Page 7 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“There’s leftover pasta,” he says, thank god. “Clean towels in the bathroom.” He tips his chin toward the far end of the hallway. “I’m not sure what, I didn’t know if, sorry about the . . .” He shifts his stance as his shoulders inch up. “People. Not my strength.”

I melt a little at that. Not being good with people is something I understand well.

“Let me guess. As a writer, you’re better with words?” I suggest.

His shoulders drop, and his lips press together as he draws in a breath.

“I was,” he says. “Once.”

And with that, he walks away, leaving me with my luggage, my memories, and a boatload of questions I suspect I’ll never have the chance or the nerve to ask.

Chapter Three

Dylan wasn’t kidding about having leftover pasta. As I root around in the kitchen like a postapocalyptic scavenger, I can’t help but notice that not only does the fridge hold three plastic containers of very similar pastas—spaghetti with red sauce, penne with red sauce, and ziti with red sauce—but the pantry is stocked with more than a dozen boxes of dry pasta, at least as many jars of generic tomato sauce, and little else. I find no fresh, canned, or frozen vegetables. No jars of Italian seasoning, flavored olive oil, or shredded Parmesan cheese. As a notoriously lazy cook, I respect the simplicity. No one would assess the pantry and have a long debate about what’s for dinner, but the uniformity’s a little depressing.

I dig into the ziti, desperate for anything to make my stomach stop rumbling. I might be the ultimate planner, but I was too anxious to think about food until after I arrived. Dylan headed to his third-floor bedroom after our brief conversation, shutting the door and showing no signs of emerging again tonight, so with the ziti container in one hand and a fork in the other, I wander the first two floors of the house, taking it all in on my own.

The kitchen, first-floor powder room, and living room all show signs of use and are relatively clean. The floors have been swept, the main surfaces have been wiped down, and my grandmother’s beloved green velvet Victorian sofa appears to be in good shape, which I think she’d appreciate, given how often she’d lounge on it in vintage silk pajamas as she made notes for her next book while I played solitaire nearby. The rest of the rooms feel like time capsules, as I suspected they might when Amelia asked why I couldn’t live here. This house, which was once so lively, feels different without any actual life. The sofa is only a sofa. The hat rack is a bit of bent wood, vaguely skeletal, with a host of hats but lacking the presence of anyone who might wear them. It’s all just things, and there are so many of them. Each opened door reveals more clusters of dust-coated antique furniture, with every surface cluttered with knickknacks. Fringed lamps. Porcelain snuffboxes. Wind-up clocks. Stacks of vintage books with their canvas spines peeling away. And of course, pirate paraphernalia.

Although my grandmother started her literary career writing contemporary romances, once she shifted from baristas and barristers to swashbuckling sailors and rebellious heiresses, she went all in, collecting anything that might inspire her and trotting it out at decadent themed parties that packed the house. Closets are jammed to bursting with cutlasses, empty powder kegs, and jars of gold coins. Old trunks are full of sailing tack and skull-and-bones flags. I find iron manacles and strap-on peg legs. Birdcages. Pistol sets. Maps. A rum collection that’s extensive enough to inebriate the entire adult population of Maine. And my god, the costumes. I have fond memories of playing dress-up in panniers, Watteau back gowns, and elaborate powdered wigs with ships perched on their frosted rolls, but now I can’t imagine putting most of this stuff on. It all feels so tacky, so fake. Polyester satin and machine-made lace. Plastic masquerading as gold and silver. Fake pearls and pleather boots. Relics not of an age of massive social and political upheaval but of overwrought fantasy. The idea of the eighteenth century. Not the reality.

My grandmother never cared much for historical accuracy, especially once she added magical curses, immortals, and shape-shifters to her series, though she got a real kick out of my interest in learning the truth behind the legends. My simplest inquiries about her work inspired long hours of poring through books and websites. You’d make a wonderful teacher, she said after I rattled on about preindustrial maritime amputations with a curious level of enthusiasm, given the subject matter. No one had previously told me I’d be good at anything, and her belief in me sank in deep, inspiring my career. While that career became more of a struggle than a joy, she was right about the teaching. It was a good fit. I loved that she knew that. I still do.

My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I set the pasta on an ornate inlaid pedestal table, making a mental note to scour this room in the morning. Then I check my screen.

Amelia: Get in ok?

Philippa: All good. House still standing. Been here about an hour

Amelia: And your housemate?

I sputter out a laugh. Then I pull up a cover image of one of my grandmother’s novels. Number ten or twelve in the series. The Raven and the Rake by Iris Flynn, a name so beloved my mom kept the Flynn and passed it on to her kids. The book has a classic clinch cover, like they all do. A crashing sea with a three-master anchored in the background. A woman with a low-cut green frock and a massive mane of blue-black hair writhes in the arms of a bare-chested man who looks like he wants to devour her, perhaps with a generous helping of generic tomato sauce.

I send the image to Amelia.

Philippa: I had the wrong Dylan Sterling. The one who lives here was her cover model

Amelia: !!!!!

Philippa: My thoughts exactly

Amelia: I need stories

Philippa: He helped with my luggage. And let me eat his leftover pasta

Amelia: Better stories

Philippa: That’s all I’ve got. I’ll let you know if there’s an Act III

Amelia: I’m counting on it. And buying that book

Philippa: My mother’s travel budget appreciates the royalties

As we continue texting, Amelia tells me about a student requesting a grade change because he didn’t receive weekly emailed reminders of each assignment’s requirements, despite all of the information being available anytime on his syllabus and in the online course materials. I send my sympathies, newly grateful at my recent—albeit still terrifying and maybe only temporary—escape from academia. Then I text Amelia a few pics of the house and its contents so we can share a good-humored laugh at my grandmother’s tendency to hang on to everything.

We soon wrap up so I can do some reading and get a decent night’s sleep, or at least try to, given the lumpy mattress that wasn’t changed out with the bedding. After putting away what remains of the ziti, I make a grocery list—one that includes fruit, vegetables, eggs, cheese, bread, and herbs—with a reminder to ask Dylan what he likes, discounting the obvious. I’m a mediocre cook at best, so I harbor no illusions about earning my housemate’s benevolence with delicious meals, but we both have to eat, and I’ve always preferred cooking for more than just myself.

I pause by a family photo on my way up the stairs. The eight of us huddle close together on the shore, with the sea stretching out behind us. My grandmother, my parents, and all five of us kids, ranging from age seven to seventeen, with me right in the middle, at the awkward age of twelve. My dad’s honey blond, and my mom and grandmother have umber hair, while my siblings and I are all brunettes, ranging from Riley’s light chestnut to Haley’s dark chocolate. My own hair is a bland, medium brown that doesn’t have a picturesque descriptor. I once thought it looked like pine bark, but only because I’d spent so much time climbing the nearby trees. It’s in two long, messy braids in the photo, with wispy bangs windswept over my forehead.