The Cottage at Glass Beach

by Heather Barbieri

  “And cookies?” Annie asked hopefully.

  “Before noon?” Maire smiled.

  “It’s never too early for cookies,” Annie said. She’d hinted that snickerdoodles were her favorite.

  “That’s what I always say,” Maire said as they went inside, leaving their boots at the door.

  “Did you lose your clothes in the shipwreck?” Annie asked Owen as Maire set the kettle on to boil.

  He shrugged good-naturedly. “I’ve never been much for fashion.”

  “I was going through the attic the other day, and I found some clothes that might fit you,” Maire said. She’d been meaning to mention it to him. She’d noticed how he tended to wear the same pair of ragged shorts.

  “That’s not necessary—”

  “You’d be doing me a favor. Keep an eye on the pot, and I’ll bring them down.” She’d already sorted the shirts and pants, running her hands over each piece of clothing, washing, folding, pressing, as she used to do when Jamie and Joe were alive. She wasn’t sure the clothes would work, Jamie having been a rangy six-footer, while Owen was five-ten at most and strongly built. And yet Jamie had worn his clothes baggy, so perhaps some of them would fit Owen.

  She lingered in Jamie’s room—taking in the space in that had belonged to her son, in which he had grown from a small boy who feared the dark and loved basketball and astronomy to a young man who would barely speak to her, filling the room with his sheer size, with the force of his anger. Where did that rage come from? How did she lose the ability to communicate with him? The thoughts pained her. She wished she’d told him how much she loved him, but she’d gotten worn down by the arguments, the trouble. There didn’t seem to be anything they could agree on—and then he was gone.

  She picked up the cardboard box with a sigh and carried it downstairs. “Here they are,” she said, placing it on the table for Owen’s perusal.

  “What’s your favorite color?” Annie asked him, taking a peek at the contents. “This shirt is nice.” She fingered the collar of a gray flannel button-down.

  He thought for a moment. “Blue.”

  “Mine too,” Maire said. “A good thing, since there’s so much of it around here.”

  “It’s hard to choose,” Annie said. “There’s something pretty about every color.”

  “An excellent philosophy,” Owen said, “seeing beauty in all things.”

  She smiled. He seemed to have her seal of approval too.

  That night, Maire brought Owen dinner—crab cakes, beans, and honeyberries from the garden. She’d invited him to the house on several occasions, but he had yet to take her up on it, perhaps not wanting to intrude. He wasn’t expecting her that evening. But she thought he could use a home-cooked meal; she had a feeling he hadn’t had one in a while. She balanced the covered plate on her left hand as she wound her way down the point. She hadn’t spent much time there, even in her youth, other than to summon her father for supper or to visit Patrick, when he first came to live with them. The memories of him still pained her, even after all these years.

  Rabbits and voles had made homes just off the path. She glanced down at her feet, at intervals, to make sure not to put a foot wrong. It wouldn’t do to twist her ankle. “Just sit for a moment,” Joe would say. But she had to be doing. Maybe it kept her sane, or close to it.

  She’d thought of bringing another plate for herself, to keep Owen company, but she didn’t want to be presumptuous. He seemed to like his privacy. Smoke trailed up into the sky from the fishing shack. It had been decades since a fire had been lit in its small hearth. She hated to think of the condition the shack was in—the mice, the cobwebs. She’d warned him, but he hadn’t been deterred. “I’ve seen far worse,” he said. She didn’t ask him what he meant.

  A crow flew ahead of her, meowing like a cat. Such canny birds, they were. They used to frighten her when she was a child; her grandmother had said they were the harbingers of death, though as she got older, she realized that trouble could come unexpectedly, bird or no bird, and that perhaps the resident flock had been done a disservice. She suspected this one was poking fun at Flotsam and Jetsam, taunting them as it flew out of reach. “You’re a clever fellow, aren’t you?” she said to him. She often talked to the animals like this—to Joe too, especially in the months following the accident. She still felt him with her. She supposed she always would.

  The path steepened and banked around a flat rock—the sunning rock, Maeve used to call it. She’d bask there in her bra and undies when their parents weren’t around. Maire had her mother’s skin, the pale Irish sort that never tanned. Maeve’s turned a lovely honeyed shade, changing with the seasons, which only made her more exotic to the boys of Portakinney, who seemed to trail after her wherever she went. Maire soon learned that she couldn’t keep up with her in the tanning department, after a couple of blistering burns that held the heat for days.

  Owen had cleared the yard of debris and hung his nets up to dry. The place didn’t look so desolate anymore. It was good to have someone in residence, a caretaker of sorts. She wished it had occurred to her before. She stepped onto the porch and tapped on the door. He’d fashioned a wind chime of shells to hang from the eaves. At first, there was no answer. Then she thought she heard a moan inside and became concerned. Maybe she should have watched him more closely. He’d been through a terrible ordeal. She pushed open the door and poked her head in. There he was, on his knees. What on earth could be the matter?

  “Owen,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  He jerked his head up and his eyes met hers, a bewilderment in them she didn’t understand, as if he didn’t quite know where he was.

  She set the plate down on the small table near the window and knelt down beside him. “Do you know who I am?”

  His expression cleared, though a hint of confusion remained in his gaze. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

  She touched his arm. “What’s going on? Is it the headaches?”

  He stared at his hands as if they didn’t belong to him. “This is harder than I thought.”

  “What is?”

  “Everything.”

  She sat back on her heels. “You’re safe now. You’re on solid ground.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’m not usually like this.”

  “You’ll be your old self soon enough. Perhaps some dinner will set you to rights.” She nodded to the plate. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay? It wouldn’t be any trouble at all.”

  He got to his feet with some effort, as if he had an invisible yoke around his neck. She was curious about what was burdening him, but such symptoms weren’t atypical of concussions. He might not be troubled by anything other than the pain in his head. “Seriously, Maire. I’m okay—and I very much appreciate your taking care of me like this.”

  “I think it’s you who’s taking care of me.” She put a hand on his arm—she could feel him shaking, ever so slightly—and reluctantly went on her way.

  Chapter Nine

  As the days went by, Owen ingratiated himself with Maire further. He assisted with repairs, worked on the truck, the house. There didn’t seem to be anything he couldn’t fix. The Fixer, Nora called him, keeping him at arm’s length with sarcastic humor, and yet whenever he was near, as he seemed to be all too often, her eye was drawn to him.

  “I could fix that for you,” he’d say. “I’m good with repairs.”

  “What about your memory?” she’d reply. “Is it coming back?”

  “A little at a time,” he said. “No earthshaking revelations.”

  He spent a morning fixing the railing on the deck at Maire’s request, while Nora repaired the chair cushions with striped fabric from Scanlon’s. (Alison had helped her pick it out. She had a good eye.) The girls were making mazes in the long grass of the meadow, their heads barely detectable above the tassels.

  “You’re the Minotaur,” Ella called to Annie.

  “Why do I always have to be the monster? Why can’t I
be the warrior princess?” Annie complained.

  “Because your teeth are pointier than mine.”

  “I won’t always have baby teeth. I might be bigger than you someday. I might tell you what to do. Ha!”

  The sound of their voices faded as they moved into the shadows of the pines.

  Nora stole glances at Owen. She’d been working outside when he arrived, and it seemed rude to abruptly move indoors. He labored steadily, bracing the railing and repairing the supports. He didn’t seem to mind the silence.

  She did. “I think Maire was afraid the girls might hurt themselves on a loose nail,” she said.

  “It needs to be completely redone.”

  “This part too?” She tapped her foot on the decking, worried about the possibility of it giving way.

  He shook his head. “That’s sound enough. It’s been sealed.”

  She remembered her father installing the deck. Nora had begged to help—Patrick had given her a tool belt, complete with a plastic child-size hammer, with which she used to pound the boards; he’d never complained about her being in the way—but her mother wouldn’t let her participate in the last step of the process. She closed the windows against the strong vapors of the sealant and insisted they vacate the premises for the day. Nora couldn’t remember where they were going, only the trail, leading away, and her father growing smaller, until he disappeared from view.

  “Is something wrong?” Owen asked.

  “No, I was just thinking about my dad. He did most of the restoration work on the cottage.” Patrick continued woodworking in his workshop at their home in Boston after they left the island. Nora would sit at the entrance, away from the whirring saws, the noise of the equipment making conversation difficult. She played with piles of sawdust, pretending they were the Gobi or the Sahara, her strong, quiet father wielding an adze nearby. He rebuilt their life too, as best he could, a roof over her head, a firm foundation on which she could stand. She understood that now.

  “A fine job, too,” Owen said.

  “Except the railing.”

  “That wasn’t his work. Maire said her son put it in.”

  That reassured Nora, somehow, to learn her father hadn’t had a hand in creating anything faulty.

  The conversation continued in fits and starts, but eventually she and Owen found a rhythm, after laboring in close proximity, that invited confidences. He seemed happy to let her talk. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t analyze. She hadn’t realized how much she needed someone to listen. She told him stories about her childhood, when she climbed the tallest trees in the neighborhood or raced down the biggest hills on her bicycle, before she’d grown careful and cautious, raising her children, letting Malcolm take the lead. Perhaps she wanted Owen to think she was brave, that she could take chances. Perhaps she needed to be reminded that that person was still a part of her too.

  “I didn’t realize I was talking so much,” she said, a lull in the conversation making her self-conscious. “I don’t usually babble like this—”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “I like having someone to talk to. I’m on my own most of the time.”

  “Me too.”

  Owen fell silent for a moment. “He was a fool to let you go.”

  “Maybe he hasn’t,” she said quickly. She wanted to be clear. “Nothing has been decided.”

  “No,” he said. “I suppose it hasn’t.”

  The hammer sounded sharper then, against the wood, as he rejoined the pieces that had separated and made them whole once more.

  The next morning, as the sun began to cast its light over the meadow, streaming through the windows, Nora was surprised to find new driftwood furniture on the deck. Owen must have seen the poor condition of the old pieces early on and designed new ones, perhaps delivering them before sunrise, while she and the girls slept. She ran her hands over the wood, polished by the waves. The chairs were finely made, the work of a true artisan.

  The girls appeared behind her, faces soft from sleep.

  “Mermaids’ chairs.” Annie plopped down and placed her hands on the armrests. “Where did they come from?”

  “Owen must have made them.”

  “They’re the most beautiful chairs I’ve ever seen.”

  “You must not have seen that many chairs, then,” Ella said.

  “They’re lovely,” Nora said, thinking she must compensate him for the work. She didn’t feel comfortable accepting such an extravagant gift—unless they were another project Maire had asked him to undertake. Somehow she doubted it. “Better than the others, that’s for certain.”

  “I liked the old ones,” Ella said, a note of challenge in her voice.

  “They were falling apart,” Nora replied.

  “Someone’s being a grumpy-pants this morning,” Annie said. She moved out of arm’s reach, to allow a buffer against sisterly retaliation.

  Ella ignored her. “The cushions you made won’t fit them,” she told Nora.

  “They’ll be fine. Or I can make new ones.”

  “We could have fixed the chairs,” Ella insisted, “if we’d tried.”

  Nora gestured to the side of the cottage, where Owen had rested the rejects. “There they are, if you want them. Don’t get a splinter.”

  Ella wrestled with one of the chairs—its joints were jammed—as if locked in a clumsy waltz.

  “You’re going to break it,” Annie warned.

  “No, I’m not,” she said through clenched teeth. The chair finally popped open with a snap. She set it in the corner and sat down gingerly. The legs weren’t level, and she tottered, unable to fully relax.

  “Comfortable?” Nora asked.

  “Very. We’ll need more chairs, anyway—for when Dad visits.”

  Polly was at Maire’s that night, Owen too. Maire had apparently invited him to dinner. He had contributed the fish for bouillabaisse, she said, and it was only proper to include him. Besides, it seemed inhospitable not to. The fragrant broth filled the senses, scented with saffron and herbs from Maire’s garden, tomatoes from her greenhouse.

  “Not as good as sun-ripened,” she said. “But they’ll do until nature is ready to do its work.” She passed bowls of bread, salad, and raspberries, making sure everyone’s plates were full.

  Maire had set the table for the occasion using the family silver, white napkins, candlesticks, and delft china with faded pastoral scenes. Ella seemed to study the pattern closely—she barely raised her eyes from her plate the entire evening and made a project of moving her salad—garden greens, nasturtiums, and pea shoots—around the rim as if she were redecorating a room.

  Marie had placed a flag in the holder by the door, hung streamers from the light fixtures. It was the Fourth of July. Nora had forgotten.

  “We’re from Boston,” Annie said to Owen, chatty as always. “Where are you from?”

  “I live at sea,” he replied.

  “You’re our first shipwreck in forty years,” Maire said, “if the records my grandfather kept are correct.”

  “Glad to make it into the books,” Owen said.

  “In dramatic fashion,” Polly added.

  “It’s like a story from our book of fairy tales,” Annie said.

  “Not that again,” Ella muttered.

  “The collection that belonged to you and Maeve?” Polly asked Maire.

  “The very one.”

  “Which is your favorite?” Polly asked the girls.

  Ella shrugged.

  “I can’t decide,” Annie said. “I want to read the one about the selkie, but we’re not there yet.”

  “Oh, that’s a good one. The fisherman who snares a seal wife in his nets.”

  “How come it’s always the men who get to catch interesting things?” Ella asked, ever the budding feminist. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “Actually, selkies can be men too. There’s another side to the myth, not as widely known, in which a selkie man comes to a woman who cries seven tears into the sea, to help her find happine
ss again. Would that we all were so lucky.” She paused, winking at Owen. “That wouldn’t be you, would it, washed ashore on stormy seas?”

  He laughed. “The question is, which of you did I come for?”

  Polly blushed. “Oh, what a flirt you are. Watch out for this one, Maire.”

  “Cliff House hasn’t been so filled with life since—” Maire’s eyes flitted toward the photos of her family on the mantel, then away. “It’s good to have everyone here.” She raised a glass of wine. “To homecomings.”

  “To homecomings.”

  Nora insisted on cleaning up while Maire showed the girls some things she’d saved in the attic. The kitchen reflected the warmth of its owner, the walls painted yellow, the countertops island granite, the floors well-trodden pine. Jars of herbs and dried flowers lined the shelves. “Headache,” read one label. “Memory,” read another, as if it could be stored in a bottle. The fridge door was covered with photos and Post-it notes, to-do lists and phone numbers, a testament to Maire’s busy life. As Nora scraped the dishes, she noticed a burned pot in the garbage—Maire must have left it on too long, something that Nora had done herself more than once after the scandal broke, unable to concentrate.

  She loaded the dishwasher and wiped the countertops, as she would have back home in their understated Georgian—the perfect residence for a budding statesman, not too ostentatious, respectable—on a shady avenue, the trees in full leaf, children at play on the sidewalks, the sound of a lawn mower whirring in the distance, a neighborhood of ordered gardens and ordered lives, hers too, until recently. She’d put a great deal of work into that house; it had been a fixer-upper when they bought it, fulfilling their dream of owning a house on Oak Street. They saw the possibilities, the good bones. A place where Nora could have a normal family, the family she’d never had. The door was locked now. The mail held. Dust gathering on their possessions. There was a time she had belonged to the city: its industry, its life, her soul. The sidewalks teeming with people—the successful, the bereft, the joyous, the mad, the estranged. She had separated herself from that. From Malcolm. Their Boston, gone.