Breakwater Beach

by Carole Ann Moleti

“I’m trying to move on. We both have to.” Liz bit her lip to hold back the tears and plunked two steaming bowls on the table. If Jay only knew where his mother was moving on to and what she was dreaming about.

  How could she start this conversation? The emotion swirling below the surface could suck them into a whirlpool, pulling them so far apart they’d never find the core of their relationship again. Utensils clunked on stoneware like cracked church bells.

  Jay broke the silence. “Mom, I’m worried about what is going to happen when I leave.” The playful smile vanished.

  Perfect timing. She inhaled and took the opportunity. “I’ve decided to sell this house. I’m going up to the Cape to start looking for a new place this weekend.”

  Jay’s fork stopped midway between the plate and his mouth. Thin strands of spaghetti dripped tomato sauce onto his shirt. “They say it isn’t a good idea to make a major move for at least a year.” He put his fork down in the tangle of pasta and stared intently at her. “You insisted I go away to college. Now you’re making a snap decision because you don’t want to stay here alone.”

  Jay resembled the young, healthy version of his father so much it felt like a knife plunged into her heart. He’d inherited the same crooked smile and intense gaze that had made Gerry so formidable in the courtroom.

  Liz jumped up and handed him the letter. “You know that Dad and I talked about me moving to the Cape. Today, I got this buyout offer from work. It’s time to start over somewhere that people won’t begin every conversation by feeling sorry for me.”

  He read. She fretted.

  During the six months, he’d gone from the practical, nonsmoking, exercise-three-times-a-week, play-handball-every-Saturday kind of man who thought the cough was bronchitis, to the one trying to be strong, joking that he was perfectly healthy except for metastatic lung cancer, Gerry had tried desperately to complete their unfinished business. His litany repeated over and over in her mind. “Quit your job. Buy that house on the Cape you always wanted. Finish the damn book, even if you don’t make a penny on it. Bill Jeffers will manage the investments. You’re a rich woman. Forty-five is too young to be alone. I’ll let you know if I approve of my replacement. Watch out for a guy who knows things only I could about you.”

  He’d given her enough instructions to fill the rest of her life, but not enough to fill the empty hole his death had left in her heart.

  Jay waved his hand in front of her face. “Mom?”

  Liz directed her awareness back to the present. “Yes, Jay?” She braced for his reaction.

  “I knew I should go to college in Boston.” He tossed the letter aside, snatched a napkin, and dabbed at his shirt. “Did you talk to Bill Jeffers about this?”

  She swallowed hard to avoid cringing at the anger in Jay’s words and the intensity of his stare. “Not yet. It’s unlikely I’ll find something that quick.” Having to defend all her financial decisions—and by extension her personal ones—through her son and the trust manager was not a pleasant thing to look forward to.

  Liz tried to put a more upbeat spin on it and involve him in the process. “Why don’t you come with me?”

  Jay stood and dumped his unfinished dinner into the trash. “I’ve got a big test Monday. You better run this idea by Bill. Dad put him in charge of things for a reason.” He put the plate into the dishwasher then tromped up to his room and slammed the door.

  That went about as well as I expected. The one who always mediated between the over protective mother and her intense and independent son was gone, and she and Jay were now at opposite ends of a battlefield. Liz cleaned up the kitchen, showered, and curled up on the sofa in Gerry’s home office with her research notes. She knew Jay wanted to stay here and take care of her, but that wasn’t the right thing for either of them.

  The book wasn’t going to write itself, and one of the promises made to Gerry was that she’d publish it. Despite her resolve to get this chapter done, Liz stared at the pages of notes and pictures of Victorian textiles. She struggled to structure something that made sense, scratched out what she’d written, then tossed the crumpled page at the wastebasket.

  A mix of anxiety and anticipation woke Liz from a dreamless sleep before dawn. With all the lights on there were no shadows to offer hiding places for demons of the mind. There was no traffic at this time of year, and she arrived in Brewster an hour too early. Liz drove about five miles to find a deli to grab a muffin and some tea, arriving at Betty’s office just as the realtor drove into the lot.

  Betty jumped out of her car and hugged Liz. “How are you? I’m so sorry to hear about your husband. But I guess you’re here to move forward, not back. Would you like me to drive?”

  “Yes, Betty, thanks.”

  Liz turned her back and went around the back of the car, wiping away the tears. Was there any place she could really escape to avoid being asked how are you holding up, or how are you doing, or hearing how sorry they were? She slid into the passenger seat, buckled her belt, and took out the listing sheets Betty had emailed. “The Barrett house isn’t here. Is it still available?” Not seeing it only heightened the expectancy.

  “Yes. Let’s make the rounds of the others and save that one for last. It really needs a lot of work and the others are polished gems.”

  Betty drove past eerie, deserted cottages, down secluded lanes, and into tiny cul-de-sacs. Of the five listings, only the center hall colonial next to a cranberry bog was big enough for a B&B, but it was too far from the beach.

  When they drove up to the Barrett house, Liz saw why there was no Internet link. The yard was a tangle of dead weeds and vines. What was left of the white picket fence hung crooked. Still, it wasn’t hard to imagine how inviting the entry would be after clean up and landscape work. While only the widow’s walk was clearly in view of the road, the tower and upper stories materialized as Betty negotiated around debris and downed tree limbs strewn across their path.

  They pulled into the circular drive, and the beauty of the immense Queen Anne Victorian showed through, even though it was in desperate need of paint and repair. Sun glinted off leaded-glass windows. Liz could barely wait until the car stopped to get out, the first time she’d been excited about anything since Gerry fell ill.

  Rickety porch steps sagged under her feet, but she could just imagine ladies in bustles and crinolines strolling the perimeter of the house, admiring the views and aromas of the lush pine grove and Cape Cod Bay. Betty fumbled with the lock. The double oak doors creaked open. Breathless with anticipation, Liz stepped inside first.

  Dustcovers lay over the furniture like white shrouds. An aura of sadness hung like cobwebs in the corners and off musty drapes. Despite the soot and grime caked into the crevices and carved cherubs decorating the mantles, she could picture the ladies sipping tea and chatting, their gowns puddled around poufs and side chairs.

  The heat was off, and their breath vaporized like wisps of smoke from the gentlemen’s cigars. As they wandered around the rooms, Liz imagined what it had looked like in its heyday, and how beautiful it could be once again. Every detail of the woodwork and fixtures bespoke elegance and luxury.

  She wandered from the parlor into the dining room. A cold, denser than any she had ever experienced, wrapped around her. Liz turned up the collar of her coat and put both hands in her pockets.

  Betty followed and pushed open a swinging door. “This way into the kitchen.”

  Liz peered out the dirty windows out into the yard. An adorable clapboard cottage with a gabled roof and diamond-mullioned windows sat to the left, and to the right the remains of a corral poked through tufts of dead grass and weeds. The barn sat on a small hill, weathered and battered, its windows cracked, but not lopsided like so many she’d seen at abandoned farms along the roadways.

  “It’s like looking back in time.” She shivered back to reality and t
he dated kitchen. “What is the condition of the heating, plumbing, and electrical systems?”

  “The house was built in 1875 so there are fireplaces in most of the rooms. A gas burner was installed, but all the utilities have been turned off. There’s been a succession of owners but none could afford to maintain the property, never mind restore it. There is a bank appointed caretaker living on the grounds to prevent any vandalism. It’s in foreclosure, and the asking price is $1.5 million plus back taxes.” Betty had saved the choicest tidbit for last.

  “And it needs a lot of work.” Liz swiped her finger over the dust covering every surface.

  “Yes, the buyer of this house will be doing it for love, or historical restoration.” Betty strolled past the antique cast iron stove, through the butler’s pantry, and into the mudroom. A pair of work boots still sat on the floor and an old raincoat hung on a peg near the door. “Wait until you see the upstairs.”

  The polish was worn on the sweeping central staircase. Liz traced the mahogany bannister on the way upstairs. Every one of the five bedrooms needed major restoration. She explored the musty wardrobe, cluttered with boxes, and the dressing room and bath in the master suite. But it was the bay window that curved 180-degrees from the front to the side corner of the octagonal tower in the corner of the room that drew her to it like a magnet.

  Clouds swirled like ghostly wisps along the horizon, offering tantalizing glimpses of Cape Cod Bay. Transfixed, lost in memories of happy summer days with family and friends, Liz wanted to claw through the curtain for an unobstructed view of the past. Pressure mounted in her chest. She took a few deep breaths.

  “Go up to the widow’s walk.”

  Liz turned to Betty, who was poking around the wardrobe. “How do you get up there?”

  “Up where?” The realtor’s brow furrowed.

  “To the widow’s walk.” Exhilaration turned to queasiness. Talking to herself had become a habit, one she needed to break.

  “Oh, this way.” Betty led her down the hall and stopped in front of a round-top door sandwiched in between two others. “The middle door leads to the staircase, but I don’t know if it’s safe.”

  “I’ll be careful.” Liz tugged on the crystal knob, but the door was swollen shut. Still breathless, she exhaled her frustration, resisting the temptation to claw through it like a caged animal trying to escape.

  “Better let an inspector check it out first. We can go down the back staircase.” If Betty knew how smitten Liz was, she wasn’t showing it by rushing the showing.

  The four smaller bedrooms, two down either side of the hall from the master suite, were perfect for guests. With an adjoining bath between each pair, she’d have plenty of privacy. They took the servants’ staircase, no less solid and polished than the main one and wound up back in the kitchen.

  “So, what do you think, Liz?”

  “Magnificent. I’ll get an engineer to inspect it. After I get some estimates, I’ll put in a bid.”

  Betty stopped mid-stride, her eyes round as saucers. “Liz, securing that kind of financing . . .”

  “It will be a cash sale.”

  “One more thing I should mention, Liz.” Betty hesitated then clasped her hands together as if praying. “There are rumors the house is filled with, well, bad luck. Some say it’s haunted. None of the previous owners have stayed here for more than a year.”

  Couldn’t be any worse than the ghosts in mine. “I’m not superstitious, Betty. I’m sure it’s the cost of restoration and maintenance that’s haunting this house.” Was the realtor concerned about the snap decision or befuddled by the prospect of a huge commission as the Cape real estate market dropped like a lead sinker into a pool of red ink?

  “Victorian art and architecture are my specialties.” Liz returned to the dining room and stroked the drapes framing the bay window. “Look at that bullseye glass—and the wainscoting! It’s like someone engineered this opportunity for me.” She lifted a few of the dustcovers and ran her hands over the musty, dusty furniture. “What a crime to leave it to rot like this.”

  Betty slammed the door behind them and struggled with the lock again. Liz turned as she drove away, watching the house disappear like a sinking ship. They were back in the real estate parking lot in a few minutes, and she was already thinking about what would be her first restoration project.

  This time, her excitement to get out of Betty’s car was driven by the need to get back into hers and go take a more leisurely stroll around the outside. “Thanks, Betty. I will be in touch once I find an inspector.”

  “Sure thing, Liz.” Betty closed Liz’s car door and waved as she drove away.

  No matter what the route, that widow’s walk stood like a lighthouse guiding her eyes to it. Liz parked near the cottage, went down the drive, then crisscrossed around the dune grass to the nearby beach. Whitecaps at Paine’s Creek frothed the bay. Seagulls battled the wind, tossed around like tiny white kites. She strained to see any boats on the horizon, but it was too blustery for pleasure craft. Even the fishermen were holed up somewhere, waiting for warmer days.

  Hood up, gloves on, chin buried in the collar of her coat, Liz started up the drive toward the silhouette of the widow’s walk against the murky sky. She wandered around the yard and outbuildings. Shutters hung askew. The door to the barn was ajar. Liz shoved it open and peeked in. It still had a faint horsy smell even though the stalls were swept clean of straw. Though tarnished, she could make out the name ‘Ruddy’ on one nameplate. Tears flowed, like an open faucet for a long dead horse.

  Shredded leather straps dangled from old tack hung from the hooks along the sidewall. What must have once been someone’s beloved saddle lay upside down like a dead horseshoe crab, stirrups splayed like broken legs. She picked it up and brushed dust and dirt off the cracked leather.

  Despite the freezing temperatures, Liz’s palms burned and she struggled to breathe past a lump caught in her throat. A forceful exhale led to a spasm of coughing that left Liz resting, with the saddle still in her hands, against a stall door. Antiques were often charged with the energies of their owners—good and bad. And this one emanated a confusing mélange of bittersweet relief that it had been retrieved and deep melancholy that spritzed shocks of static electricity with every tap of the metal stirrups against her legs.

  Two stirrups on one side. This was a woman’s sidesaddle. Would anyone care that she’d found a beloved artifact, a vestige of a life and a longer story? Would the woman be pleased or disturbed if Liz took it? Was she just attributing some mystical qualities to a hunk of leather to deal with her own loneliness and desperation?

  Liz draped the saddle right side up over the top of the stall and turned to leave. It fell to the ground with a sickening thud and puff of musty, horsy dust. She put on her gloves and buried her nose in her collar to block whatever irritant was in the air before picking it up the second time. The stirrups waved as if to say hello. So, desperation or not, restoring the saddle would be the first of many projects, and that resolution brought a long lost smile to her lips.

  Liz pulled the door closed behind her and wandered to the caretaker’s cottage to let them know she was taking it, and that she might become its rightful owner. No one answered her knock. She peered over cafe curtains at a tiny kitchen and living area. Clothes and dishes were strewn about. Though the furniture was shabby and in need of a spruce up, at least it emanated some sense of life.

  What had become of the man who had built what must have once been the showplace of this sea captain’s enclave? The extent of the house’s disrepair spoke to not only lives long lost, but dreams as well. What was life—anyone’s life—really worth if no one honored it, appreciated it, or remembered it?

  She rested the saddle in the trunk, got back in her car, turned up the heat, and studied the gingerbread, elegant colored glass, mullioned windows, and the
impressive octagonal tower punctuated with bay windows on the first and second floor. The widow’s walk stood higher on the gabled roof than the peaked tower.

  Never mind the bay, you can probably see the entire Cape from up there. Even if they tell me it’s falling down, I’m buying it.

  Chapter 5

  Spring 1873

  Surrey, England

  Edward had traveled thousands of nautical miles since first trotting up the drive to Apthorp. This time he had a new title, his own ship, an impressive uniform, a plot of land, and plans for a home the likes of which a tiny sea captain’s town had never seen. All done for a woman whose hand had merely brushed his, but had wormed her way into his soul like no other had before.

  Elisabeth was beautiful and rich, but that had ceased to matter. If her father resisted, she’d be as pretty and penniless as any tavern girl or farmer’s daughter. Merely the thought of having her as his wife had propelled him toward greater ambitions than he had ever considered. But Lady Elisabeth stopped writing after he’d hinted about a marriage proposal.

  It seemed a natural progression, after they’d traded tales of his adventures and of her unhappiness. His wanderings and her restlessness. His dreams and her wish to make them come true—together. Perhaps he’d scared her off, or she’d finished toying with him, bored with the brief diversion. Dread wrapped around him like a shroud. She might be married off by now, if her father had gotten his way. Should he just turn the horse around and leave, his pride intact? Was wondering worse than knowing he could never have her, that he would never see her again?

  The conservatory came into view as he approached the house, a giant glass birdcage off the left side. Was Elisabeth imprisoned in there? Or had she flown off with another, by design or desire? A groom appeared to take Edward’s horse. His boots thudded on the turf as he dismounted. His heart beat as hard as his heels on the marble as he ascended the stairs.