ones where she was exhausted, nauseated, and battling brain fog, especially in the last few weeks, she was serious about her work, and her decisions around it were always carefully thought out. At any point while she was working on her final books with Dylan, she could’ve said to him—or to my mother, my siblings, a friend, her agent, her editor, or even a doctor or nurse—my plans for the remaining books are in my bedroom, hidden in the base of a chest. But she didn’t. She did, however, know I was already frustrated with my job, even in my first year. She knew I loved this house and that it was the only place I’d ever felt at home. She saw me pore through mysteries, not just Nancy Drew but Agatha Christie, Poe, Daphne du Maurier, Hammett, Chandler, Sayers. And she did have a flair for the theatrical.

And then it hits me. The wording in her will.

To my granddaughter, Philippa, I leave my house and all of its contents, for her to keep, use, or dispense of as she sees fit. May it always provide her safe harbor.

My house and All of its contents.

I close the notebook I’m holding, running a hand over the soft leather cover while a swell of gratitude fills my chest, making it expand until it aches. I don’t believe in ghosts any more than I believe in fate, karma, horoscopes, or shooting stars, nor am I convinced my grandmother somehow guided Dylan and me here, anticipating turns of events she couldn’t possibly have foreseen, but I can’t help feeling her presence right now. Her belief in both of us. That much is real and undeniable, as is my right to decide what happens next.

Maybe Dylan will write the books, and he’ll get his writing confidence back.

Maybe I’ll take a stab and find the something I’ve been craving that makes me feel alive.

Maybe we’ll sell the notebooks to her publisher and replace the damned roof.

But the house has stood for this long with its many leaks. And if I listen really hard, if I let a few of my own stones topple and allow myself to believe, I swear I can hear a siren’s call.

Chapter Ten

Three weeks after finding the notebooks, I take the bus to Augusta to attend Haley’s baby shower. Dylan’s been poring over Grams’s notes, wrapping his head around the remaining storylines—which characters get killed off, the twists in Zane’s love life, the expanding map of locations, the emergence of new magical creatures that require further development. I’ve been bingeing the existing books, trying to catch up. I’m not a fast reader, so I’m only halfway through book twenty-one when I stash it in my tote and walk the mile or so from the bus stop to Haley’s beautiful Arts and Crafts home. My parents offered to pick me up if I needed a ride, since my self-inflicted unemployment meant I couldn’t afford a car. I politely declined.

Two hours later, I’ve confirmed with absolute certainty that while engagement parties are distinctly uncomfortable for the perpetually single, for the non–parentally inclined, baby showers are downright torture. Not only did I have to play name the melted candy bar by sniffing what looks like a poopy diaper, chug from the baby bottle, and pin the clothespin on the nose of anyone who says baby, but also, apparently, asking a woman when—not if, but when—she plans to have children of her own is still widely accepted as a socially appropriate question. I’ve met at least twenty of Haley’s friends, and nearly every conversation went something like this:

Friend 1: You must be so excited for your sister.

Me: Of course. She’ll be a fantastic mother.

Friend 1: Do you have any children of your own?

Me: Nope. (Braces for next question.)

Friend 1: Waiting for the right time?

Me: No, not actually.

Friend 1: But you do want children?

Me: (not wanting to get into nearly two decades of deeply personal thoughts about my childbearing potential that began with being told at age sixteen during my first pelvic exam that given my body’s anatomy, I’d have a hard time getting pregnant, so around the same time I was learning to drive a car, I began assuming I wouldn’t have kids, then realizing in my twenties that I wasn’t forming a stable, long-term relationship and I had no interest in raising a child on my own, then gradually accepting that I enjoyed a lifestyle that didn’t include parenthood and I’d only considered it because I’d been conditioned by society to assume not wanting to become a mother meant something was seriously wrong with me and Darwin should rise from the grave and have a word, then being so exhausted dealing with students who wanted me to entertain them and guide them to easy A’s instead of impart knowledge and improve their critical thinking skills, until the absolute last thing I wanted was another person around twenty-four seven whom I had to teach, even just how to count to ten or not pick their nose) No, I don’t want kids.

Friend 1: (smiling sweetly) Oh, but you will. Just wait.

Friend 2: (joining the conversation) I used to be focused on my career, too, worried I’d have to make sacrifices, but honestly, becoming a mother is the best decision I ever made.

Friend 3: (also joining) Right? I know. Everything I do matters so much more now because it impacts my children. It can’t just be me, me, me, all the time.

Friend 1: No one dies with their last wish being “to work more.”

Friend 2: You don’t want to wake up one day with regrets.

Friend 3: And the longer you wait, the harder it gets.

Me: (smiling politely) Anyone know where the bathroom is? I really need to pee.