The Sound of Glass

by Karen White

  She paused, and Loralee imagined all the words in Merritt’s head falling into neat, orderly columns like numbers, rounded and even and organized before she allowed them out.

  “I’ll do it for Owen. Because he’s my brother and because our father would want me to. And, as you reminded me, the two of you are a ‘package deal.’ Fine. You can stay here, too, until you can get on your feet again. Just don’t expect me to forge a relationship with you. I never forgave my father, so don’t expect me to forgive you.”

  She’d said all this with her back to Loralee, and Loralee was glad, since that meant Merritt couldn’t see the small smile on her face. Somehow, and quite by accident, she’d gotten what she’d wanted. What Owen needed. For the first time in months the terror and uncertainty began to shrink back like the ocean at low tide, calling the waves home.

  Merritt began walking toward the kitchen door, but Loralee’s words stopped her. “I loved him, you know. And he loved me. Yes, he was old enough to be my father, but as my mama used to say, love can’t tell what color a person is or how old they are. Love just happens. I know you don’t want to hear that, but you need to. We were very happy together. The only thing missing was you. You would have made our family and happiness complete, and we never stopped hoping that would happen.”

  Without a word, Merritt made her way to the back steps and into the kitchen, the screen door shutting behind her like a slap.

  chapter 8

  MERRITT

  Looking down from my spot on the bluff, I saw the ribbon of river shift from light to shadow, dodging the sun as a sailboat made its way toward the bridge. I sat in a rocking chair on the front porch and drank my first cup of coffee, as had become my habit in the last week, trying to identify what was so different there, what made the light seem drenched in yellows instead of the gray-white light of home.

  I hadn’t grown up on the water in Maine, but close enough that I could sense its nearness, the frothy power of it, the dark depths of it that could swallow a boat while the waves continued to rise and fall as if nothing had happened. My mother had grown up on the coast in Stonington, in a family of fishermen. Maybe it was my mother’s story of an uncle whose boat had been lost at sea during a storm that made me eye the ocean with suspicion. Or maybe it was the fact that my mother happily moved inland when she married my father and never ventured near it again.

  In college I’d gone to Higgins Beach on spring break with a friend. Low tide made an old shipwreck visible not far from shore, and that had been enough to keep me close to land. I’d gotten only as far as my ankles into the water before proclaiming it too cold, and then spent the rest of the break under an umbrella worrying I’d get sunburned, and avoiding looking at the spot where the water claimed the ship again at high tide. That was the first and last time I’d ever gone to the beach. Every once in a while I wondered whether it was because I really hadn’t enjoyed the experience, or if my reluctance to join my friends under the waves had more to do with my mother—with her avoidance that could have been as much about the water as it was about her childhood memories of growing up with my difficult grandmother.

  Bringing the cup to my face again, I breathed in the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. I’d grown up with instant coffee—two scoops and hot water in the microwave. Not because it tasted better or even the same as real coffee, but because it was faster and easier. True to her word, Loralee had breakfast on the table and a steaming cup of percolated coffee for me each morning, somehow managing not to chatter and to disappear from the room when I entered. It made me feel uncomfortable, guilty even, but I had no idea how to change things without her thinking I had forgiven anything, or forgotten that she was living in my house when all I wanted to be was alone.

  The wind chimes swayed overhead as I took another sip from my steaming coffee, knowing Loralee would be there with the pot to refill my cup before it even had a chance to grow cool. I knew I should get up and get it myself before she came out again, but I was reluctant to leave. There was something about the light there, the soft brightness that made it seem as if I were looking at everything through a snow globe where nothing was quite real. I’d even begun leaving my curtains open at night so that I’d awaken to the morning light streaming into my room, something Cal never would have allowed. I wondered whether that was the real reason I did it now.

  I thought of Cal, of him sitting in this very spot, thinking of leaving and not coming back, and I wondered again why. There was something otherworldly about the air, about the river, about the way the waiflike Spanish moss dripped from the oak trees at the water’s edge, their placement almost intentionally geared toward a perfect reflection in the water, two sets of arms reaching toward each other to form an oval. In places it seemed these were the openings to secret caves beneath the water, an invitation to dive inside. I wondered, if I weren’t afraid of the water, what it would be like to dive between the wavering arms to find the other end of the cave. It would be reckless and silly, two things my young self had been full of—two things my married self hadn’t allowed me to be.

  The front door opened and I braced myself, expecting to see Loralee again, creeping around silently so that I wouldn’t notice her. I turned around to tell her it was okay, that she didn’t need to tiptoe, when I spotted the familiar dark head of my brother peering around the open door.

  “Is it okay if I come out here? I promise I won’t bother you.”

  I felt as if I’d had that promise made to me more times in the last week than I’d had in a lifetime.

  “Of course. And you’re not bothering me.” I wanted to tell him that my distance had nothing to do with him, and how it had been so much easier to dislike the idea of him before I’d even met him, and that now all I could feel were the cold fingers of regret. But I couldn’t. Not because I thought he was too young to understand, but because I was afraid he might.

  My brother was ten years old and I’d never seen him before, and I wanted to explain to him that now was just the wrong time. Not that there’d ever been a right time, not while Cal was alive, but not now, when I’d begun to reclaim my life—a life I had no intention of sharing with anyone, especially not a stepmother and little brother I only occasionally thought about, like half-forgotten characters from a book I’d read long ago.

  Owen sat down in the rocker next to me, holding a mug identical to mine. “Is that coffee?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am. Hot chocolate.” He screwed up his face. “Mama says coffee will stunt my growth, so she’s making me wait until I’m eighteen. I figure if I’m old enough to vote, I should be old enough to drink coffee.”

  “That’s for sure,” I agreed, wondering whether Owen was what I’d heard some people call an “old soul.” I glanced at his pressed jeans and clean boat shoes, and another polo shirt—this one striped—with a pressed collar. He was sipping his hot chocolate from a coffee mug—steaming despite the temperature outside—and looking like a miniature man. “Do you own a pair of shorts, Owen?”

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I had some but they got too short, so Mama gave them away. She says she keeps meaning to buy me more, but forgets.”

  I smiled at him, remembering what Loralee had said about her lack of funds. “I’m sure there are malls near here, and everybody always runs sales around Memorial Day. I’ve been wanting to go to get a few new things myself. Maybe you’d like to come with me?”

  He stopped mid-sip and his eyes widened. “Yes, ma’am. That would be nice. I’d like a pair of skater shorts.”

  I didn’t know what those were, but I had a feeling they weren’t the kind of shorts worn with a pleated crease and pulled tight with a belt. “And you don’t have to call me ma’am. My name’s Merritt.”

  Owen stared into his mug for a moment. “Okay. And you can call me Rocky.”

  I hid my grin. “I’ll try to remember. It’s just that I think you look more like an Owen than a Rocky.”

  He frowned. “I know.”

  “It’s
a good thing. Owen is a fine, strong name. It’s a smart name for a smart boy. Why try to hide that behind a name like Rocky? There’s about one hundred IQ points between those two names.”

  He was still frowning, making me realize that I was no good talking with children. I was way out of my league. I leaned back in my chair with a sigh, remembering watching the movie Rocky on TV with my father. I didn’t remember much about it except for Sylvester Stallone’s almost unintelligible dialogue. “Yo, Adrian,” I muttered under my breath.

  Owen snorted, then choked and coughed on his hot chocolate before turning to me with a wide grin. “That was funny.”

  I looked at him with surprise, then found myself grinning, too. “It wasn’t meant to be, but thanks. I think.”

  We both looked up at the sound of car doors shutting. A light blue pickup truck with WEBER & SON LOCKSMITHS written on the side was parked behind a white Cadillac sedan, circa 1980. A tall man wearing a khaki uniform with a name tag on the front pocket was walking across the lawn, headed toward the front walk, where two older ladies, both with short, permed gray hair and wearing sensible shoes and floral blouses, bore down on the porch carrying casserole dishes. Behind the women, hidden almost out of sight except for a pair of riding pants and sparkly blue Mary Janes, was a little girl who looked to be about Owen’s age.

  Owen stood and I quickly followed, impressed with Owen’s good manners. The man took off his cap, revealing an almost marinelike haircut with spiky salt-and-pepper hair. Using his hat, he indicated for the women to precede him up the steps.

  Apparently people dropping in unannounced was just something I needed to get used to. Or I needed to spend more time in my back garden, where I couldn’t hear the doorbell. Although that would mean staring at that rabbit monstrosity that had somehow managed to find its home beneath the oak tree.

  “Good morning,” the two women chimed in together. “Welcome to Beaufort,” they said in unison, holding out their casserole dishes. The little girl squeezed in between them and held out her own Tupperware container.

  “Good morning. And thank you.” I glanced down at my house slippers, appalled to be seen in them. They had holes in the toes, and the navy color had faded to a hospital-room blue. They were hideous, but it was against my New England upbringing to replace them while the soles were still attached to the tops.

  “I’m sorry, I would have finished dressing, but I wasn’t expecting visitors.” I reached out and took one of the proffered casseroles, and Owen took the Tupperware from the little girl. Her brown hair was worn in braids on either side of her head, and her bronzed skin was covered with freckles that accented her bright blue eyes. Though slight, she had long, lean limbs like a colt, and looked like she spent a lot of time outdoors. She smiled at Owen, revealing a dimple on each cheek.

  “I’m Merritt Heyward, and this is my . . .” I paused, unused to introducing him to strangers.

  “I’m Rocky,” he said. “Merritt’s brother.”

  The women raised their eyebrows and smiled. The one with the slightly whiter hair and beaked nose looked at me and said, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

  I wasn’t sure whether she could determine that from my slippers or from the fact that I was a newcomer and wasn’t expecting visitors. “I’m from Maine. My brother and his mother are from Georgia.”

  They both nodded in unison, calling to mind dashboard bobble heads.

  The one with glasses and tightly permed hair spoke. “I’m Cynthia Barnwell, and this is my sister-in-law, Deborah Fuller. And this”—she placed her hand on the little girl’s shoulder—“is my granddaughter Maris Ferro. We’re with the Beaufort Heritage Society, and on behalf of everyone at the BHS, welcome to Lettuce City.”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  Deborah, who seemed to be the more serious of the two, and whose skin was brown as leather and heavily lined, as if she spent a great deal of time in the sun, said, “It’s an obscure reference that only us true historians really use anymore, but it dates back to the early twentieth century and the beginning of truck farming in the area. Lettuce was a big crop back then.”

  “Oh,” I said, confused. “I was told that Beaufort is called ‘Little Charleston.’”

  The two women frowned at me, and I wondered whether they’d both been schoolteachers at some point. I had the sudden urge to find the principal’s office.

  Cynthia spoke up. “Actually, for those of us who live here, Charleston is known as ‘Big Beaufort.’ Which is better than ‘Home of the Catfish Stomp,’ which is what they call Elgin.”

  She looked serious, so I just nodded.

  The man stepped closer. “And I’m Steve Weber. Mr. Williams called me to come look at that door upstairs and see if I can’t get it open and make you a new key.”

  “Oh, thank you,” I said. I looked around, wondering how to proceed, when Cynthia took the casserole from my hand.

  “Why don’t we have Owen lead us to the kitchen so we can put this all in the refrigerator while you show the gentleman where the lock is?”

  “Sure,” I said, moving toward the door and opening it. “Just in case you’ve already left by the time I return, thank you for coming. And for the food.”

  They stared at me for a moment, and I wondered what I’d said wrong.

  Owen took the door from me and held it open. “My mama makes the best cookies in the world. Why don’t you come on back and have some with a cup of coffee? Merritt can join us when she’s done.” He smiled brightly at me, and I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to hug him or shake him.

  The women filed past us, followed by Maris and Steve Weber. Owen closed the door and led the group toward the back of the house. I stared after them, doubting my decision to move there sight unseen, with the belief I could somehow live my new life in peace and solitude.

  “This way,” I said to the locksmith, leading him upstairs to the attic door. “All the other doors have antique locks, too, but their keys are still in the locks. This is the only one that’s missing, and the only door that’s locked.”

  The locksmith got down on one knee and eyed it warily. “Well, that dog won’t hunt.”

  “Is that good or bad?” I asked.

  “Depends,” he said, straightening. “This is a real old doorknob and lock—probably original to the house, I suspect. Thick door, too.” He wiped his forearm across his forehead as if I needed to be reminded how hot it was upstairs. “It’s going to be a custom job. It could take a while, and it’ll be pricey.” He looked up and down the hallway, probably trying to find a thermostat.

  “Or?”

  “Or if you want this to be a quick fix, I could take this whole thing off and replace it with a new modern doorknob with a simple lock. I could get one in brass to sort of match the other doors.”

  We turned toward the top of the stairs at the sound of a deep intake of breath. Deborah Fuller stood there with her hands over her heart and her eyes wide, and I thought she’d seen a ghost.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I’m fine, really.” She took a moment to catch her breath before walking toward us. “I was just looking for the powder room. The lovely Loralee told me the one downstairs is leaking and to use one up here. They’ll be up in a moment to start the house tour.”

  “The . . . ?”

  As if she hadn’t heard me, she turned purposefully toward Steve Weber. “I’m quite sure Mrs. Heyward will want to retain the historical integrity of this house and do what is necessary to get a replacement key for the existing lock. Isn’t that correct, Mrs. Heyward?”

  She faced me and I was once again reminded of being sent to the principal’s office for speaking out of turn—something I’d once done with the frequency of somebody who thought she had something worthwhile to say. “I’m . . .” I paused. “I’ll need to have more information—more specific prices and time frame first.”

  The locksmith scratched the back of his head, and I noticed the sweat stains under his arm
. “Yes, ma’am. When I head back to the office I’ll look up a few things and get you a quote. Can I e-mail you?”

  I thought of the ancient laptop computer that I hadn’t even unpacked yet and the old e-mail account that I’d shared with Cal. “I’m between Internet service providers, so why don’t you give me your card and I’ll e-mail you tomorrow? Does that work?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That works just fine.” He reached into his pocket and handed me a business card, then hurriedly closed his toolbox as if he couldn’t wait to get into the cooler air outside.

  “But surely you could open the door now.”

  We both turned to Deborah, who stared back unapologetically. I had no idea why I hadn’t thought to ask. Maybe because the heat upstairs was nearly unbearable, and I was as eager as Mr. Weber seemed to go somewhere else. Or maybe it was because Edith Heyward had locked this door and possibly hidden the key. There was something up there she didn’t want others to see, and like a child reluctant to wind the Jack-in-the-box, I was unsure I was ready to climb the stairs to the attic to see what was there.

  Almost reluctantly, Steve put down his toolbox. “Of course. I was going to suggest it, but then I figured it’s probably hotter than Hades, so you’d be in no rush to get up there.”

  I wanted to agree with him and tell him to come back later, once we’d decided on a course of action, but there was something in Deborah’s expression that made me stop.

  “Yes,” I said. “Why don’t you go ahead and get it open? We’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything—take a right at the bottom of the stairs and go straight back.”

  I moved toward the steps and Deborah followed me, apparently having forgotten about using the powder room, although she looked back twice at the closed attic door as we headed downstairs. I paused at the bottom, and Deborah stopped next to me. When I looked into her face, her expression surprised me. Her eyes were wide with anticipation, but there was a glint of apprehension, too.