Firefly Beach

by Meira Pentermann

  Kenny did not answer her, but he continued to make several notes in his little book. He looked carefully at the ring that had fit Beth, but he scribbled for well beyond the time it would take to write down a ring size and a phone number. Beth tried to peer over the counter, but Kenny’s right arm, draped oddly across the page, blocked her view.

  When he finished making notes, he closed his book quickly and returned it to the drawer, along with the ring-sizing tool. He locked the drawer and returned the key to his apron pocket. Then he carefully rewrapped the ring and placed it in its box, put the box in his apron pocket, and turned toward the workroom. He stopped suddenly, glanced over his shoulder and said, “It will be a day or two. Thank you, Miss LaMonte.”

  Beth stared, somewhat befuddled, as the strange man returned to his workbench, adjusted the loupe, and resumed his task. She wanted to say something. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. She turned to leave the store, looking back over her shoulder as the bell jangled. The jeweler did not raise his head, so Beth continued out the door.

  Beth walked toward Kelp Corner shaking her head. I’ll just have to trust Mary, Beth told herself. If she thought the guy was a lunatic, she would not have recommended him. She said he was weird, but that was just beyond bizarre. Beth shuddered. But anyway, she consoled herself. It’s not like he’s going to run off with Mom’s ring. If Mary says he’s good, then I’m sure he’s good…I hope.

  Beth collected her payment from Bobby Downy and grabbed a sandwich at the café to take home. She climbed into her car, trying to shake the uneasy feeling that the jeweler had aroused in her. Her mind was preoccupied all the way home. As she turned up the drive that led to the cottage, she glanced toward the rocky shore. She remembered her dream about the firefly. Her shoulders quivered with a slight chill.

  I am not going to get spooked out again. First the creepy jeweler, now the phantom beach. I really can’t take anymore of this bullshit. She pulled up in front of the house and slammed the brakes. Then she sprinted to the front door as if someone were following her, slipped inside, and locked the door.

  Beth sat at the kitchen table and ate her turkey sandwich. Eventually the uneasy feelings were unbearable. She got out a stool and reached into the cabinet over the microwave oven. A bottle of scotch waited patiently. Beth looked at the clock. 2:19 p.m. Shaking her head in self-reproach, she filled a tumbler with ice and poured herself a generous portion.

  She walked over to the fireplace and stared at the picture of her mother for a long time. In the photo, Sophia stood left of center, a few feet away from a tree. The sun was in her eyes, and the shadow of the tree spread out behind her, disappearing from the photo on the right. She laughed joyfully while desperately trying to hold on to a sun hat that longed to blow away in the wind. Sophia must have been about thirty when the picture was taken. Beth would have been five at the time, but she could not recall the location in the photo.

  Beth took a sip of scotch and a hot coal seemed to slip down her throat and roll around in her stomach. She grimaced.

  “I wish you were here,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t be afraid.” She sighed. “I’m sorry I was so rude about the ring. It looked beautiful on your hand, and I’m sure Dad would have been very happy to see you wearing it.” She touched the photo lightly. Then she turned away and headed for the couch.

  Beth bit her lip. She had no intention of crying. She may well be going crazy, but crying was not an option. She had learned that strategy thirty years ago. Crying brought all the feelings to the surface where they had no business being. They were more easily managed when they were kept in their place, tight and secure, deep down where they belonged.

  Beth sat on the couch, sipping scotch, and reading a gardening magazine to distract her mind. As she sifted through the pages, she tried to picture some improvements she might make in the cottage garden. She hoped the glass of scotch would last until evening, but she poured another just after 5:00 p.m. At 6:03, she yawned and stretched and looked out over the bay toward the islands.

  Although blissfully sedated by alcohol, she remained cautious. The sun would not set until after 8:00, but Beth got up and closed the blinds on the bay window. It was obvious the blinds had rarely been closed. A layer of dust clung to the edges, although the slats themselves were dust free. Beth shrugged. “So what?” she mumbled. “I need my privacy.” She made her rounds and closed all the curtains in the house. She draped a dark sheet over the rod above the window in her bedroom to cover the gap. The cheerful, sunny day was successfully blocked out long before darkness set in.

  Beth went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. She was very tired and a little drunk. In a haze, she glanced over at the spice cupboard. Before returning to her room, she grabbed a bottle of garlic salt. She opened the container, placed it near her bedroom window, and laughed. A somewhat playful, without abandon, alcohol-induced laugh echoed throughout the cottage.

  But her mood snapped briskly from gaiety to despair. “Leave me alone!” she shrieked.

  Then she tumbled into bed in her clothing and fell into a drunken sleep.

  * * * *

  The hangover was not quite as bad as Beth expected when she pulled herself out of bed on Sunday morning. 8:27 a.m. Again, she had missed dawn at the bed and breakfast. She felt it was critical to capture The Cove’s essence when the sun rose. She would need to set an alarm for 4:00 a.m. in order to keep that appointment, and she was not sure why she avoided making the commitment. Of course, things that go flitting in the night clearly had something to do with her break in concentration.

  Beth stretched and looked toward the sheet-covered window. She saw the container of garlic salt and reached to pick it up. On the bottle it said, “garlic salt, coarse, ground with parsley.” Beth shook her head and chuckled.

  “I guess it was the parsley that did the trick. No glowing marble last night.”

  Beth was in moderate denial about the potential loss of her sanity. She put the lid on the garlic salt and returned it to the kitchen. There, she opened the curtains and was greeted by a thick fog that enveloped the forest. She could barely see the boulder at the edge of her yard. She felt somewhat comforted by the fact that sleeping in had not caused her to miss anything. She would not have been able to sketch the bed and breakfast after all.

  Nonetheless, she resolved to make the best of the day. She decided she would sketch Old Charlie and perhaps do a little painting in the afternoon. She packed a sack lunch, grabbed a blanket and her sketching supplies, and headed out at a little after ten. Beth drove along Lighthouse Road and found an excellent viewing place about a quarter of a mile from Old Charlie. There she sat on the blanket and watched as the lighthouse emerged from the fog, standing proudly on its rocky perch. The Lighthouse Preservation Society had repainted Old Charlie in 2003, a bright white with a red stripe just below the watch room deck. The body of the lighthouse, a gently sloping cone, flattened out near the top where a sturdy railing encircled the hexagonal lens room. The attached house was also painted white with red trim and shutters. It appeared to be somewhat disjointed. The stylistic differences between the original keeper’s house and several additions made over the years were apparent, but it had charm, and it seemed to impart its fascinating past to those who drew near. Beth imagined strong keepers hauling containers of oil up one hundred narrow steps. She lingered for about an hour, sketching several drafts before packing up.

  On the way home, she decided to drive back into town and visit the jewelry store. The sooner she got her mother’s ring back, the sooner her apprehension would dissipate. It was possible Kenny finished it. After all, he had said a day or two, hadn’t he?

  The shop was closed when Beth arrived. On the door was a picture of Rip Van Winkle, his long beard flowing to the ground, with a caption that said, “Gone Hiking.” Old Van Winkle carried a walking stick, and he was covered with jewelry – rings on all of his fingers, bracelets up his arm, several pendants around his neck, and brooches hidden in his beard
. The drawing was quite good. Beth felt a little envious. Sketching people was not her strength. But she appreciated the quirky jeweler’s offbeat sense of humor.

  Well, you’d better return before twenty years with my ring.

  Maybe this goofball is not so bad after all, she thought as she drove away smiling.

  Chapter 6

  Acadia

  Kenny McLeary rested on the flat surface of a large jagged rock in a grove filled with birches, oaks, aspens and evergreens. Thick trees and saplings mingled among an assortment of wildflowers, while rocks decorated with yellow lichen and a variety of mosses rested in the undergrowth.

  It was a perfect day for a hike in Acadia National Park. The fog protected Kenny’s anonymity in the early morning. By the time the fog lifted, he sat safely tucked away in the forest. His dark green backpack lay on the ground by his feet. Moss grew around the base of the rock and along the crevices formed by its sharp angles. About twenty feet from the edge of the grove, Jordan Pond shimmered in the late afternoon sun.

  Kenny held a sketchpad and a charcoal pencil in his lap. He stared out over the water for several minutes before returning to the task of sketching what appeared to be designs for a pendant or brooch. At one point he picked up a long stick lying by his feet and began to stir the needles and leaves in a curious looping pattern.

  The sounds of laughter and twigs crunching beneath hikers’ feet startled him. He jumped nervously then quickly covered his sketchpad as if someone were looking over his shoulder, but the path was thirty yards behind him and he was essentially invisible to the intruders. They continued on their way, but Kenny closed the sketchpad and stashed it in his backpack protectively.

  He walked down to the edge of the pond, picked up a rock, and held it tightly in his left hand. In a sudden flash of rage, he threw the rock as hard and fast as he could into the water. The rock landed with a huge splash, startling the hikers who had passed moments before – a little retribution for their rude interruption of his peaceful afternoon. The lake aggressively spewed out water in the wake of the rock’s impact while ripples gently radiated toward the shoreline. As the ripples drifted closer, a calm washed over Kenny. Embarrassed about his outburst, he wished he could control his anger, but it always seemed to triumph at random, unpredictable moments.

  Was he becoming his father?

  Since the jeweler vowed to live alone, no child would ever have to learn the answer to that question. Secure in that fact, Kenny found peace.

  As the sun fell low in the sky, he packed up his belongings and headed out of the grove toward a trail that ran along the east side of the pond. He walked slowly, taking deep breaths and relishing the smells of the forest.

  Chapter 7

  Muse

  Beth spent the afternoon mixing colors and taking a stab at painting the lighthouse. She was not entirely unpleased with her work, but as the evening wore on, she decided that her fatigue and hunger were handicaps, so she found a stopping point and put the paints away. Later, after dinner, she sat in the clearing and watched as the sunset transformed the bay into a sea of pink and orange. Then twilight embraced land and water with a soothing silver-blue.

  Beth returned to her house and took a long, hot shower, attempting to rinse away her growing sense of trepidation. She walked into her bedroom wrapped in a large, blue towel, drying her hair with a small hand towel. The firefly floated silently in the center of the room. Beth screamed. But her fear quickly turned to anger. “Stop it. Stop it!” She stamped her foot like a child. “Get out of my house now and never come back.”

  The light flickered for a moment, then it slowly drifted toward the window, pausing briefly before slipping through the glass. In an instant Beth felt cold and empty, as if a wave of disappointment had washed over the room. In the void left behind, she whispered, “Wait.”

  Beth ran to the window, cupped her hand over her eyes, and peered out. The little creature of light was nowhere to be seen. She threw on some clothing and ran downstairs. The full moon was just beginning to rise. Beth looked into the woodland, but she saw only shimmering shadows of trees. She sat on the boulder, glancing around furtively, hoping to catch the glimmer of a dancing light. She waited, restless, for over an hour.

  But the firefly never appeared.

  * * * *

  Before going to bed, Beth set her alarm. Sleep came in unsatisfactory fragments throughout the night. Disturbing moments, interspersed with incongruent scenes of sand and waves, plagued her dreams. The dream-Beth wandered peacefully along a beach, soft waves splashing on the shore. Then the sound of screeching tires caused her to turn in panic. As her head swung around, the headlights of an unrestrained vehicle blinded her. Suddenly she realized she was no longer on the beach but in some kind of forest, entangled in the branches of a tree. She stood on broken twigs and dead leaves, surrounded by mossy rocks, ferns, and a variety of trees. Her bare arms were scratched and bleeding. Then, in a flash, the car spun out of control and she was bombarded with an array of images – her father’s smiling face, a rubber duck, a steering wheel, her father’s face twisted in anguish, another duck, distorted and irregular…and the sound of a woman screaming with fear. Or was that her own voice? Several times throughout the night, Beth awoke in a sweat, breathing quickly. She looked around the room, oriented herself, and took several deep, slow breaths before reluctantly lying down on the pillow to try again. Sometime after 2:00 a.m., she finally reached a peaceful state of unmemorable dreams and gratifying sleep.

  She jolted when the alarm blared at 4:00 a.m. A slight uneasiness clouded her spirit, but she shook the feelings and rushed to get ready and over to The Virginia Point Cove before sunrise. She glanced out the window. No fog. At 4:39 she headed out the door, her sketching supplies secured in a light brown canvas tote she had purchased in Albany.

  She ran to her car, pleased that she had finally gotten her act together in regards to sketching the bed and breakfast. But as she reached the car door, she looked back toward the forest. A faint light appeared on the horizon. Beth froze with her hand on the car door. A moment later she sighed, set down the tote bag, and entered the woodland heading north.

  After searching for an hour, checking out every clearing she saw near the rocky edge, she found it – a six-inch arrow made out of stones. She crawled on her stomach and peered over the rim. Radiant in the new light of day, the miniature, private beach greeted Beth. It lengthened with the ebbing tide. It looked even more inviting than it had three evenings before.

  Beth tried to remember the path traced by the firefly. She studied the rocks. Once she felt comfortable that she was familiar with the first couple of footholds, she eased herself gently over the edge, feet first. Carefully, feeling for a secure hold with every movement, Beth maneuvered down the twenty-foot cliff step by step. When she reached the bottom, she jumped on the sand, threw her hands in the air, and shouted, “Yes!”

  She looked around and all at once a sense of serenity overcame her. She felt completely removed from civilization. It was just the sand, the water, the sun coming up on the horizon, and her. All the apprehension of the previous few days seemed to melt away as she stood mesmerized, her long shadow scaling up the side of the cliff.

  After a while, she brushed away a few rocks and sat down on the damp sand. Then she removed her tennis shoes and socks and stretched her toes. How long had it been since she had wiggled her toes in the sand? She could not remember. With all the hustle of the job, the divorce, and the move, she had forgotten what it felt like to come to a complete stop, to take it all in with no agenda whatsoever. For over an hour she sat silently, doing nothing but watching and breathing.

  Later that morning, her stomach had its own agenda. Reluctant to leave, she came up with a plan. She returned to the house and gathered the makings a cold breakfast – a bagel, some fruit, and a box of crackers. Then she rummaged through the garage until she found a box marked “camping,” and she pulled out her backpack. It had been years since she had us
ed it last. She packed the lunch, her sketching supplies, a towel, and an ice-cold water bottle. Afterward, she returned to the beach.

  She spent the better part of the morning and the early afternoon sketching the islands off the coast and reveling in the tranquility of the secret beach. The tide pushed her into the tip of the horseshoe for about an hour, but it turned back around 12:15 p.m. Just after two, Beth returned to the cottage. She placed her sketches in the studio and admired the work she had accomplished. The beach was an inspiration she had not anticipated.

  “I’m sorry, little firefly,” she whispered, remembering her hostility of the previous night. Beth sighed. Her mind reeled. Was she coming to terms with the idea that the firefly was not a figment of her imagination? Could she ever really know for certain? She shrugged and exited the studio, humming softly.

  * * * *

  Following an afternoon snack, Beth headed into town to visit the jeweler again. I hope Mr. Van Winkle found his way home. She chuckled.

  When she approached the shop the drawing was gone and an “open” sign was in its place. She entered the store, causing the bells to jangle. Mr. McLeary stood at the file cabinet. He looked up when she entered. No smile was forthcoming, and if he recognized her, his face did not reveal a clue. He slipped silently to the back room and returned with the box. He gently removed her mother’s ring from the silk and placed it on Beth’s left ring finger. It was a perfect fit.

  Beth stared at the ring. It looked strangely misplaced on her hand. She removed it and examined it carefully. The refitting was flawless, not a mark or a bulge, as if it had never been touched.

  “Oh, this is truly amazing. Thank you so very much.”

  Beth smiled broadly and brought her gaze to Kenny’s face. Looking at Kenny McLeary was like staring into a white sheet. Nevertheless, for a brief moment something more animated flashed. Beth quivered. She was not certain if what she saw was benevolent or malevolent. It passed so quickly, it could have been an eerie black or a deep midnight blue. It came and went in an instant. Afterward, the blank, white sheet glanced away. He pulled out a receipt book and began to figure her total.