“Ready?” I said into his soft, pink ear.
With a Cheshire smile, Tinker answered me by jumping from my arms into the small building with one big yowl, which can be deafening when he’s in the mood. His cry, however, was followed by a disappointed sniff. I gathered that his performance had been for nothing. The girls had not waited around to see what was inside.
I, however, decided to finish what they’d started. I was more than a little intrigued as I slipped around the thick, rotting door, standing ajar, and into the one-room building. After I brushed aside some cobwebs, I found myself in a space that smelled of dried dirt and a few autumn leaves. Although the main house was old and musty due to years of neglect by its last owner, it was thoroughly modernized compared to The Shack. Some daylight crept through the door, but the only other source of light was a small window, across which several weeds had taken root. The floor was made of wide wooden planks, which were warped from damp and neglect. The walls were exposed stones, round and about the size of the cobblestones on Main Street. It was a pleasant day outside, but the room was noticeably cold.
As I took a step forward, my phone rang, and my boyfriend’s name scrolled across my screen. My ring tone is an old-fashioned one, but it sounded loud and alien in those hollow surroundings.
“Hello, handsome,” I said.
“Hello, beautiful,” said Peter. “Are you interested in joining me at Crab City later? Low tide is in two hours.”
Peter was working on a story that had lately consumed him about the island’s hermit crabs. He was having the time of his life studying the thousands of crabs that emerge at low tide off the shore of the Nantucket Field Station, which is managed by the University of Massachusetts’s environmental studies department. I’d been competing with the crabs for his time lately, but I was glad that he had taken such an interest in the ocean life that surrounded us. I was still figuring out how I might share his latest passion. Fortunately, I’d come up with an idea this morning.
“Sure,” I said. “I’ve been wondering if it’s possible to develop a marine-life scent that’s appealing for a summer candle.”
“Sounds like an impossible challenge, but I’m sure you will figure it out if anyone can,” he said.
“I’m at the Morton house,” I said, appreciating the compliment. “I can meet you when I’m done.”
“I’m happy to carve pumpkins or whatever you need until low tide,” he said.
“Your skills with a staple gun and your eye for boyishly creepy things might be of use,” I said.
“You had me at staple gun,” he said. “See you.”
I smiled, and figured I had about twenty minutes before he arrived, so I walked toward the most notable feature of The Shack, a hearth at the back of the dimly lit room. I passed a few odds and ends from the last owner. A rusty bike wheel. A spade. A roll of chicken-coop wire. Tinker sprang to my shoulder as a field mouse scrambled along the base of one of the walls.
“You’re a cat,” I said, in case he’d forgotten. “You’re supposed to chase mice.”
He put a paw on my forehead for balance, however, and did not budge.
Like many old fireplaces, the one I approached was huge, at least seven feet wide and maybe three feet tall, with a cooking hook on the left and space to build a large fire. In their day, these household features had served as heaters, lights, stoves, dryers, and more. The mantel of the hearth was made of the same stones as the walls, and cantilevered over the firepit for protection.
As my eyes adjusted, I noticed a sign hanging above the hearth. It was the length of the mantel and about two feet high. Holding up my phone for extra light, I made out the words: COOPER’S CANDLES. The letters were painted in pale blue, were faded and cracked in some places, but were still clear.
“No way,” I said, as much to myself as to Tinker, who whisked his tail and jumped to the ground to investigate.
I realized, with much delight, that I was in a chandlery. The Shack was, in fact, Cooper’s Candles. I couldn’t believe I had accepted Shelly’s explanation that the building had been used for smoking meats when, in fact, the fireproof stone structure with its large chimney was once a place where candles had been made, stored, and, it seemed, sold. The discovery caught me completely by surprise, although the business of Cooper’s Candles would not have been an unusual one for Nantucket during the period the Morton house had been built. Around that time, about a third of the island’s economy came from candle making. Nantucket’s candles were known to have the brightest and whitest light due to the islanders’ access to spermaceti oil from sperm whales.
I couldn’t help it, but I envisioned a young me, sitting by the flames in this room, melting wax and pouring candles that the neighbors might buy. I touched the name on the sign and wondered who Cooper had been. It was likely a family surname, as was the custom back then. My sign over the Wick & Flame is a shiny black quarter board, framed in silver with expertly carved, silver block letters announcing the name. Cooper’s sign was homier. I imagined its architect with a brush in one hand and a paint can in the other.
I took a poorly lit photo and sent it to John Pierre Morton in Canada. A moment later, he responded with words to brighten a candle maker’s day.
Amazing! He wrote. Take it for your apartment. It was meant for you.
I’d lost a window but gained a treasure. I sent back a thank-you, and a heart.
Then I got to work.
First, I tugged at the oversized board, gently, so as not to break it. The wood was thick and still strong in spite of years of neglect and the island’s sea air. When I realized it wouldn’t budge, I searched the items strewn about the floor and picked up the spade. Carefully, I used it as a lever to pry the wood ever so slowly from the wall. Before I knew it, I was building up a sweat, but I didn’t mind. At one point, my phone pinged. I knew it was probably Shelly, wondering where I was, but I’ll admit I couldn’t stop. Although we’d steered clear of The Shack, I was seduced by it now that I was inside. I felt like I had crossed from one world and back into another.
Finally, the wood came free. I slowly lowered it to the floor. I’m respectably strong, but the sign was long and wobbled in my arms like a seesaw. Once I’d laid it on the ground, I needed to stand up to make sure my limbs were still intact. It was a good thing I did because a stone fell from the newly exposed wall, missing my head by a couple of inches. Another followed. Then another. I looked above the mantel and caught another. They loosened like dominos. I removed a couple more before they could fly into the room on their own.
“Psssssst,” said Tinker, coming to my heels.
I pulled three or four more stones from the wall. As I did, I was sure I felt the room became icy cold. Then, behind us, I heard the door move, and with it, a ray of light crossed the floor.
“Stella?” said Peter, peeking through the door frame, first at me and then at the mantel behind me. He straightened at the sight. “Wow. I thought the decorations would be spooky in the house, but that’s overkill. Get it?”
“It’s not a decoration,” I said, staring back at the hole in the wall. “John Pierre said I could have a candle sign I found. When I took it down, this is what I found.”
The two of us faced the mantel, and the human skeleton I’d uncovered, nestled into a carved-out space in the wall.
Chapter 2
“Is that a real skeleton?” said Peter.
“Looks like it,” I said, staring at a skull that seemed to look right back at me.
Peter switched on his phone’s