Page 57 of The Words We Lost

I’m still panting when Joel pulls to a stop beside me and reaches for my handlebars, pulling me in the way he did years ago after he lost to Cece in a bike race he never planned to win. Only this time, he doesn’t lean in close to whisper in my ear. This time, his expression darkens as he fixes his gaze on something in the distance.

“What is it?” I follow his glower to the beach where a lone news truck is parked. “The news truck?”

“It’s fine.” But by the way his jaw is clenched, it’s clearly anything butfine. “You good to ride again?”

I nod and soon we’re in motion again. Neither of us engage our motors as we ride in silence toward the shadowy, scenic trails of Fort Warden State Park. We weave our way through colonial-style military buildings and the old bunkers we used to explore when tourist season was over and we had full rein of the meticulously maintained grounds. But I doubt Joel took this detour for nostalgia’s sake.

As soon as we exit the park, his shoulders relax. “I’m not a fan of the media.”

And the way he says it reminds me of a similar comment Wendy made at dinner the other night. “How long did they stick around after the funeral?”

“Too long.” He doesn’t bother to mask the disgust in his voice. “All sharks on the hunt for blood, especially when it came to Aunt Wendy.”

At his biting words, the madhouse of media surrounding the church and funeral procession last fall materializes in my mind, as does the security detail hired to keep them away. I’d known the rising popularity of Cece’s books had turned many of her fans into tourists, but the crowds gathered during that weekend were recordbreaking.

For the most part, readers had respected Cece’s privacy and her private residence. They took pictures of her town, her beaches, the arbor and reading benches she’d donated to the community library, and whatever other landmarks she highlighted on her social media pages. And if one was lucky enough to find her, she was always approachable, never one to turn down a selfie or an autograph. But Joel was right, the media was a different breed. They weren’t loyal fans; they were cutthroat opportunists.

“In the early days after Cece’s death, Aunt Wendy wanted to keep her work hours at the hotel the same,” Joel continues. “She was afraid of spending too much time alone, I think.” He blows out another hard breath. “But she kept getting ambushed at the hotel. Fake event meetings that would turn into a surprise interview. Reporters waiting in the parking lot, in the lobby, at the restaurants she’d get takeout from. And that was far from all their stunts.”

“I imagine your father didn’t take too kindly to that,” I say, sticking close to him, our speed barely reaching five miles an hour now.

“You’re correct. We hired extra security and even had the chief of police post a warning at the hotel. But when they started following her on her morning beach walks and into the grocery stores, it became much more serious. One idiot even knocked on her front door when my folks were gone.”

“No,” I gasp. “That’s horrible.”

“That’s when her panic attacks started. We’ve taken her to the ER more times than I can count. Thankfully her last one was months ago now, and she has medication to help when she needs it.”

I shake my head. “That explains so much.” Her extreme weight loss, her fear of social gatherings, her exit at the hotel ... and the recycled art that has given her some much-needed purpose. “What were they even hoping to gain from a grieving mother?”

“They all wanted the same thing—an exclusive story that none of us were offering, as well as the publishing date of Cece’s final manuscript. There was so much coverage already, so many articles based on assumption, but we’d agreed early on as a family that Cece’s personal life was off-limits. The public has her books, her social media pages, her interviews, and maybe someday her movies, too. But we refused to give them anything more.” The breeze ruffles through his hair like fingers. “Aunt Wendy didn’t lose a best-selling author; she lost her only child.”

The pain of that truth zings through every nerve ending in my body as I picture Wendy’s grief-worn face and hear her vulnerable confessions about Cece’s last weeks all over again. “You were right to protect Cece and your family.”

His gaze rests on my profile. “You didn’t give them an exclusive, either.”

“Never,” I say firmly. “And I never will.” Thankfully, Chip had taken care of most of the annoying emails and voicemails from badgering media representatives. “It’s like you said earlier, there are some parts of Cece that are too sacred to share with strangers. And I think we’ve shared enough of her with the world already.”

When he nods, the intense green of his eyes glistens in the sunlight, and it’s almost enough to shock me into believing we’re a team again.Almost.

After we round the last sand berm, there stands Point Wilson Lighthouse like a loyal sentinel guarding the western entrance to the Admiralty Inlet from the Strait of Juan de Fuca. My breath catches the way it always used to when I was a girl, and a memory comesas swift as the breeze, carrying my father’s voice with it.“Looks like a perfect place to start over someday. Rich people are always looking to rent a day at sea with a bearded captain.”

He’d slung his arm around my shoulders, pointing it out to me as we motored by in the charter boat we’d owned before my mother died. I begged him to stop at the dock, to eat an ice cream cone with me on the harbor and explore such a pretty place for just a few hours, but we always had somewhere else to be, some shipment to drop off, some contact to meet on a timeline that was never ours to change.“One day, Elskede. One day I’ll give you a life where we can start over for good and leave everything else behind us.”It was the promise he came closest to keeping. We’d visited Port Townsend a handful of times before opportunity finally struck, when we could finally make a new life.

Joel downshifts his speed, and I follow his lead. Surprisingly, our tires make a flawless transition from pavement to sand as we navigate our way to the lightkeeper’s quarters. The wind is always chillier at the Point. Something about the air pressure colliding as the two bodies of water meet makes this spot considerably windier, too—a natural air-conditioning, my father used to say. It’s where the locals come when the summer sun burns too hot on the beaches closer to town.

As we park our bikes and traverse the sandy path on foot, a hundred snapshots flood my brain at once—of the nights we snuck in through the faulty door lock. But even though we were chronic trespassers, we were always careful to obey the same rules the tourists were given: no food, drink, or trash left behind.

Joel makes his way up the sand-blown sidewalk and stops at the door. “Shall we? I figured it might be a safer place to read. Too breezy to be holding loose paper.”

At the thought of losing even a single page of Cece’s words, I recall my conversation with Chip last night and his warning to be careful. I stare down at the thick grouping of papers in Joel’s grasp and spot the wrinkled edges and folded-down corners.

“Probably a good idea,” I conclude. “This is the only copy we have.”

I notice the lock on the door has changed from a janky deadbolt requiring a key to a coded lock box, which Joel is apparently privy to. He taps in a sequence of numbers, then meets my questioning gaze.

“Old Harry gave me the code when I called him this morning.” He glances over his shoulder at me before he pushes the door open.

The space is dim when we enter, though the sunshine illuminates dozens of framed maps and black-and-white pictures of the lighthouse and its keepers through the years. A donation box sits on a table near the back wall. Looks like the tours are still free, but donations are highly encouraged.

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