Page 30 of The Words We Lost

As I turn from the display case, I feel for the ring on my right index finger and twist it into my palm. “They did?”

“Yes, her first editor, the director there...” Joel pauses, and it’s clear he can’t remember Barry’s name.

“Barry Brinkman.”

“Yes, Barry. He came up with his wife, actually. They stayed at the hotel for a few nights and took our family to The Steel Pot for dinner. Said he wasn’t big on attending funerals but that he was big on paying his respects. He told us some great stories that night—his favorite Cece moments. It did Aunt Wendy’s heart good to laugh.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Honestly, it did us all good.”

There’s a damp heat behind my eyes as I picture the scene. Barry leaning back in his chair, nursing his third glass of root beer while surrounded by more appetizers than he could eat in a week in order to share with those at his table. The same generous way he shared from his heart.

“When did he visit?”

“A day or two after the new year. We were still taking down the lobby Christmas trees when they arrived.” Joel inclines his head to the display case. “This came in a few weeks later—addressed to the hotel with a card dedicating it to the Campbell Library. The signature said it was from Cece’s other family at Fog Harbor Books.”

I think through the timeline of Barry’s retirement, struggling to recall a work environment prior to SaBrina’s arrival. November stands out in my mind—a dark month in an obscenely dark year. Time is difficult to keep track of when there is little good being celebrated. But a mental door opens to reveal Barry saying good-bye to his staffbeforeThanksgiving. I remember now because he said he was finally going to give his wife the honeymoon she deserved after forty years of marriage: a month-long vacation in the Maldives over Christmas. He sent me a postcard or two. Maybe even a fewmore than that. Chip would know the number if I asked him. I was only functioning via the daily reminder alerts Dr. Rogers suggested I set on my phone after beginning therapy with him. Reminder alert questions like: Have I consumedat leasttwo meals today? Have I eatenat leastone fruit or vegetable? Have I drankat leastthree sixteen-ounce glasses of water? For a man who hated the wordsat leastwhen it came to empty grief platitudes, he sure used them a lot with his clients.

I funnel my thoughts to Barry again. To the days at the office following the news of Cece’s death.

There were dozens of email threads crossing paths from every department at Fog Harbor. All with similar subject lines to “RE: Cece’s Memorial Flowers/Gift Fund.” And that didn’t include the outpouring from her fans. The onslaught of letters and packages and media coverage was so massive that Barry had to hire two temporary employees to sort it all. I can only imagine how overloaded Cece’s P.O. Box in Port Townsend became and who had been in charge of managing it. My guess: I’m looking right at him.

“I remember Fog Harbor sending flower arrangements and cards. And I think there were a few framed pictures from her international book signings, but this...” I point to the specialty case and shake my head. “I’d bet my Peloton that this was all Barry’s doing.”

The corners of Joel’s eyes crinkle. “Did you just bet your Peloton?”

Sure, in retrospect, betting a stationary bike sounds pretty lame, but in actuality, it’s likely one of my most valuable assets. I don’t own a car. I sublease my apartment. And the washer/dryer set I bought two years ago doesn’t exactly scream bet-worthy either. But Joel’s smile feels like a gift, and I accept it by giving him back one of my own.

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” I say. “It’s a good workout.”

“I’d rather do a hundred burpees in the sand than pretend to ride a bike for miles.”

I laugh unwillingly, then try to regain the ground I lost. “It’s not a pretend bike.”

He hikes an eyebrow.

“Okay, it’s not mobile,” I amend. “But it’s responsible for muscles I don’t even know the names of.”

The glint in his eyes certainly doesn’t reflect the platonic expression of a man who shares part-time custody of his dog with another woman. I prop my elbow on the closest bookshelf of western classics—his father’s favorite genre—near the front corner of the library, and contemplate asking him about Madison. But the opportunity passes as soon as Joel flips to the second chapter in Cece’s memoir, clears his throat, and begins to read.

11

“A Pirate’s Life for Me”

Cece, as she was now called by both family and friends, had been right to assume Ingrid’s arrival eight months ago would add some mystery and intrigue to her life. But what she hadn’t anticipated was the two-for-one package she’d be getting with the Erikson daddy-daughter duo, or the spark of inspiration they would bring.

Her spark of a novel had finally caught fire.

“You should be writing about the great Nordic Vikings, not wasting your time on common sea bandits.” Captain Halvor—Hal, for short—stepped away from the helm of her uncle Stephen’s docked forty-foot custom charter and squatted into a fight stance, flexing his massive biceps until the fabric of his long-sleeved shirt looked ready to surrender. “Vikings were the true warriors of the sea.”

“As long as you don’t count the ruthless murderers who raped and pillaged the innocent for their own personal gain,” Ingrid spouted flatly without bothering to glance up from the book she was reading on this chilly afternoon in mid-January.

Captain Hal side-eyed his daughter, tugged off his red knit cap, and threw out his arm. “Ingrid, my helmet and my war horn, please.”

“Nope,” she said plainly, flipping to the next page of her novel.

“Elskede, my beloved. Pretend this is my last request. You can’t deny a man his last request.”

“I can absolutely deny it when it’s the same request you ask for at least twice a week.” Ingrid released an exasperated sigh. “It’s embarrassing.”

The corners of Captain Hal’s illuminating grin dipped south until Ingrid slammed her book closed and dropped it to the bench. Cece tracked her friend’s movements across the bow and up the ladder to the second-story cockpit tower. A moment later she hefted the lid open on a storage box to reveal a bronze Viking helmet and some kind of animal horn the size of her forearm. Without a word, Ingrid returned and tossed them to her father.

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