The Cottage at Glass Beach

by Heather Barbieri

  “We all knew her. Or wanted to. The Queen of the Fleet. Won the sea race too, time and again. Never been a girl that pretty who could swim that fast. Like a fish, she was. Got to lead the parade. Can’t recall the year. She would have been eighteen or thereabouts. Not long before she met that fella. A string of broken hearts, to be sure. And jealous women.”

  “She didn’t have many friends?”

  “More men than gals. And I don’t mean she was too free. She got on better with the lads. Never went in for the gossip, maybe because she was the focus of it herself. Didn’t endear herself to the female population, except my daughter, Brenna. Thick as thieves, they were.” His gaze drifted. “It’s a sad thing to have your children go before you.”

  “I’m sorry. Polly mentioned she’d passed away.”

  “You know my Polly?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “She’s everywhere, isn’t she? Always has been, ever since she was little. Didn’t want to miss out on the fun.” He nudged her. “Gets that from me, I suppose. . . . Maeve McGann. What a girl. And the sailor got her in the end, didn’t he? The sea delivering a man to her, when she couldn’t find the right one here.”

  Nora waited another hour, but Polly never showed, Alison had to work, and Gerry, who seemed to know the most about Maeve, or was at least the most inclined to talk, had passed out at the bar. The band started up in earnest, making conversation impossible. She listened to the first set before stealing a glance at her watch and deciding she should probably head back to Cliff House and pick up the girls. She reluctantly waved to Alison, shouldered her bag, and went out the door.

  The clatter of her footsteps was a lonely sound, moving away from the festivities to the car that would carry her along the deserted road, to the cottage by the sea. The car used for ferrying the girls from one place to another in her previous life, the one she’d shared with Malcolm, as wife and mother. Here, mother only, and she wasn’t sure what else. She was still gaining a sense of herself apart from those roles.

  She turned down the alley where she’d parked the car—on a dead end. She heard a shuffling behind her. She tightened her hand on her bag, ready to stand her ground, if necessary. It would be just her luck to have Maggie Scanlon show up and assail her again.

  But it wasn’t Maggie Scanlon. It was a group of men from the bar.

  There were three of them, one short and wiry, the others larger, six feet at least and heavily built. They blocked the only way out. The alley smelled of damp, and now of them too—beery, musty. She had her keys out. If she could get inside the car, she could lock the door, press her foot on the accelerator, and go.

  The wiry one darted closer. “Going somewhere?” He was fox-faced and glassy-eyed, a wispy stubble on his chin, patchy, as if he’d missed a spot or two shaving. She guessed he’d started drinking early that day.

  “Home.” She hoped they didn’t hear the shakiness in her voice.

  “Boston. That’s where you belong.”

  So there had been gossip. “Get out of my way.”

  “We’re on to you. Biding your time, aren’t you? Waiting to get your hands on Maire’s land. Tear it down, build a new house or a resort for the big-city assholes. We don’t want that here.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was no use trying to reason with him in his present condition, with his minions looming in the background. They were clearly bent on ascribing the worst possible motives to her.

  He stepped in front of her. “Still, we might have a little fun with you, before you go.”

  Nora felt a chill of apprehension. She had to get out of there, fast. “You’re drunk. You’re not making any sense. Now get lost.” She dodged him and fumbled with the key in the lock, her hands trembling. It slid into the mechanism, turned with a soft click. Broken glass crunched underfoot. She was halfway in the car when a hand grabbed the door. No words now, only breathing. Hers. His. The others behind him. She felt a rush of adrenaline. She shouted for help, but the noise in the bar was too loud for anyone inside to hear. She wrestled for possession of the door, nearly smashing his fingers in the jamb. She kicked at him, hard. “Fuck off!” she cried. They backed away, reconsidering. She was clearly more than they’d bargained for.

  “That’s enough,” someone shouted from the entrance of the alley. A familiar figure approached. Owen.

  Nora stared at him in disbelief, her breathing shallow. Where had he come from? He hadn’t been in the pub; she would have noticed.

  The fishermen laughed, though they’d retreated a few paces at his voice. She didn’t know he could sound like that. He’d always been so soft-spoken.

  “Only one of you, isn’t there?” the tallest one said, peering behind him for confirmation. “Who are you to tell us what to do?”

  Owen didn’t reply but continued to advance toward the group, undeterred. Nora moved her keys to her right hand and made a fist around them.

  “He wants a fight,” said the ringleader. He grabbed an empty bottle from an overflowing garbage can and waved it in the air, hopping with excitement, clearly expecting the others to take the first swing. He’d taken the lead with Nora, but he appeared more cautious when it came to dealing with an adversary like Owen.

  “Steady, Dec,” the biggest said, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  Owen stopped directly in front of them. She couldn’t see his face. “You need to leave. Now.” His voice was guttural, almost a growl. She couldn’t be sure what he said next, because as he spoke, the seals barked from the harbor, obscuring his words.

  The men retreated. “No harm done, eh?” As if it had been a joke. They shoved each other and traded insults as they repaired to the bar, evidently in search of less complicated company and another round of drinks.

  Nora rested her chin on the steering wheel, spent. She raised her head when Owen came up to the car. “I had things under control,” she said, feigning calm.

  “Of course you did.” If he noticed her shaking, he didn’t say so. “Doesn’t hurt to have some backup, though, does it?”

  “I suppose not.” Her pulse was still racing. “Do you need a ride?” she managed to ask.

  “Why not.” He got in beside her. “It’s a long walk home. Good thing I happened by. Not the friendliest guys, are they?”

  “No, they’re not.” She wondered if she and the girls were safe at the cottage, how much she had to fear the men stalking her. “I hope they don’t come looking for me.”

  “If they do, they’ll find trouble. I’ll see to that.”

  “So now you’re our bodyguard too? You’re developing quite a résumé.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about them too much. They’re all talk.”

  “And drink.”

  “Exactly. They probably won’t remember anything in the morning.”

  “I hope they have one hell of a hangover.” It wouldn’t be so easy for Nora to put the encounter out of her mind. She turned the key in the ignition and pulled onto the road. The indicator lights glowed on the dash. Oil. Gas. Speed. She told herself she was in control now, foot on the accelerator, hands on the wheel. She glanced at her passenger. “You’re all wet,” she observed.

  His hair was slicked down. “That’s what happens when you’ve been out in the rain.”

  “But it’s not raining.”

  A drop, then another, hit the windshield.

  “Your powers of intuition are truly remarkable,” she said.

  “Not really. There’s a squall, making landfall, moving in from the docks. It should blow through in a moment or two.”

  “What were you doing here, anyway?”

  “Just out for an evening stroll.”

  “Quite a distance to go.”

  “Only a couple of miles or so. I like being outdoors.”

  They passed the outskirts of town. “Well, I’m glad you were here tonight,” she said. “I know I haven’t been completely welcoming since you arrived.”

  “Makes your regar
d all the more worth attaining,” he replied. “The point has become like a second home to me.”

  “Where is home?” she asked. “Surely you must have family, a life elsewhere. Someone who misses you—”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. “I remembered something today, when I was swimming past the cove. That my parents were killed in a boating accident when I was young,” he said. “It’s coming back to me, one piece at a time. I think I’ve been on my own, for the most part, ever since. Funny how things like that can occur to you out there.”

  It was. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—” At least she’d had her father, at least she hadn’t lost everything. She’d held his hand while he lay in a hospital bed those last hours, felled by a stroke, unable to communicate, his eyes half closed, fixed. She hoped he’d heard her when she’d thanked him for everything he’d done for her. She’d never told him before. She hadn’t anticipated him going so quickly.

  “There’s no reason you should have.”

  They lapsed into silence, the only sound the wiper blades moving across the windshield in half circles, the rain coming down harder. She put on the high beams, casting the road before them in shades of gray.

  “So he’s gone?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “Your husband.”

  It was odd to hear him say the word. She hurried to explain. “Yes. I wasn’t expecting him. To visit, that is.”

  “You weren’t?”

  “No. He didn’t come for me. He came for the girls.”

  “Are you sure of that?”

  Yes. No. She didn’t want to get into it, not then, not with Owen. It was as if Malcolm was riding along with her, the backseat husband, still calling the shots. “I thought we said we didn’t owe each other explanations.”

  “So we did.” He gazed out the window at the streaming dark, the headlights trained on the road before them, its margins appearing narrower in the nighttime hours. “Though that doesn’t mean we can’t get to know each other better. I thought we were.”

  “We’re friends, remember?” Goose bumps prickled her skin. She supposed she should have worn a heavier coat. “Aren’t you cold?” She should have thought to have had the car serviced before they left Boston. The heater still wouldn’t work, not an issue on the mainland during the summer, but here, on the island, it could be.

  “Not really. I’m used to it.”

  “Well, I am.” She tried the heater anyway, to no avail, the radio too, fingers pressing busily, to break the silence, to give her something to do. All she could get was static. “What did you say to those guys, anyway?”

  “Something they’d understand.”

  Nora and Owen alighted in front of Cliff House. The moon appeared, the squall having passed, as he predicted. His skin was luminous in that light, his eyes searching. She looked away, feeling the warmth in her cheeks. “Well,” she said, suddenly awkward as a teenager. “Thank you.” Maire’s house stood behind her. The girls were there, upstairs. She should bring them home, get them to bed.

  “For what? You would have done the same for me.”

  “To less effect.”

  “Oh, I’m not so sure. You can be rather intimidating when you want to be.”

  “Hardly. You scared the hell out of them. What’s your secret?”

  “Ah, but it wouldn’t be a secret if I told you, would it?”

  They went their separate ways, he to the fishing shack, she to Cliff House. A single light burned in the front room, the curtains half open, Maire, still awake, knitting. Nora tapped on the door.

  “You don’t have to knock. The door isn’t locked. It’s your home too. I keep telling you that.” Maire motioned her inside, a basket of knitting at the foot of her chair, a half-finished multicolored sweater—perhaps for one of the girls, judging by the size of it—draped over the side, awaiting the next purl. “You look pale. Did something happen?”

  Nora paused at the foot of the staircase.

  “Maggie wasn’t at Cis McClure’s, was she?” Maire asked.

  “No.” Nora told her about the incident in the alley.

  “Must have been the Connelly boys. That Declan has been a problem for years. We should report them. I could ask John O’Connor to give them a talking-to. Wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to do it, believe me.”

  “I don’t think they’ll try it again,” Nora said. Reporting them would only stir things up, if they did indeed forget the encounter. “They were drunk.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but it bears watching. It’s good Owen was there.”

  Nora nodded. All she wanted to do was return to the cottage, take a long, hot bath, and pretend none of it ever happened. “I’ll grab the girls and—”

  “Don’t worry about them. We had a lovely evening. They taught me how to play Snap and Golf—such fun card games—and we made sugar cookies.” She nodded at the kitchen counter, where the frosted treats in shapes of flowers, butterflies, and trees rested on cooling racks. “I love getting to play the grandmother. They’re fast asleep. Let’s leave them for the night. Why don’t you stay too? There’s plenty of room. We could have breakfast together in the morning.”

  “That’s all right,” Nora said. “My things are at the cottage.”

  “You could probably use a little time to yourself.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Of course you didn’t. You’re a mother. You put them before yourself, always. Go have a nice long bath,” Maire said, as if she’d read her mind. “A glass of wine. Whatever would make you feel better. You’ve had quite a night, haven’t you? I should have thought of that before.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have. You’ve already done so much for us,” Nora said. “Thank you, for everything.”

  Owen was waiting for her when she returned to the cottage. She wasn’t completely surprised to see him. It was as if they’d reached an unspoken agreement earlier, as they’d driven home together in the dark, a sense, perhaps, that they’d been moving toward this point for days. She hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted this—to lose herself in the moment, to stop thinking. It seemed as if all she’d been doing lately was worry, keeping her emotions in check. The effort was consuming her, suffocating her. And there he was. A means to forget, offering escape, sensation, desire . . . If she’d stopped to consider the implications, she might have gone inside alone. But for once, she didn’t stop, didn’t consider. She wanted to know what it was like—to see if she could still feel.

  The moon bathed the cottage, the landscape, in shades of blue and gray, as if they were underwater. Owen pulled her toward him. She did nothing to stop him; if he hadn’t reached for her, she would have reached for him. He pushed open the door, led her backward to the bed. And then everything fell away a layer at a time—her clothes, her responsibilities, her past.

  She looked into his face; his eyes held hers, never breaking contact. Malcolm had always kept his eyes closed. He tended to take her quickly, holding her apart from him, as if to get better leverage. When she tried to tell him what she wanted, he became defensive, fearing he’d failed, and so she let it go. Sometimes he pleased her, others she’d lie and say he’d made her happy, because she couldn’t bear to see the shame and disappointment on his face, because it was fine, really. Sex didn’t always have to be earthshaking. They’d been married fifteen years, after all.

  Owen was different, and she was different with him. He turned over her hand, traced the tattoo on the underside of her wrist. They whispered to each other, guiding, exploring. This. This. Everything was new with him. Everything. She cried. She felt as if she were breaking apart. “What’s wrong?” He stroked her cheek. “It’s so beautiful,” she said through her tears. The room seemed to glisten, just the two of them, together, while through the open window the waves kept cadence, rushing up the beach, covering the rocks, the sand, the hour changing over, the tide coming in.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Voices warbled, swooping closer.
Nora squinted in confusion. Who was outside? Where was she?

  Her vision cleared, her mind too: in the cottage at Glass Beach.

  “We’re home! We’re home!” The girls, running along the path.

  She sat up in panic. Owen. They mustn’t see him. She glanced around the room. He wasn’t there. Where had he gone?

  No time to think about that now. Things were looking different in the light of day—messy, in every sense of the word. She pulled on a T-shirt and shorts as Annie threw open the door and pounced on her. “Wake up, sleepyhead!”

  “Is it late?”

  “No, it’s early. We missed you, so we came home.”

  Ella stood in the doorway, examining the scene with forensic intensity.

  “Were you lonely here by yourself?” Annie asked. “You have sparkles on you.” She flicked at Nora’s skin.

  “Must be sand,” Nora said. “I didn’t bother to shower.”

  “How European of you. Aunt Maire said you were going home to take a bath. I heard the car last night. I saw you from the window,” Ella said.

  “I didn’t get around to it.” Nora yawned and rubbed her eyes, partly for effect. She could smell him on her, hoped to God they wouldn’t notice.

  “Were you up late?” Annie asked.

  “A little.”

  “I thought you said you were tired,” Ella said. “What were you doing?”

  They couldn’t imagine her having a life separate from theirs. “Reading.” It didn’t feel right to lie to them.

  “You didn’t get far.” Ella considered the paperback copy of The Woman in White on the nightstand, the bookmark indicating meager progress, the needle of the compass quivering nearby, as if it were a polygraph.

  “I wanted to take my time. It’s too early for conversation. I’m not a morning person. You know that.” She had to be careful what she told them. They had a certain idea of her. She was not so much a person as their mother; she couldn’t disappoint or confuse them by revealing herself to be anything more or less. She had to be the one they could rely on—especially Ella, the intensity of her feelings almost too much for her to handle, a spark that might fan into flame.