Page 49 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

I hesitate, knowing the clothes are delicate, but I don’t hesitate for long. If Dylan, Trish, and Naomi are offering up their skills and crowd appeal to help fix my boat, the least I can do is let them use some of Grams’s antiques. So I lead Trish up to the attic, with the plastic tarps tacked to the ceiling and the remaining valuables stowed on pallets in a dry corner. It’s hard to believe this space was packed tight a few months ago. Even the mice and spiders seem to have relocated. Getting rid of so much still feels like a betrayal sometimes, but I know my grandmother would think it’s worth it if it means holding on to the house and making it feel like home.

May it always provide her safe harbor, she put in her will.

It does, Grams, I think. It still does. And I hope it will for many years to come.

While sorting through trunks for usable clothing, I share information Trish can tell potential donors regarding the ship’s history and my grandmother’s decision to commission its initial renovation when she bought it twenty years ago. She loved telling people about the films it appeared in and how the man who owned it before her completed several transatlantic crossings with a crew of four and a pair of intrepid terriers. Trish listens with interest, though she’s more excited about the clothes. People were smaller in the eighteenth century, so I don’t have anything Dylan’s or Trish’s size, but fabrics were woven more tightly, and hand-sewn stitches were often tiny and strong, making the garments far more durable than what today’s fast fashion offers. We find a beautiful linen shirt that might fit Dylan, with the collar open and the sleeves rolled up, and a sweet, cotton print gown that laces under its pleated back, allowing some flexibility in size. We also unpack a bum roll that can tie around Trish’s waist, giving the gown’s skirt a period shape, and an engraved cutlass Dylan might find useful. Trish is elated, and she promises to be gentle with everything, treating the items with the respect they deserve.

We carry everything down to the dock, along with some original shipbuilding blueprints that might be fun for the videos and also useful for potential repairs. Dylan appears to be giving Naomi a tour of the boat, pointing out where the masts and shrouds would be if they hadn’t been struck down by lightning. Trish introduces Naomi and me, and Dylan joins them in discussing possible shots. I listen with enthusiasm and appreciation, chiming in when my input’s requested, though I can’t fully hide the curiosity that still simmers inside me while the word wife plays on repeat in my mind. Trish and Naomi don’t know me well enough to recognize my preoccupation for what it is, but at several points, Dylan catches my eye, and I know he knows something’s up.

Everything okay? his eyes ask.

I don’t know, mine say back. You tell me.

But we leave the matter there.

Stepping into the gallery with the door ajar to provide some light, I help Trish into her gown, reiterating the need to treat it with care when she takes two sets of gel cutlets from her handbag and uses them to create Euphoria Belladonna’s signature heaving bosom, straining the bodice’s neckline. The purist in me doesn’t love that the gown is more than a foot too short and lacks the layers of undergarments that would make the look at least remotely authentic, but I know today’s shoot is all in fun and this is not the time to obsess.

By the time we step onto the main deck, Dylan is in the billowing linen shirt, with the hem tucked into his jeans and the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He looks even less authentic than Trish, and he must be cold in the chilly autumn air, but he seems to be having a blast practicing poses with the cutlass. Sure, he’s not twenty-five anymore. He’s a little softer, and his hair has some salt in the pepper, but he still looks wildly sexy. A good shot with the cutlass at his side and his beloved in his arms will likely crowdsource us at least one mast. Maybe even two.

“Don’t go too crazy,” I tell him as he drops into a lunge with the cutlass thrust toward an imaginary enemy. “That shirt is over two hundred years old.”

He immediately stands upright, lowering the cutlass to his side.

“Sorry,” he says through a sheepish, hint-of-dimples smile. “It’s beautiful. Thanks for the sword, too. Definitely helps me get into character. You know me too well.”

“Do I?” I challenge before I can think better of it. Before I can even temper my tone.

Dylan’s smile falls away. His gaze darts to Trish, who’s talking with Naomi, and back to me. In that moment, I swear I can see the walls that’ve taken months to tear down going back up.

I almost tell him I’m sorry, but I don’t.

He opens his mouth, then shuts it without speaking.

We stand there, locked in a look, until I can’t handle the silence anymore, so I turn away and head to the dock, telling everyone to save time for a cup of tea up at the house.

No one asks if I have coffee instead.

Chapter Sixteen

Dylan finds me standing on the back porch, where the fallen tree branch is still wedged in the shattered corner of the banister, waiting to be dealt with. The sound of the Jeep’s wheels turning against gravel faded out a few minutes ago as Naomi and Trish departed. The costumes and cutlass are safely tucked away in their archival papers and boxes. The sun is setting beyond the house behind me, turning the sky a deep indigo where it meets the sea to the east. My forearms rest on an unbroken section of railing. My hands are wrapped around my second mug of tea.

For at least a full minute, probably two or three, Dylan and I stand side by side without speaking, both staring out to sea and both in heavy sweaters as the evening temperature inches toward freezing, suggesting winter’s first snow isn’t far away.

“Vivian and I met in college,” he says, gracefully skipping an interrogation neither of us wants to have. “We took a lot of the same classes, though I wanted to be an author, and she wanted to be an editor, identifying stories that would sell and making them shine. She was so confident. So smart. So ambitious. She spoke her mind and trusted whatever she said without worrying about whether or not she could’ve said it better, more kindly, or more clearly. I questioned everything, so I found her certainty compelling. She also saw something in my writing. That felt good, too.” He pauses, swallows, and shifts his stance to mirror mine by leaning forward on the railing.

I sip my tea and pin my focus on the horizon, letting him tell his story at his own pace, without the added pressure of the curiosity I can’t otherwise hide.

“I asked her to marry me right after we graduated,” he continues. “She said yes. We went to City Hall the day the license arrived. Bought a condo in Old Port. Slept on an air mattress until we could afford a bed. I started drafting my novel while modeling, delivering food, and working on a fishing boat, all part-time jobs that gave me the flexibility to write. She started remote work for a Big Five publisher in New York, quickly climbing the ranks. The higher she climbed, the less she understood why I was content to gut fish or deliver pizza. She was always networking, and she always wanted to be around people. I was the opposite. We pulled apart.”

He pauses again as six or seven seagulls fly past, cawing at each other, the noise sharp against the gentle rhythm of the waves below us, lapping the rocky shoreline. I wait, replaying Dylan’s last few words while recalling “Seven Tiny Wars” and wondering if the story was a little bit autobiographical after all. Wondering what he’d sensed when he wrote it, even if he and his wife never bought a plant together or shared a toothbrush holder.

“She often brought up the modeling work,” he says. “Suggesting I use it to make industry connections, but I wasn’t as ambitious as she was. If my novel didn’t sell on its own merits, it wasn’t good enough, and I’d have to try again.” He draws in a slow breath, letting it out just as slowly. “The rifts were small at first, but small things grow. Staying home to write, run, or just enjoy the quiet while she attended an industry social event was no big deal the first time. By the tenth or eleventh time, it indicated that I didn’t care enough about my career. Or about her.”

This draws my attention his way. He’s not telling his story with an edge of anger or resentment, but I can’t help picturing the arguments. I can’t help sympathizing, either, growing up in a household where I was constantly told I wasn’t trying hard enough, as though all effort is visible or as though what’s easy for one person is easy for anyone.

Dylan takes another slow, deep breath, picking at a rough cuticle as the ocean breeze plays with the loose black curls that curtain his forehead and the tops of his ears.

“It started with a flirtation,” he says. “She enjoyed the attention I wasn’t giving her. She never tried to hide it. Told me flat out. She wasn’t trying to sneak around. She wanted me to fight for her. I tried for a while. I showed up. Dressed the way she wanted me to dress. Talked to the people she thought I should meet. Developed a routine for introducing myself and discussing my work. Made sure I was present, by her side. But I never got it right. And someone else did.”