“Insects.” Her husband the lowest form. “Do you have a bite?”
Ella shook her head. “I got him just in time.”
“Her. Biting mosquitoes are female. We learned that in science,” said Annie.
“Good for you.”
Unperturbed, Annie blew into a piece of kelp, marching along as if she were leading a brass band.
“That sounds like a fart,” Ella said.
“Don’t be crude, El,” Nora said.
“Well, it did. Are you going to swim in that race Aunt Maire was talking about?” Ella asked. “We overheard you talking about it. We could help you train.”
“You little eavesdroppers. Maybe I will. She said they have shorter races you girls could enter—or maybe you already heard that too.”
Ella was fiercely competitive, whether at cards, academics, or sports. (She’d been known to throw her racquet and stomp off the court after losing at tennis.) “I’m going to swim every day,” she said. Both girls enjoyed the activity, Annie a budding diver, Ella, a sprinter. “Do you think I could win?”
“I think you can do anything you set your mind to.”
Nora bent down and picked up pieces of sea glass. There was still enough light to see by, though there wouldn’t be for long. Green, blue, the rare lavender, white, some pieces frosted, some clear. Mermaids’ tears, Maire called them. Maeve collected them too. An image flashed in Nora’s mind of jars lined up on the windowsill at the cottage, catching the light, of her father hurling them onto the floor in a rage during a fight with her mother—before she disappeared, it must have been—shards scattering across the floor. “Stay back!” her mother had cried, a slender ribbon of blood circling her toe. Nora huddled in the doorway to her room as her father slammed the door and stalked out into the muggy afternoon, thunder threatening. Then no sound but the hush-hush of the broom as Maeve swept up the brokenness and threw it away, even the once-beautiful sea glass, except a single piece Nora rescued from the far corner, hiding it under her pillow for safekeeping.
“Why are you collecting sea glass? To put in jars like Aunt Maire does?” Annie asked.
“I was thinking we could make jewelry.” In the Victorian style, perhaps, ornate, not the typical organic creations she’d seen in the beachside shops on the mainland. Designs were already taking shape in her mind. It surprised her, how inspired she felt. After she left her law practice to raise the girls, she’d taken a few art classes at the local institute, and now seemed as good an opportunity as any to put her skills to work again.
“We want to help!” They scooped up handfuls of pieces, some usable, some not. She’d sort through it later.
“Look,” Annie said. “The seals are bodysurfing.”
The sea glass weighed heavy in Nora’s pockets, pulling at the seams of her jacket, and yet she couldn’t stop searching, always a greater treasure, a more perfect piece to be found. The task required a meditative focus she found calming, one that distracted her from thoughts of Malcolm and Boston and what she would do next. She imagined combing the shore daily, swimming, reading, gardening with Maire. Already she sensed the quiet pattern that would shape their days on the island.
“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” Annie said.
“Is Dad coming too?” Ella asked. “He said he would.”
Did he? That was news to Nora, but then, communication hadn’t been his strong suit lately.
“We’ll see.”
That noncommittal sentence again, but really, it was all Nora could say. Because when it came to Malcolm, nothing was certain.
Malcolm had always been unpredictable. It was one of the things she’d loved about him from the moment she met him. Being unreliable, that was new, something different entirely. He had never failed her in this way before, not to her knowledge, constant since they met at Harvard in the early 1990s. She remembered the first time he sought her out, outside of class, as if it were yesterday. Nora had been studying in the law library for hours, her eyes closed and fluttered opened, her head nearly sliding off her hand. Torts were putting her to sleep, but she had a test later that week and she needed to prepare. She’d been in the library carrels the entire evening, the only sounds the occasional cough or turning of pages among the warren of cubicles. Her roommates, who didn’t seem to care as deeply about such things—sometimes she wished she didn’t either—were having another party at the house they shared off-campus, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to concentrate there.
Hands closed over her eyes. She smelled leather and mint and wool. “Guess who?”
It was him. J. Malcolm Cunningham, who sat behind her in class. A guy whose very presence made her excessively inclined to nervous laughter and dropping pencils, she, who was known for being so composed. He appeared to enjoy his effect on her.
“Malcolm, I need to study,” she protested. His first name was John, but he went by his middle name.
He reached in front of her and closed the book. “C’mon, milady, the night is young.” Within minutes he’d packed up her books and taken her hand. “You’re too lovely to be shut up in this tower of academia all evening.” He wore a finely cut vintage cashmere coat, jeans, and laced oxfords, a scarf around his neck, creating his own style, boho-prep, Nora called it. He could make anything look good.
He guided her down the steps and out the main doors. She liked watching him walk. He moved with such an easy elegance and grace, tall and sure of himself. Neither of them had to work that night. (Both were scholarship students, Nora nannying for a faculty couple; Malcolm having talked his way into clerkship, due to his powers of persuasion.) It was dark outside. It had been late afternoon when she went in. She could lose hours, cramming information into her head. But now she felt free again, thanks to him. The lights glittered, making Cambridge appear more magical than it ever did during the day. “Close your eyes,” he said.
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
She felt the softness of his coat against her cheek as he led her forward. At first, it seemed as if she were stepping into a void. She stumbled against him, unsure where to put her feet. She didn’t like not knowing where she was headed. His arm tightened around her. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s hard to get your balance at first. Remember, I’m here for you. I’m not going anywhere.”
She felt safe with him. She barely came to his shoulder. He was six-four; she, nearly a foot shorter. As they walked, she became more aware of each sound—footsteps, doors, cars, the hum of neon lights, the wind in the laurels, each smell—Chinese food, aftershave, cinnamon, coffee, exhaust, each touch—his hands, his lips in her hair as he whispered directions: “Step up,” “Step down,” “Turn left,” then “Open your eyes.” They traveled from one neighborhood to the next, block after block, the city at their feet.
“Where are we?” she asked when they came to a stop at last. She opened her eyes. It was beginning to snow, flakes sifting down and landing on their hair and shoulders. Soon the world would be transformed into a hushed wintry kingdom, the two of them at the very center. She didn’t feel the cold at all, just the warmth of his hands, holding hers.
“Here.” He kissed her then, beneath the trees of Oak Street, with its moldering Georgian and Tudor homes. “The place we’re going to live someday. You and I, together.”
Malcolm had tended to read the bedtime stories when the girls were younger, but it was Nora’s turn now. She would be the designated storyteller on Burke’s Island. As she tucked the girls in that night, Annie pressed the book of Irish fairy tales into her hands. Siggy was already cradled securely in her arm. “You promised.”
Nora curled up next to her daughter. A bookmark tagged the page where she and Maeve might have left off earlier. She hesitated, hand poised over the cover.
“We can’t read if you don’t open it first,” Annie said.
Nora’s consciousness seemed to split in two. Was it the wine? The power of suggestion? Maeve’s voice echoed in her mind, a melodic contralto. Once
upon a time . . .
“Mama?” then her own daughter, reminding her of her place in the present.
“Sorry. Here we go.” Nora opened the cover, the leather brittle as bark. A silverfish darted from the binding, and a tiny cloud of dust lifted into the air. “Fairy dust,” Annie said. “Dirt,” Ella said from her side of the room. (She’d drawn a boundary in chalk, a preliminary measure against sisterly encroachment.) The spine crackled and water spots spattered the deckled edges, and yet the illustrations were as enchanting as ever, the paintings and etchings richly detailed and the colors, though somewhat faded, lush. Each story began with the flourish of a Gothic letter, as if to herald the magic to come. “They don’t make them like this anymore.” Nora ran her fingers over the glossy images of serpents, flowers, waves, and seals.
“Why?”
“Too expensive and time-consuming to produce.” Why was her heart pounding like that?
Few believe, but we do, don’t we, love? Maeve’s voice again, coming to her vividly from the past.
“Then we’re even luckier to have it,” Annie said.
“Yes,” Nora agreed, “we are. It’s an old family book. My mother gave it to me.”
“What was her name again?”
Nora had barely spoken of her. She’d never been a presence in the girls’ lives, barely Nora’s either, in the physical sense, though in her absence she hovered about the edges of her consciousness like a ghost. “Maeve.”
Annie repeated it. “What does it mean?”
“It was the name of a great Irish faerie queen.”
“Did you hear that, El?”
“Hard not to with your chattering away like that,” Ella said, turning to Nora. “What happened to your mother, anyway? You never talk about her.”
“I scarcely remember her. She disappeared one summer, when I was five years old.”
“And they never found her?”
Nora shook her head. “No, they didn’t.”
“Not even a trace?”
“No, not even a trace.”
“You’re not going to disappear, are you?” Annie asked.
“I’m staying right here.” Nora pulled her close. “Which story do you want to read tonight?”
Annie studied the table of contents at length. “This one,” she said finally, “about the boat. We—”
Ella coughed and gave her a pointed look.
“What were you going to say, honey?” Nora tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
“That we like boats,” Annie said quickly. “There are so many here.”
“Me too,” Nora said. Her father had been an accomplished sailor, but he’d only taken her out a few times on his boat before he sold it, when she was about Annie’s age. He said it was too much trouble to maintain. She wondered now if the sale had more to do with memories of her mother and their time together on Burke’s Island.
“ ‘There once were two young brothers who lived in Killaran,’ ” Nora began. “ ‘They found a coracle by the sea.’ ”
“Wait a second,” Ella said. “Why do boys get to have all the fun?”
They did, didn’t they? Her husband too, in the running for philanderer of the year. Nora cleared her throat. “Good point. Very well, then.
“ ‘There once were two sisters who lived in Killaran . . .’ ”
Chapter Four
Annie woke the next morning having dreamed of a coracle on sapphire seas, of gorgeous towering waves, the compass needle spinning, spinning, sea glass falling from the sky like hail, the ocean outside the cottage window a wayward cousin of the one in the book, a body of water that wouldn’t be contained. What was it hiding? What would it bring?
“Do you think the boat’s still there?” Annie threw back the covers and hopped out of bed.
Ella, always slower to awaken, mumbled a reply and burrowed deeper into the blankets.
Annie didn’t wait for her. She pulled on a sweatshirt and a pair of shorts and dashed outside. Wildflowers painted the meadow with strokes of red, blue, and yellow. She raised her face to the sky. A light wind was blowing, pleasantly cool on her cheeks. She spread her arms wide. I’m a kite, she thought. I’m a bird.
It was a Tuesday. Tuesdays at home meant swim team and art class at the museum. They’d been doing a unit on Picasso and cubism, and the instructor, Rodney, had them paint a portrait. She’d done one of Ella. She felt bad about using her for a subject, putting her face in pieces like that, later, when she wasn’t mad at her anymore for saying she was stupid. Tuesdays at home meant takeout Chinese, which their dad brought home from Ming’s, at least until recently, when he hadn’t been coming home much. Annie had asked Nora if he’d migrated, like the geese. They’d been studying migration at school. She’d said no, but Annie wasn’t so sure.
There weren’t any geese on Burke’s Island, at least not at the moment, or fathers who didn’t come home. Tuesdays were different here too. There was no schedule to be kept. She could fill Tuesdays—and any other day of the week for that matter—with whatever she chose.
She scrambled down the bluff. The beach was deserted, except for a boy standing at the tide line, the water rushing over his feet, sand huddled between his toes, streaking his legs. He was bare-chested. He wore a pair of tattered brown shorts. He was wet, as if he’d been swimming. His skin was deeply tan. She guessed him to be eight or nine years old.
“Hello,” Annie said, happy to meet someone close to her own age. “Do you live around here?”
He nodded. He seemed shy. His eyes were dark, watchful.
“My name is Annie.”
“I’m Ronan.”
“That sounds like a superhero’s name. Do you have special powers? I can fly, see?” She sailed off a rock, at least for a second or two.
He laughed.
“Is it all right if I call you Ronie?”
“If you want to.”
She noticed a crab leg in his hand, the shell broken open. “What’s that?”
“Breakfast,” he said.
“It’s like a crab cocktail, without the sauce.”
“Fresh is best.” He licked his lips. “I’ll bring you some next time.”
“From where?”
“Out there.”
“I’ve only been on the open sea in the charter boat. We came in a few days ago. There were porpoises running ahead of us. I wanted to stop and watch, but the captain doesn’t stop the boat for anything. Mama said it had to be on time. There’s so much in the ocean, isn’t there, beneath the surface?”
He nodded. “Look.” Beyond the rocks, two whales breached, as if on cue, shooting out of the water like rockets, an explosion of spray as they plunged downward once more.
Annie gasped.
He gazed at her expectantly. “Humpbacks, on the move.”
She didn’t know how she could top whales. “I have a boat,” she offered, pointing in the direction of the driftwood piles. “Do you want to see it? I was afraid the tide would have carried it away.”
“The tide doesn’t reach that high, not usually.” The waves drew foam-flecked lines on the beach.
Annie was about to suggest a voyage to Antarctica to see the penguins, when Ella’s strident voice carried down from the bluff. “Annie, where are you?”
“Who’s that?” Ronan asked.
“My sister. She’s twelve. We could hide and pretend we’re not here.” She didn’t like the thought of having to share Ronan with Ella.
“She’d come look for you. I’d better go,” Ronan said, his eyes wary now.
“You don’t have to—”
He put a finger to his lips. “Don’t tell anyone about me. I’m not supposed to be here.”
“Why?” He was the strangest boy. The strangest, most wonderful boy.
“My mother said. Promise.” His look was piercing.
“I didn’t show you the coracle—” She didn’t want him to leave. There was so much more to show him, to say.
“Next time.”
�
�But I don’t know where you live,” she protested.
“I’ll find you. Remember. Promise.”
“I promise.”
He dashed down the tide’s edge, his footprints erased by the waves, and disappeared into the rocks.
Ella appeared a few moments later. “What are you doing here by yourself?” she asked.
“Playing.” Annie wanted to tell her about Ronie, but she’d made a vow, and truthfully, she liked having a special friend of her own. Ella had a tendency to take over. Was Ronie still watching from the rocks? She picked up a length of seaweed and wrapped it around her shoulders with a toss of her head, strutting along the beach like a supermodel. “Look, I’m wearing a mermaid’s scarf.”
“Ew. Take it off. It stinks.” Ella wrinkled her nose.
Ronie wouldn’t have said that. He would have laughed.
“It smells like the sea,” Annie said. “There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a brinny-briney, seaside-finey smell.” She breathed deep as she let it slip from her hands. “Maybe I’ll sew a gown and go to the sea sprites’ ball!”
“Let me guess, hosted by the sea people.”
“Exactly! You can come if you want.”
“I’ll pass.”
“I bet you’d change your mind if one of those boys in town was going.” She remembered the way Ella was looking at them.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ella blushed.
She hardly ever looked unsure of herself like that, so Annie backed off. It was interesting: she’d noticed that Ella spent a lot of time talking about boys (to her friends, not Annie, who overheard their conversations back home), but rarely spoke directly to them. “Are you going to help me with the boat?” Annie asked instead, then groaned. “We forgot to buy paint for it at the store.”
“We can use the leftovers from the cottage, if we ever paint the rooms.” Their mother hadn’t even taken the cans out of the bag. She stuck them in the closet, as if she wanted to forget the entire episode at the store, especially the woman, Maggie Scanlon.
“All it needs is a coat of varnish,” said a voice behind them. “Boats like that aren’t meant to be painted. They need to be allowed to show what they’re made of, the grain of their wood, their skin. They need to breathe.”
The Cottage at Glass Beach Page 5
