The Book of Speculation: A Novel

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“No,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry he screwed up your family and I’m sorry he screwed up mine.” Her chin starts to wrinkle up, tight little pits appearing.

“Hey,” I start, but it’s too hard to finish. I stare down at my coffee. It’s undrinkable mud warmed over. Doyle has suffered through his entire cup. None of us has the heart not to. “I brought the books I borrowed.” I dig them out and slide them across the small white table, toward her chair. “I’m sorry I got you in trouble.”

“Oh,” she says quietly. “Never mind that. Kupferman’s an idiot. She’s gone nuts about damaging materials and has Marci reshelving for three weeks because she was drinking a Coke outside the staff room.”

“No.”

“Seriously.” Alice sniffles and rubs the ends of her hair between her fingers. I remember her sucking salt water from the tips of her pigtails. “Why did you take them?”

“My mom read to me from one.” I shrug. “Ever love something so much you start to think it’s yours?”

“It’s good to have things that are yours. Keep them.” She closes her eyes and locks her arms around her knees and I wonder if we’re talking about books at all. She sniffs again, but says nothing. Silence blooms. Enola catches my eye. We should go. I set my cup down.

“I’ll give you my library keys,” Alice says suddenly.

“I’m sorry?”

She rubs her eyes and stands. “You can’t go back to the house for more reasons than the leak. I’ll lend you my keys. Go spend the night at the library.” Then she’s walking down the hall to her bedroom, where there’s the mobile with a horseshoe crab, a creature she doesn’t know why she likes, unless Frank told her that as well.

“She’s drunk,” Enola says.

“Probably,” I say. “She’s allowed.”

Alice returns, leaning against the wall. Yes, tipsy. Good for you, Alice. I wish I’d thought of it myself.

“There’s something I was supposed to tell you. What was it?” She waves the keys in my direction before tossing them to me. “The code is still the same. Kupferman says she’s going to change it but hasn’t gotten around to it yet.”

“Thanks.” We all get up. The storm is still beating down, rain slapping at windows and doors.

“Oh. Oh,” Alice says. She pinches the top of her nose. The words come out in a great rush, “Liz Reed from North Isle called. Said she was trying to get in touch with you but your phone is out.” She stops to take a breath. “That accident thing you were looking into checked out, she sent it to your email. What the heck was that name? It was something weird. Peabody and Sons Maritime Merriments.” She scrunches her face. “Does that sound right?”

“Yeah, it does.”

“Wow. Liz Reed. You called in the big guns. She also said that Raina found something for you on that Mullins name.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, the last known relative is some guy in the Midwest. Churchwarry.” I hear her, but she sounds like she’s in another room. “Wait. That’s your guy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I answer.

Churchwarry is a Ryzhkov. A thousand ideas form and fade. Alice may have gotten it wrong; it would be understandable, she’s worn out, buzzed. I need to talk to Raina, double check. I don’t know what happens in the next seconds, when the door opens, why Enola and Doyle are standing by the car in the rain, or how it is that I’m alone with Alice on her step.

Alice leans forward and her hair falls down over her forehead. She shoves it back. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t let you stay. I’m really ugly right now and I’m a little drunk and I need to be alone. I’ll just look at you—”

“And see my mother.”

“It won’t always be this way,” she says. “I need time. I need to be less angry.”

“It’s not you, it’s me. It’s always me.” It’s a thing people say, but it’s true. If it hadn’t been for me, her father never would have told her. “It’s okay. I have a really terrible breakfast face.”

A weak smile. “Don’t. I know every one of your faces. Just put my keys in the book drop when you leave, okay? I’ll get Marci to let me in tomorrow.”

I could just lean in—a little kiss, nothing at all—but it wouldn’t be right. She rubs her face, and I touch her hand. The hug is unexpected, but with her inside and me on the step below, we fit. And I should hold her for a little while. I want to. I could say something, but her cheek is on my shoulder and I can feel her body catching because she’s crying again. Her lips brush my neck, light and awkward, but then she pulls away.

“Okay,” she says.

“Okay.”

She watches while I walk to the car, getting pelted by the rain. Even through sheets of water on the windshield, I see her in the doorway. She stays until we drive out of the lot.

“God damn,” Enola whispers. “Alice McAvoy is in love with you.”