Page 83 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

We make plans to get together soon. Then he joins his mom while I take a plate of hors d’oeuvres to a table at the perimeter of the banquet area, where Mischa, Frank, and Reuben are sitting with the kids, away from the center of the noise and the bustle, which, as always, is where I want to be. For the next hour or so, I eat fancy finger foods, chat with my family, join the kids’ game of tag, and roll my eyes every time one of my siblings teases me for having a glass of wine in my hand, even though I nurse the same one all evening. I’m determined not to “get mushy,” which is hard on the heels of losing Grams’s house, the rights to her unwritten books, my first genuinely caring relationship, and even my career. As right as it feels to rethink my identity as Professor Flynn, lover of obscure facts about stomachers and scurvy, there’s a twelve-year-old girl in a photo who will one day pursue a dream. For her, I grieve what that dream became. I’m also excited to discover what new dreams she pursues.

Louisa grabs my wrist, yanking me from my thoughts.

“I told you,” she hisses. “I fucking told you. Why don’t you all ever listen to me?”

I glance around, looking for clues in the faces of my sisters and their husbands, but they all look as baffled as I feel. I assume this is about her plot regarding Grams’s books, but then she gestures toward the Shermans’ dock, where a dozen or so guests are milling. The sun is setting, and the sky is purpling with the first hints of twilight. The islands seem as calm as always, with their evergreens and rocky shores darkening into shadows, and no signs of anything amiss.

And then I see her.

Halfway toward the horizon, headed north and cutting between islands, her crisp black sails swelled, her skull-and-crossbones flying above a brand-new crow’s nest, her ornate prow gleaming with shiny blue and gold paint: the Zephyr’s Revenge II, restored to full glory.

“Oh my god,” Haley exclaims while Eleanor lets out a quiet, “Yes!”

All I can do is stare and remind myself to breathe.

Murmurs arise from the guests as more of them spot the ship. Children squeal with delight while several phones are raised for photos. People try to be discreet, given what we’re all here for, but the ship’s hard to ignore, with her tall masts, black sails, and gilded paintwork, and it’s not every day an eighteenth-century pirate ship sails past a wedding.

Or rather . . .

It’s not every day an eighteenth-century pirate ship sails to a wedding. Because she just tacked, and she’s heading this way.

“I don’t understand,” I say. “I was supposed to go get her next Friday.”

“Now you don’t have to because your sexy pirate boyfriend is bringing her here,” Louisa says, and there’s a lot to unpack in that statement, but most of it can wait.

“He might not be on board,” I say.

Louisa huffs in indignation. “He’s totally on board. And he’d better have a sword.”

Haley stifles a laugh. “For what? Cutting the cake?”

Eleanor elbows Louisa’s side. “Or challenging our mom to a duel?”

“For sweeping Phil off her feet, obviously,” Louisa says.

“I suspect an apology would be more effective,” Eleanor says.

“And an adult conversation,” Haley offers.

Louisa rolls her eyes in a way that suggests she has no patience for our sisters’ lack of imagination. I can’t help but smile, even while my insides are a tangled disaster and my mind is racing. What if he’s not on the ship? What if he is on the ship? What if he’s here to fight for me? What if he isn’t? What am I supposed to do with that incredible ship if I don’t have a dock?

“Well?” Louisa asks. “Are you waiting for us to drag you down there?”

“No. No, sorry.” I blink myself out of my stupor and find my way to my feet, gaining courage with each step as I cross the lawn and head to the end of the long dock, where I watch the Zephyr’s Revenge II continue her approach, tacking to make good use of the wind. As she nears, I pick out a crew of five or six and, at last, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a familiar head of tousled black curls, standing at the rail near the prow. Louisa will be disappointed to learn he’s not in pirate regalia. Nor does he have a sword strapped to his side. He’s in jeans, a faded tee, and the cardigan I coveted all winter. He’s not Zane Scarlett. He’s Dylan Harley Sterling, and my chest swells with hope at the sight of him, even though he broke my heart.

With skills I couldn’t even emulate in my dreams, the crew sails the ship up to the dock, and two of the crew members leap down to secure the lines that get tossed off the side. I’d help, but I’m rooted to my spot, too busy taking in the polished woodwork, the fresh paint, the majestic masts, the new shrouds, and the bold black sails the crew is efficiently reefing.

She would’ve loved this, I think. My god, she would’ve loved this.

Dylan steps toward the top of the rope ladder that hangs off the side of the ship, and I step toward the base. For a long moment, we look at each other without speaking, as though we both know the distance between us is greater than it appears, and climbing up or down a ladder won’t erase it. But we have to start somewhere, and I’m eager to see the rest of the ship, so when he leans down and extends a hand, I tuck up my long skirt and climb.

He hauls me onto the main deck, and I take a moment to appreciate the work that’s been done. The woodwork is beautifully sanded and stained. The brass is polished and hammered into shape. The masts stand tall, with gleaming cleats and rigging. Everything smells fresh and new. And this is just what I can see from here. What lies belowdecks, I can only imagine.

“They said she was ready,” Dylan says. “I wanted you to see her as soon as possible.”

I nod, swallowing a lump in my throat. She’s so beautiful, so whimsical, so full of life, so ready for a joyful adventure, so Iris Flynn. I’m standing on a loving tribute to her imagination, brought to life by the fans for whom she’ll never truly be gone, and for the first time since the For Sale sign went up at the house, I don’t feel any rage or sadness. All I feel is gratitude.

“I can’t—” I start, but Dylan holds up a hand.