Page 35 of Ebbing Tides (The Lighthouse Duology #2)

Ten texts were sent to my phone between the moment I’d left my father’s room and when I climbed the porch steps of my house—the very same ones my wife had slipped on years ago, resulting in her death.

I thought about that now, as I often did, but there was a wish attached.

A desperate plea for my shoe to land on a rogue patch of ice, for me to fall over the banister and crack my head on the same brick she had years ago.

It would be tragically poetic—husband and wife, both met with the same fate, ten years apart.

But I had no such luck, and I unlocked my front door as another text came in.

They were all from Sid, asking what was going on, what had happened, and if I was still coming by later with Melanie and her kids. I wished he’d leave me alone, but it was my fault he didn’t because I had been the one to call Grace and tell her I needed to be at my house instead of with Dad.

“If you can’t come by and sit with him, it’s fine,” I’d said. “But I can’t be here right now.”

I should’ve known she’d tell her husband that I had called. I should’ve known he would harass me. And hell, maybe I had known, and that was exactly why I had called her and not Lucy.

It was nice to feel cared about, even if I did ignore his messages.

He’s going to show up if I don’t answer him , I warned myself as I walked through the house to my bedroom, where my laptop sat waiting.

Irritated, I pulled my phone out of my jacket pocket and typed out a quick message.

Me: I’m fine. Something came up. I’ll let you know later if we can make it.

It was vague, and I knew he wouldn’t be satisfied, but it would do for now.

The laptop, often left untouched, booted up slowly, but eventually, the screen glowed with life. I brought it into the living room, where Lido waited with a curious tilt to his head.

“Time to do some research,” I muttered aloud, as if he needed the explanation, and opened a browser window.

Lilly Meyer .

I typed her name, knowing damn well I was unlikely to come up with much of anything, and I was right. Thousands upon thousands of results came up, hundreds of pages’ worth, and I quickly refined the search.

Lilly Meyer, Revere, MA.

It was a long shot. I didn’t know if she’d lived in Revere or only worked there, and as luck would have it, I was once again unsuccessful.

“Fuck,” I muttered, wiping a hand over my mouth.

It was only a name, one that wasn’t uncommon, and finding one woman in a sea of thousands was going to be like finding a single crow in an unkindness of many ravens.

Fuck, it had been forty-eight years since I’d been born.

The woman could’ve married someone by this point, could’ve changed her name, could’ve moved to a whole other state or country, for all I knew.

“But Dad knew she was dead,” I said, glancing toward Lido.

He groaned and dropped his chin on the edge of my thigh, as if to say, And you think he’s telling you the truth?

“I probably shouldn’t,” I replied. “But for some reason, I don’t think he’s lying about this. I—”

A thought struck me. I knew it was a long shot—it was insane really—but …

Lilly Meyer, Salem, MA, cemetery plot.

I typed the words and let the search engine run. Then, lo and behold, there it was.

Lilly Jean Meyer.

Buried in a cemetery on the outskirts of Salem.

One I knew all too well.

***

The cemetery was old, some of the graves dating as far back as the 1700s.

Burials back then hadn’t always had a rhyme or reason.

People were buried wherever the families saw fit.

Not like a national cemetery, which was as orderly as the military itself.

There were maps, sure, but they weren't that easy to understand or follow, with the winding roads and paths cutting through the grounds this way and that.

Honestly, I couldn't understand how Charlie kept it all straight sometimes, but I guessed after calling the place home for years, it became as much like the back of your hand as anything else.

That wasn't so much the case for me though.

Even in the thirteen years or so I'd spent as the night watchman, I had explored the land very little.

In fact, I thought this was the first time I'd found myself meandering along one of the well-kept, groomed walkways, checking the names etched into the headstones.

My phone buzzed in my pocket as I walked in a hurry, desperation pushing every step.

It was Sid, or it was Lucy, or it was Grace or Ricky or whoever the hell, and I'd get back to them—I would—but this seemed so much more important than bringing the woman I was sleeping with over for a bit of ridiculous and pointless familial interrogation.

I winced at that thought. Fuck, she was far more than that, and shame on me for lumping her in with the dozens of meaningless one-night stands I'd engaged in during my years overseas. Shame on me for not checking my phone to see if it was her texting. Shame on me for not making her feel important.

But, oh God, I needed to see it. I needed to know the headstone of the woman who might or might not have brought me into this world. Someone I had never been given the chance to call Mom.

And as I slowed at the site of her burial, I knew I never would.

Lilly Jean Meyer .

Her birth year would’ve made her twenty when I was born, aligning perfectly with what age my father had guessed her to be.

She had been forty-six when she died, making me older now than she’d ever gotten the chance to be.

What happened to you? I wondered as the sound of footfalls approached, and I realized I wasn’t alone.

With a glance over my shoulder, I saw an old man, hunched and feeble. He must’ve been every bit of ninety, if not more, and the cane he used to aid him along did little to keep him steady.

I left Lilly’s grave to walk in his direction.

“Sir, can I give you a hand?” I asked.

He glanced at me, his clear eyes twinkling with a youth his body no longer reflected. They were sharp and observant as they traveled the length of my torso before settling on my outstretched palm.

“Army, eh?” he asked, ignoring the gesture as he tottered along, his cane tapping all the way.

Knowing he must’ve read the Army logo on my cap, I said, “Yes, sir.”

“You were in Iraq?”

I shook my head as I walked alongside him, ensuring he didn’t fall. “Afghanistan.”

He harrumphed with a single nod of his head. I couldn’t tell if the sound was positive, negative, or a neutral acknowledgment, so I said nothing more.

We walked along in silence for a few more steps until we came to one particular grave.

“Well, young man, this is my stop,” he said, using both hands to lean against his cane. “You’ve done your good deed; now go on with your day.”

I glanced at the headstone, and there she was again. Lilly Meyer. A flicker that almost felt like hope sparked in my gut as I glanced at the old man, still peering up at me through suspicious eyes.

My hand gestured toward the grave as I asked, “Did you know her?”

Those sharp eyes narrowed. “Who’s asking?”

“I am, sir,” I replied, then cleared my throat, wishing I’d been more prepared for the moment—but how could I have been? “My name is Max Tailor. My father, Rich—”

“Oh, I know Richard.” The old man’s face twisted into a sneer. The type of reaction I would expect from the general public when talking about my father. “You’re his son?”

My stomach swooped and took a swift nosedive as I nodded. “Yes, sir. I am.”

The old man’s eyes widened for a moment as he studied my face. Then, without another second to spare, he shook his head.

“I-I should be going,” he stammered, then unsteadily turned to make a sad attempt at hurrying away.

“Wait. How did you know Lilly?” I asked, a little too frantic for my liking.

He held up a trembling hand, his back to me. “There is nothing I have to say to you.”

I took a step, prepared to chase after him, if only to get answers. “Sir, I’m sorry, but—”

“I said this is nothing—”

“I just want to know how—”

“I heard what you said,” he snapped. “Now, leave me—”

“Was she my mother?” I finally asked, shouting over his incessant demands.

He stopped in his tracks.

“I’m sorry,” I said, filling the silence with my voice. “I know I have no idea who you are, but if you knew Lilly and you obviously know my father, then I’m assuming you would probably know if she had a baby about forty-nine years ago.”

His head hung, and I swore his back hunched just a little more.

“I only just found out about her today,” I went on, unsure why I was even bothering. “I had no idea. My whole life … goddammit, my whole fucking life, I had no—”

“Lilly is my daughter,” the old man finally said, his voice now as broken as his body. “And she was just barely twenty years old when she gave birth to a baby boy.”

With a deep exhale, I closed my eyes. It was true.

Fuck, I had read the letter, I’d heard my father speak the words, but my parents—the people who had raised me—were arguably not the most sane people on the planet.

They could’ve been lying. They could’ve been delusional.

But this old man, I knew without knowing him, was sharp-witted and of sound mind.

And he was my grandfather.

“Thank you,” I finally said, moments passing since he’d last spoken.

I opened my eyes to watch as he nodded.

“I’m sorry,” I said once again. “I’ll leave you to be with your daughter.”

I stuffed my hands in my pockets as I readied myself to hurry away when he glanced over his shoulder.

“You said your name is Max?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, looking at his face and trying to find a shred of myself in any of his features. “Maxwell Benjamin Tailor.”

He grunted, and I thought maybe I had caught the softest, faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“She named you after me,” he said, his voice gentle.

I swallowed, rolling my lips between my teeth. The sudden realization that this man, this stranger, this other Max, was my family.