The Secret Keepers

  Jack laughed, and with tears in his eyes he embraced his sister, squeezing her tightly. “The world has never seen the likes of you, Penelope. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I should hope not!” Penelope said, also laughing, her own eyes now just as bright. “And it never shall again, I daresay!”

  Soon after that, Penelope slipped away into the night, never to be seen again by the brother who loved her. Jack had begged her to stay longer, but she said she could not. Before she left, however, she pointed out that in the light of day, after she’d gone, he might come to doubt her words.

  “But who is the best judge of character in this town?” she asked. “It’s you, Jack, and everyone knows it, including yourself. And you know I’m telling the truth, don’t you? You can tell.”

  “Yes,” said Jack. “Yes, I can tell.”

  “Then remember this moment, and never doubt the truth you know.”

  There was one last thing that Penelope asked of Jack that night, and it was the most significant of them all. Taking his hands in her own, which were more callused and scarred than an old fisherman’s, she looked into his eyes. “Please believe me when I tell you, brother, that this trouble I’m caught up in—it’s bigger than I am. It’s bigger than the both of us. And it may well outlive us both. There’s a centuries-long history of wickedness and woe that we may help bring to a close. We have to make sure that if I fail—if I die or disappear, and if…” Here she faltered, her voice trembling ever so slightly, and Jack stiffened, suddenly understanding.

  With a glance at April, in whose arms their baby son still slept, he muttered, “And if I die, if something happens to me…”

  Penelope nodded gravely. “Our arrangement, what we’ve agreed upon tonight, must live on, waiting for its opportunity. I’ll do everything I can to make it so that another person—and thus another chance to put an end to this evil—may come here one day. But if that day comes after you and I have gone…”

  “Then there needs to be a Meyer who is ready for it,” Jack said.

  “Yes,” Penelope said. “And a good one at that.”

  They looked at each other for a long moment. The most important moment they’d ever shared in life.

  “You can count on me,” Jack said.

  “I always have,” said Penelope, and went away forever.

  When Penny fell silent at last, Reuben sat motionless for some time before he became aware that she was looking at him, waiting for a response. He blinked exaggeratedly, as if coming awake. For though his eyes had been open, though he’d been looking straight at Penny, he had stopped seeing her. Even now, the characters from her story resisted yielding the stage in his mind to the present one—the actual one, the space in which he lived and breathed—so that for a few moments longer it continued to feel as if Penny and Reuben were ghosts in that long-ago great room. Then the scene shifted, and it was Penelope and Jack who were ghosts in the oil house. And then it was just Penny and Reuben, alone.

  “You,” Reuben said thickly, “are an amazing storyteller.”

  Penny clasped her hands together, beaming. “You think so?”

  “I lost track of where I was. How did you do that?”

  Penny laughed. “Oh, the Meyers have been great storytellers for ages now! We’ve had to be. None of this could be written down, obviously, but it’s been so important to remember—the story’s been passed down from generation to generation, told again and again. We all learn it once we’re old enough to be trusted with the secret. I just heard it for the first time last year. Amazing, isn’t it?”

  “That’s an understatement,” said Reuben. “I hardly know what to say. You memorized all those details?”

  “Oh yes! Of course, I tell it in my own style, tweaking the dialogue and details and such. Everybody does that. But the most important parts have always stayed exactly the same. That’s what being a Meyer has meant ever since that night: not just being trustworthy, which was already established, but being a great storyteller.” Penny smacked her lips. “Is there anything left in that glass? I feel like I have a mouth full of feathers.”

  As Penny let the few remaining drops of water trickle into her mouth, Reuben reminded himself to proceed with caution. His mind had begun to draw connections that made him so excited he feared he would reveal too much. That phrase of Penelope’s from the story—lead me into fortune—followed by the revelation that Penelope had hidden something “extremely important” in the smugglers’ tunnels that would help whoever retrieved it; these things, together with the pirate riddle he’d overheard Penny chanting, had led Reuben to a single, thrilling conclusion.

  Treasure.

  It was clear that the watch had once belonged to Penelope (Reuben hadn’t the least doubt that this was what Penelope had kept stealing glances at that long-ago night), and she had used it to acquire a fortune, something that would aid in her battle against Bartholomew—or, rather, in the event of her death, that would aid Jack and whatever trustworthy stranger returned her watch to Point William. Someone like Reuben. He felt a twinge of guilt when he thought of that word, trustworthy. But was it not for someone like him that Penelope had left the treasure behind? Bartholomew was long gone. What mattered now was that his mom needed him, and to help her he needed money.

  Reuben watched Penny put down the glass, her green eyes twinkling with excitement, and felt another pang of guilt. He wouldn’t take all of it, he decided. He would take just enough to help, and the rest he would leave for the Meyers. They wouldn’t even know the difference. They were going to be rich.

  Penny was smiling eagerly at him, anticipating more questions. Reuben tried to focus. He might have the watch, but he seemed to be the only one in the dark. “So your family has been passing down that story ever since it happened,” he said. “When was that? How long has it been?”

  Penny leaned forward. “That baby, Jack junior? He was my great-great-great-grandfather. Jack and April told him the story when he was about my age, and then years later they told it to his son—their grandson—and so on down the line. April actually lived long enough to tell it to her great-great-grandson! Can you believe it? She was almost a hundred by then and couldn’t walk anymore, but my grandfather told me she was sharp as a pin.”

  “Your grandfather knew April,” Reuben said, trying to wrap his mind around the idea of so many generations.

  “He was about my age when she died,” Penny said. “We didn’t get so lucky with Grandpa. He passed away last year, just a few weeks after he told me the story. It’s always been the tradition for the oldest Meyer alive to tell the story to you the first time. That way, even with so many generations, you’re still only one or two people away from that night with April and Jack and Penelope.”

  “It’s incredible,” Reuben said, and then: “I’m sorry about your grandpa.”

  Penny looked down. “Thanks,” she muttered. “We all miss him.”

  Reuben, who had no memory of his own grandparents, or even of his father, did not know what else to say. He sat in uncomfortable silence, bursting with questions—the most important of which he needed to be crafty in asking.

  “Well,” said Penny at length, “we really do need to tell my family that you’ve come. But first, do you suppose you could tell me what it is that you’ve found?” She was perking up again; clearly, she hoped to be the first to know.

  “Sure,” Reuben said, and he made as if to get up. Then he hesitated. “Oh, but before I forget—you left something out of your story, and it’s eating at me. What was the special way that Penelope and Jack had of remembering where the secret place is? It surprised me that April didn’t ask.”

  Penny stared at him, her smile frozen, though her eyes had changed. “You… you noticed that? Well, of course you did. Who wouldn’t be curious, right?” She cleared her throat. “The truth is, Reuben, I left that part out on purpose. Because, you know, I’m sworn to secrecy about it myself.”

  “But you told me everything else!”

/>   “Most of it, I suppose I did, yes.” Penny abruptly covered her face with her hands, as if she was afraid to look at him.

  “So why not tell me the rest of it?” Reuben pressed. “What’s the harm?”

  Penny peeked out over the tops of her fingers. “Surely you see the difference between telling you an old story and giving away the exact location of a secret place. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “Well, if you won’t trust me with that,” Reuben said peevishly, “then I’m not sure I want to show you what I found.” But seeing Penny’s hurt look, he softened. He might just have to figure out the location of the smugglers’ tunnels on his own. “Sorry, you’re right. I do understand. Anyway, you’ve earned a look at the thing. But can I have something to drink first? I’m parched.”

  While Penny ran to fetch more lemonade, Reuben took the bundle from his backpack and considered what to do. He was going to have to talk with the grown-ups now, and his stomach lurched at the thought. He’d almost begun to hope that he could avoid it.

  Reuben went to the door and peeked out. He felt sure that Penny had told him the truth, that her family was trustworthy. They might even want to help him, might even share the treasure willingly. But what if they didn’t? And worse, what if they insisted on taking the watch? They might believe they had some claim to it, since for a time it had belonged to Penelope. But Reuben didn’t think the Meyer family had any more right to it than he had. After all, how had Penelope come to possess it herself? Lawfully? He doubted that laws of ownership could pertain to something like the watch. Whoever possessed it was the owner, and that was that. Reuben was now the owner, and he meant to keep it that way.

  Penny came back with a half-full pitcher of lemonade, and the two of them took turns pouring and gulping and gasping with satisfaction. At last, his thirst slaked, Reuben opened up the bundle. He set the wooden box on the blanket between them. “There you go,” he said. “This is what brought me here.”

  Penny opened the box and gazed reverently at the inscription. She shook her head in wonder. “So that’s how she made sure.”

  “I guess she figured the safest bet was to name the place and not the person,” said Reuben. “In case all of this outlived her and Jack, like you said. She was really thinking long-term.”

  “So was Jack,” said Penny, not taking her eyes from the box. “He didn’t know what her plan would be, so he did what he could. Ever since that night, there’s always been a Jack Meyer at Point William Light.” She traced a finger over the inscription. “Every firstborn son for generations has been named Jack.”

  “And every firstborn daughter has been named Penelope,” said Reuben, a bit startled. He had just guessed Penny’s full name and felt amazingly stupid for not having realized it sooner.

  She smiled. “Of course. Because what if this inscription had said something like Property of Penelope Meyer, Point William? Jack didn’t know what sort of instructions or clues she might put out in the world, so he did the one thing he could think of to help. He tried to do his part.”

  “It took me a while to figure out what the inscription meant,” Reuben admitted. “I thought P. William Light was a person.”

  “Ha!” Penny cried. “That never would have occurred to me. I suppose if you aren’t from around here, you wouldn’t know, would you? Plus, back in Penelope’s time this lighthouse was much better known—it was much more important then. May I pick this up?” At a nod from Reuben she lifted the box and studied it from different angles. “There were fewer towns back then, too,” she went on. “Between Point William and the city was basically nothing but farmland and villages. Penelope couldn’t have guessed how much less significant this place would become over time.”

  She looked questioningly at Reuben. “Is this all?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light. “Just this empty box?”

  “I have some information about what was inside it,” Reuben hedged. “I was hoping that coming here would help me figure some things out…” He trailed off, faltering under Penny’s intense gaze.

  She was reading his face, her eyes slightly squinted. After a moment she twisted her mouth to one side and looked away. “Just so you know,” she said after a pause, “that’s not going to fly around here.”

  “What isn’t?” Reuben said.

  “Lying.” Penny looked frankly at him now. “You can’t trick a Meyer, Reuben. It runs in the family. Jack was the best judge of character Penelope had ever known, remember? Well, he made sure his son was the same, and his daughter after that. Every Meyer for a century has been taught how to read people, how to see them for what they are. In our house, it’s like learning how to hold your spoon. It’s just taken for granted.”

  Reuben blushed fiercely. “Really?” he said, stalling for words.

  “It’s true,” Penny said matter-of-factly. She shrugged. “We could probably make a fortune playing poker—if we gambled, that is, which we don’t—because we could always see through a bluff. That’s what my brother Luke says, anyway.”

  “Luke?” Reuben asked, seizing on the chance to change the subject. “Not Jack?”

  “Jack’s my oldest brother. Then there’s Luke, and then me.” Penny studied Reuben’s face again and said, “Okay, I can see that you’re not going to tell me anything else right now, so let’s not waste time.” She jumped up, still holding the box.

  “Wait, what?” Reuben said, scrambling to his feet.

  Penny was already at the door. “It’s time to tell the others,” she said, and ran out before he could stop her.

  There was no help for it now. Reuben took a moment to gather his courage. He checked the watch, tucked it away again, and went out. He caught up with Penny at the screen door, which she was holding open for him.

  “After you,” she said. “I want to make sure it doesn’t bang.”

  (Reuben had to stop himself from saying, “I know.”)

  Inside the keeper’s house, Reuben was almost overcome by the delicious smell he had scented on the wind earlier. His stomach growled so loudly that Penny cocked an eyebrow and said, “Obviously, we need to feed you. There’s a pot of cullen skink on the stove. I’ll get you some shortly.”

  “What’s cullen skink?” Reuben asked, looking nervously around. They stood in a large great room with a dining table at one end, a fireplace and sitting area at the other. The fireplace, he realized—the one he had imagined during Penny’s story. In fact, the entire room was much as he had pictured it, only brighter, airier, with open windows and floral-printed curtains fluttering in the sea breeze. Trying to settle his mind, he took in the well-swept wooden floors, the thoroughly dusted shelves, the walls covered with framed photographs, maps, and drawings of all sizes.

  “Cullen skink?” Penny was saying. “It’s only the best thing ever! It’s a kind of fish stew. It’s Scottish. Penelope”—she lowered her voice, her eyes darting toward an open doorway—“Penelope mentioned liking it in one of her letters, so Jack learned how to make it. A Scottish sea captain’s wife told him. We have a recipe book full of dishes from around the world, things that Penelope wrote about and Jack learned to cook. For him, it was a way of feeling closer to her across the oceans. For all the Meyers since then, it’s been a way of feeling close to both of them—across the years.”

  “You’re kind of blowing my mind,” Reuben said.

  Penny laughed. “Come on,” she said, grabbing his arm.

  She led him down a hallway, past a staircase and several open doors—a bedroom, a study (the study, Reuben thought), more bedrooms. Reuben noted the placement of furniture and counted his steps, trying to commit all of it to memory. It would be tricky to navigate invisibly, but he might have to.

  “I always know where to find Mom after lunch,” Penny said. “She sneaks off with a book. She’s a teacher, so she only gets to read during the summer—that’s her little joke.” They veered into a cozy nook with a bay window facing the sea. Sure enough, a slender woman in a sky-blue sundress sat
near the window, so engrossed in a book she didn’t seem to notice them. Penny cleared her throat dramatically. “Mom!”

  Mrs. Meyer started and looked up. At the sight of Reuben, she smiled, her brow wrinkling slightly in puzzlement. “Well, hello! Who’s this? And—my word, Penny, if you aren’t excited about something! Look at your eyes flashing! What is it?”

  “This is Reuben,” Penny said. Reuben shyly lifted a hand in greeting. “And you’re not going to believe why he’s here.”

  Mrs. Meyer marked her place in the book and set it aside. Clasping her hands in her lap, she nodded good-naturedly. “Go on. Try me. Have you come proposing marriage, Reuben? I have to say, you seem awfully young. But I suppose—”

  “This belonged to Aunt Penelope!” Penny blurted out, holding up the box. “Reuben’s the one, Mom. He’s the one.”

  “I don’t…” Mrs. Meyer cocked her head to the side, still smiling, as if trying to perceive the joke. “What do you mean, Penny? Which one? One what?” Even as she spoke, however, her expression was changing, turning more serious—in fact, growing quite stern. “Penelope Meyer!” she cried suddenly, in a shocked and disapproving tone. She glanced at Reuben, then back at her daughter. “Do you mean to tell me that you told this boy—what, for the sake of a joke? I’m astonished. I am”—she shook her head, gaping at her daughter, clearly appalled—“I am so, so…”

  Penny stepped forward and opened the box. “Read the inscription, Mom.”

  It took Mrs. Meyer a moment to wrest her eyes from Penny’s earnest face. Then it took her a moment to absorb the inscription. Then, abruptly, she stood up, snatching the box from her daughter and drawing it closer to her eyes. She stared at it so intently she seemed to be trying to see right through it.