Cece smiles at me. “You always did like a mystery. All that curiosity in you. I don’t know much, unfortunately. Not because I don’t want to, but because my mom wasn’t the type to talk about her past. I think she was focused on getting through every day and didn’t have the time or inclination to look back. I know she was born here in Boston, but she spent her childhood in England.”
We both look down at the postcards spread between us, at the London postmarks, and I feel a little click in my brain.
“When did they come back to America?”
Cece furrows her brow in thought. “I don’t know the exact year. I know my mother came back to Boston right before World War I, but her parents and her sisters stayed in England for a few more years. I’m not sure why she came back first and why they stayed. She lived with relatives in the city for a while, and she met my father here.”
I study the postcards, the pieces of the mystery rearranging themselves in my head, trying to fit together. “She could have met this Henry in England and fallen in love with him, and then she had to leave him behind for some reason when she came to America. If the dates on these postcards are anything to go by, I don’t think she ever went back. Maybe she never saw him again.”
I get a sharp tug in my stomach at that thought, like I’m the one who is never going to see the love of his life again. Like I can feel what she must have felt.
“The dates certainly line up,” Cece says thoughtfully. “And more than that, it feels right.”
“What feels right?”
Cece looks at me and her eyes are both serious and sparkly. “That whoever this Henry is was my mom’s great love. I don’t think she wasn’t happy because of my dad. At least not directly. Look at these postcards. Read the words. Whoever Henry is loved my mother with his whole heart. She wasn’t happy because she knew what real love felt like and had to live her whole life without it.”
“They never found each other,” I say slowly, my mind immediately turning to Amelia and the six months I spent wondering if I would ever see her again. Suddenly the drive to solve this mystery, to find Henry, is so strong my fingers practically twitch with the need to type on a keyboard.
“They never did.” Cece speaks with certainty then takes the last sip of her beer and strokes a hand over Killer’s fur. “My father died when I was a teenager, and then it was just my mom, my older sister, and me. She never remarried, and she died a few years after Cooper was born.”
“I want to find him.” Now it’s my turn to speak with certainty. “They might never have found each other again during life, but I can find him for her now. I have to find him. I think…” I cut myself off, realizing what I’m about to say, knowing I’ll literally never hear the end of it from Cece. “I think maybe I was meant to find these postcards. I mean, they were just sitting right there in the attic for who even knows how long, right next to all the Christmas decorations, but no one ever bothered to open the box.”
Cece grins widely. “Elliot Wyles, the king of logic and an orderly existence, using a phrase likemeant to be? I think this is the proudest day of my life.”
“Shut it,” I mumble.
Cece runs a hand over her wild curls, still grinning at me. “Never, honey. I think you were meant to find them too. That it’s you who can unravel this bit of family lore and give my mother back her great love.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind me digging into your family history?”
Cece takes my hand, squeezing. “Not at all. I think I’d quite like to know what happened. I didn’t really know my mother all that well. Maybe I can meet her now. Learn who she really was. How do you think you’ll do it?”
I think about the app I downloaded this morning, which, of course, gets me thinking about Amelia again, because she’s never far from my mind, it turns out. “I have a few ideas. It may take some time, but I think I can do it.”
“I know you can. No one handles things as well as you do. But just remember it’s okay to ask for help. To open yourself up to the people who love you.”
I pick my beer back up, mostly to avoid answering Cece because asking for help isn’t something I excel at. I’m more of ahandle all the thingsandtake care of all the peopleguy.
“I know,” I finally say, for lack of anything better.
Cece laughs. “I know you won’t,” she says with certainty. “At least not at first. But you will. Big things are coming for you, El. I can’t wait to watch it all unfold.”
I don’t know if Cece is right or not, but I can’t deny that her words settle me, and as I sink deeper into her couch, the comforting familiarity of her house surrounding me, I feel the rest of the darkness melt away and light start to trickle back in.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AMELIA
“Champagne?”
I turn from where I’m studying, what is probably the ugliest piece of abstract art I’ve ever laid eyes on, to see James Miller, the MassTech Dean of the College of Computing, otherwise known as the person in charge of my program in the computer science department. Also known as the person who has been trying to corner me since I walked into this house—his house—an hour ago. He’s holding two flutes of the bubbling wine and has an eager look on his face that I recognize immediately. The one that says I’m about to get sucked into a conversation I’d definitely rather not have.
I was going to skip this reception for computer science grad students. My big plans after spending a day immersed in research were to put on my coziest pajamas, order more Chinese takeout than one person could reasonably eat, and read an entire book. But then the reminder email for the reception dropped into my inbox with the highlighted wordsattendance strongly encouragedand my conscience got the better of me.
So even though I hate socializing with strangers with the fire of a thousand suns and hate dressing up even more, here I am at the dean’s house, wearing tights that dig into my stomach and heeled boots that are making my toes cry. To add insult to injury, I lost track of time today and forgot to do laundry, so I’m wearing underwear that’s a size too small and have spent the last forty-five minutes dreaming about ripping them off and burning them in one of the fire pits currently roaring outside.
I paste a smile on my face and glance up at the dean. “Thank you very much; I’d love some.”
