Page 9

Seven

Benny

Present Day

Greenport’s marina was only twenty minutes away by bike. The sticky June heat made the ride unbearable, but the faster Benny pedaled, the more of a breeze she kicked up. There were no sidewalks in this town. Just rows and rows of grapevines (her own vineyard!), and farmland. By the time she made it into town, she was thirsty. She looked around, spotting one nautical-themed restaurant after another and lots of shops boasting clever names (like Vitamin Sea), an artisanal cheese store (whatever that was), that blue duck cookie shop her mom mentioned, a carousel, signs for a ferry to Shelter Island, and several stores selling tourist trap stuff like Greenport sweatshirts “on sale” for seventy dollars. She took several pictures, grabbed a water from a shop, and kept walking till she found the Greenport Historical Society, which was in a tiny old building on the waterfront. A bell on the door jingled when she stepped inside and found herself in a single-room museum where she was the only visitor.

“If you’re looking for a restroom, you’re out of luck. Ours isn’t open to the public.”

Benny turned around. A girl about her own age was sitting behind a counter of pathetic-looking souvenirs (stuffed dogs, museum pencils, and rubber bracelets that hadn’t been in style since 2019). Her expression was unfriendly, her brown eyes holding a bit of a challenge to them (as if daring Benny to question this no-restroom validity). Above all, she looked bored. A plate of french fries swimming in ketchup sat in front of her, dangerously close to getting in her long curly brown hair. Benny took note of her vintage rock band T-shirt and the stack of bracelets that looked pretty on her wrist.

“Don’t need a restroom,” Benny said. “I was looking for a tour of the museum.”

The girl blinked once. “It’s one room. You’re looking at it.”

Someone really doesn’t want to be here , Benny thought. She couldn’t say she blamed the girl. It was the first week of summer vacation and this girl was stuck here instead of doing any number of things Benny had to assume girls with friends did in the summer. Benny wasn’t the let’s-sit-and-do-each-other’s-nails type, but sometimes she thought it might be nice to have friends her own age.

“Zara!” An older woman wearing a red vest and a button that said Greenport Historical Society came bustling out of a back room. A cloud of floral perfume followed her. “Don’t be rude to our guest. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry, Grandma,” Zara said, shoving a few french fries in her mouth so that the words came out like a mumble.

“Are you Thea Dabney?” Benny asked.

“Yes,” said the woman pleasantly. “How can I help you?”

“Wally Ingram sent me. He thought you might be able to tell me some local history about a woman named Evelyn Terry.”

Her eyes lit up. “Evelyn Terry! Founder of the inn, planter of Long Island’s first grapevines, and the woman who single-handedly got our lighthouse built. You know,” Thea said, moving closer, “she was a trailblazer for her time. Women in the 1800s always took their husband’s name when they married, but Evelyn insisted on keeping her own so that the Terry line could live on.”

“I didn’t even think of that,” Benny realized.

Zara cleared her throat. “Shouldn’t she pay the museum fee before you start spilling facts?”

“Zara!” her grandmother admonished.

“It’s alright.” Benny fished in her pocket for a ten-dollar bill she wasn’t ready to part with. “How much is the entry fee?”

“There isn’t one.” Thea glared at her granddaughter. “But we’re always happy to accept donations.”

Benny reached in her pocket again, pulled out two dollar bills, and crammed them in a tin can that had been wrapped with a picture and the words SAVE THE LIGHTHOUSE!

“Thank you! We’re happy to give you a tour, aren’t we Zara? Especially if we want to earn money this summer to have ‘a life,’ as you call it while staying with your grandmother?”

Clearly there was a story there.

Zara jumped off the chair she was sitting on and pushed the french fries aside. She stepped out from behind the counter revealing cutoff jean shorts and beat-up unlaced sneakers. “Fine. Let’s go on the ‘tour.’” She used air quotes and Benny tried not to laugh.

Zara pulled an index card out from her pocket and started reading it in a bored voice. “Welcome to the Greenport Historical Society, home of the largest collection of Greenport artifacts on Long Island. As if Greenport artifacts would be anywhere else.”

Her grandmother coughed.

Zara pointed to a large brass contraption. “Behold the wonder of the once-functioning oil lamp from the Greenport Lighthouse, a historical artifact we’re hoping to preserve for future generations.”

She noticed Thea was mouthing the words Zara was reciting.

“Be a part of the renovation!” Zara added with mock enthusiasm. “Our fundraising gala is June twelfth, and tickets are still available.”

June twelfth. “Is there a reason you all chose that date? Does it mean something to the lighthouse? Or Greenport? Or is it a date from local history?” Benny pressed.

Zara blinked. “Nope. It’s just your average Thursday.”

Bummer. Benny deflated. She caught Zara staring at her and tried to perk up. “Are there any cool artifacts in the museum I should check out?”

Zara took a deep breath. “In our loft area, you will find paintings done by local artists as far back as 1825, including some by Evelyn Terry. You will also learn how the Rudd family turned a small town into a destination, thanks to their factory and thriving fishing port. They still own everything in this place,” Zara said. “ Anyway , Long Island has a long history of being the fishing capital of the East Coast. In recent years, menhaden, more commonly known as bunker fish, have returned to the island after disappearing from overfishing. It was the abundance of fishing that drew Long Island to put a lighthouse in its waters and—”

Benny cut her off. “The fish story is fascinating, but I’m really interested in learning more about Evelyn Terry. Do you have any information on her? Can you show me which paintings she did?”

Thea stepped forward. “She did a few of ships in storms, and this one, here, was always popular, even though it’s of a pirate ship, and pirates were before her time.”

Benny stared at the small watercolor of a ship with a black flag bearing a skull and crossbones. A figurehead hung from the front of the ship. The ship was just like the one she wrote about in her journal. “May I take a picture?” Benny asked.

“Of course,” Thea said, fiddling with a gold mermaid broach on her silk top.

“Is there anything else you can tell me about her?” Benny tried. “I’m told she was a big reader. Would you happen to know anything about her interests?” Her book interests?

Zara folded her arms across her chest. “Are you doing a summer reading project on the woman or something?”

A pit formed in her stomach. Why do you want to know? “Or something,” Benny told her.

“I’m sorry, I don’t, but I can do some digging in the archives,” Thea offered. “Why don’t you come back next week, and I’ll see if I can find anything?”

I can’t wait that long. “Thank you,” she said anyway and watched Thea walk away, talking quietly with Zara. Think, Benny. If Evelyn painted ships in storms and pirate ships, could there be a book out there about either of those things? Maybe. Her hand brushed her pocket where Evelyn’s letter and journal pages were hidden. She was too nervous to let the pages out of her sight. What am I missing? Benny exhaled, feeling her shoulders clench from frustration. There was nothing at the museum that could help her. What a waste of time.

Downstairs, the bell jingled, and she heard Thea go through the whole speech instead of Zara this time. Benny pulled the letter out and started to reread it again.

Someone yanked the pages from her hands.

“Hey!” Benny protested, whirling around to find Zara holding Evelyn’s letter. Her heart pounded in her chest. Don’t read that. Don’t read that!

“Stealing from a museum?” Zara hissed, holding it above her head. “Are you out of your mind? My grandmother will have your head.”

Benny swiped the air to get it back, afraid to rip the old paper in the process. “I didn’t steal it! It’s mine.” She knew she sounded angry, but she didn’t care. This wasn’t a game. Well, it was a game, but it was her game. This girl had no part in it. “Read who the letter is addressed to, Everly Benedict. That’s me. I can even recite the letter if you don’t believe me.”

Zara lowered the letter in her hand and read it fast.

“See? Hand it over,” Benny said, trying not to sound panicked. She didn’t know Zara. What if she told people what Benny was doing? What if someone tried to steal the game out from under her?

“Zara? Everything okay?” her grandmother called up to them. “Telling our guest everything you know?”

“Yes, Grandma,” Zara yelled. “She’s having the time of her life.” Zara handed her back the letter. “So you’re her.”

“Her?” Benny repeated, taking the letter and folding it carefully before placing it back in her pocket. She was already cursing herself for taking it out in public.

“Evelyn’s heir,” Zara said, her voice lower.

Benny tensed. “You know about the game?”

“I think I can help you. Are you hungry?” Zara headed to the steps. “I know a great place for lunch.”

“It’s ten forty-five.” Benny said. “And I don’t really have time to—”

Zara ignored her and kept walking. “Good. We’ll be the first ones there.”