The Cottage at Glass Beach

by Heather Barbieri

  “Did you know she was in love with my father?” Nora asked Polly.

  Alison raised her eyebrows. This was clearly news to her.

  Polly thought for a moment. “Well, she was the first to meet him. She was down on the docks that day, waiting for her father’s boat to come in. She was only a teenager, too young for anything serious as far as your father was concerned. After your grandfather offered him the fishing shack—it was in better shape back then—while his boat was being repaired, she’d drop by to see him, hanging on his every word. Used to drive me crazy. I couldn’t see it. He seemed too old for her, and he wasn’t my type. Too levelheaded, at least in most ways. I liked the bad boys back then, before I found my Fergus.”

  “And then?” Alison asked.

  “And then Maeve returned. She’d been helping your grandmother with a delivery up-island. A complicated birth, it was. The last she attended. Maeve didn’t have the gift or interest in the profession. Maire did. They were competitive with each other over so many things. That’s the way it can be for sisters, can’t it, loving and resenting each other by turns? One look at Maeve, and it was as if he’d been put under a spell. Maire didn’t have a chance. She was too young, and Maeve was too beautiful.”

  “Maire must have been devastated,” Alison said.

  “Yes, I suppose. You know how strong your feelings are at that age. She cried, sure, and then, after a while, she pushed it all down. She was practical that way. I knew the sadness was there, but I’m not sure others did. She could appear so steady, even then. But what else would she have done? Maeve and Patrick got married that spring. Maire was the maid of honor.”

  “There was a mention in the journal of a miscarriage. Was my mother pregnant before she had me?” Nora asked.

  “Yes.” Polly fell silent.

  “There was something else, wasn’t there?”

  “I’m not sure I should say.”

  “I’m tired of secrets, aren’t you?”

  Polly sighed. “The marriage was somewhat rushed, because Maeve was pregnant. There were some doubts as to whom the father was. But when it came to Maeve, there were always doubts. I’m not sure if your father was aware or not. He didn’t mix much with the islanders, perhaps because he was reserved. A couple of weeks before the wedding, Maeve had a miscarriage. Maire was there. Your grandmother was off-island. Not many people knew what was going on—Maeve wasn’t showing enough to give anything away—and those who did thought they might not get married after all, since it happened before the ceremony.”

  “Including Maire?” Alison asked.

  “Yes. Her and Maeve’s relationship became more strained after that, each sister blaming the other. There was nothing that could have been done. But the incident called up other things that had come between them—that they’d allowed to come between them. The suspicions, the accusations of entrapment, among the worst of it.”

  “Did my mother truly take my father away from Maire?” Nora asked.

  “He was never hers to have. Maeve and Patrick belonged together. Or at least he thought so.”

  A couple of flannel-clad fishermen entered Sloane’s and sat down at the counter. “Surprised to hear you put out to sea again so quickly, after the boat went down,” said one with a gaff-hook scar on his cheek.

  “Couldn’t stay away—and there’s child support to pay,” said the other, his skin ruddy and freckled, curly red hair springing out from beneath a grease-stained hat. He must have worked in the engine room.

  “Odd how it happened,” his friend mused. “I never thought anything could sink the Owen Kavanagh.”

  Nora and the women exchanged surprised glances. “Excuse me,” Nora said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but the Owen Kavanagh is a boat?”

  “Yes. Or was.”

  “Was it named after the owner?” Polly asked.

  “The owner’s grandfather.”

  “Was anyone missing?” Nora asked.

  “All hands were accounted for, thank God. Went down in that gale a few weeks back. We were doing fine until we hauled up a seal in the net. Don’t know how he got in there. Sneaky bastard, one of the biggest I’ve ever seen. After the fish, I suppose. Fought so hard he pulled the boat to starboard. We tried to cut the net, but it kept swinging wide. Then all it took was a wave to send us over. Why do you ask?”

  “Just glad to hear you’re okay,” Nora said.

  “Us too!” He raised a glass. “Here’s to clear sailing.”

  Nora turned to Polly and Alison. “A strange coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “Strange indeed,” they agreed.

  Now that Owen was gone, Nora supposed she would never have the opportunity to ask him why he’d taken the name of a downed boat, or if it were truly his own.

  Maggie Scanlon stood across the street, staring at Nora, as the group exited Sloane’s. She waited for a car to pass, then headed toward them.

  “Mom, it’s that lady again,” Annie said with alarm.

  Polly seemed to make a quick assessment of the scene and directed the girls into the bakery next door. “How about a treat for the road?” she asked.

  “Mom, are you coming?” Ella asked.

  “In a minute.”

  “Let me handle this,” Alison said, stepping between Nora and her grandmother.

  “No,” Nora said. “It’s all right.”

  “If you’re sure—” Alison moved to the side, but remained poised to intervene, if necessary.

  “Why are you still here?” Maggie asked Nora. She wore the same clothes as the day Nora had first seen her. Her pants were held up with a safety pin, the fabric covered in stains.

  “I live here,” Nora reminded her.

  “It’s all your fault.” Maggie rocked on her heels, chin to her chest. Her hair hung in greasy strands.

  “What is?”

  “He was only a boy.”

  “Who?”

  Maggie’s words came out in a rush. “One among many to you, maybe. Nial. He was my date to the dance. You already had Rory Gleason but one wasn’t enough for you, was it? You had to have every boy in the room. Me standing there, like a fool. No one to dance with. No one to talk to. You had all the flowers. You had all the men, even the chaperones couldn’t take their eyes off you. No one could. You went out to the rocks, to drink and carry on. You promising kisses to anyone who could catch you. Into the water you waded, in your dress, them after you. ‘The water’s fine,’ you said. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t. Nial went out too far. It was too cold. You knew he wasn’t a strong swimmer—no one could swim like you. There were so many boys in the water—you were the only girl—that no one noticed he was gone, not until the next morning, after the sun had risen and they’d sobered up. He washed up later on the beach, his skin blue as the sea.” She began to sob. “You didn’t come to the service. You didn’t even care.”

  “I don’t know what she’s talking about,” Alison told Nora quietly as Maggie stared into the distance, continuing to rock back and forth. “It’s the dementia at work again.”

  Nora nodded. They’d never know the truth, not for certain. Her mother wasn’t there to ask.

  “Come on then, Gran.” Alison put a hand on Nora’s shoulder, before she took Maggie’s arm. “It’s time to go home.”

  That evening, Nora met Polly at Cliff House to go through the closets. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they contained a skeleton or two, after this afternoon.”

  Polly shook her head. “Maggie mixed it up. Nial tried swimming to the outer rocks on a dare. He didn’t make it. Maeve wasn’t there. She didn’t have anything to do with his death.”

  “But Maggie thinks she did. That my mother took him from her. Was she really that manipulative?”

  “She didn’t mean to be. She had that effect on people, is all.”

  They sorted through Maire’s things—the practical wardrobe of jeans and shirts, only a skirt or two for church; the shoes on the rack flat-soled, one pair of heels, dating to the 1980s.

&n
bsp; Polly went through the drawers of the wooden jewelry box on the vanity. “I gave this to her for her tenth birthday.” She pulled out a charm bracelet. “I can’t believe she kept it.”

  “You should have it,” Nora said. “And anything else you want.”

  “Things won’t bring her back, but I might wear it, to remember her.” She fastened it on her wrist with Nora’s help, wiping away a tear.

  Polly removed another box from a vanity drawer.

  “This must have been Maeve’s,” Polly said.

  There was a slip of paper inside. “For Nora,” written in Maire’s hand. She’d labeled everything throughout the house. For Polly. For Ella. For Annie.

  “She knew something was wrong, didn’t she?” Nora asked.

  “She must have.” Polly handed Nora the box.

  A necklace with a single pearl. “Your father gave that to Maeve for their first anniversary, I think,” Polly said. “They came into town for dinner to celebrate. I was bussing tables at the time.”

  A malachite ring. “From your grandfather’s family,” Polly said.

  A dried corsage.

  “From the dance?” Nora asked.

  “A dance.”

  And Nora had an idea.

  After Polly left, Nora sat there in the living room, cradling the corsage in her lap, the rose brown, no hint of pink in the petals, the corsage Maggie thought she should have had. Dust motes drifted in the air. A lace curtain overlooking the water stirred listlessly, perhaps an invisible guest admiring the view. It was as if the house were stuck in time. The clock had stopped. No need to wind it now. She was inclined to leave everything as it was, a museum to what had been. She couldn’t bring herself to consider the logistics of selling or rearranging, dividing up possessions and property. And yet she knew the time was coming when such decisions would have to be made. To stay, to leave. To prolong the separation or set the divorce proceedings in motion. Search for Owen or let him go. Perhaps it was too late for that. She suspected it was.

  The answering machine clicked on. A male voice—Jamie’s, probably; Maire had apparently never changed it—announced, “We’re not here right now. Please leave a message after the tone, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”

  The cassette hissed, mimicking the insistent noise of the wind pushing leaves and sand across the deck. Nora didn’t pick up the receiver. No one would be calling her, not there. The tape continued to spool. Why didn’t someone speak? Were they imagining Maire’s musical greeting, “Halloo”? Missing the sound of her voice, as Nora did?

  She got up. Maybe she should answer. Maybe someone hadn’t heard the news—

  As she drew closer, she saw the cord dangling loose. It wasn’t plugged into the wall. It hung in the air, disconnected. The tape advanced until there was nothing left. Then it clicked, rewound, and started again. There must have been a battery inside, a backup that was malfunctioning—

  Her heart pounded. It was the only sound she heard, that and the tape, making that noise. “What are you trying to tell me?” she asked, her voice ringing in the room, the living room, in which she was the only living thing, little ironies everywhere.

  The shadows lengthened as the sun flared, low in the sky. Night would be coming soon. A chill crept down her spine. She didn’t want to be at Cliff House when darkness fell.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The following day Nora headed toward Portakinney, on the coast road that wound along the cliffs. They were steeper here than at Cliff House, a guardrail the only protection against a plunge onto rocks below. A dirty-winged gull flew directly in front of the windshield, startling her with its agitated wing beats and cries. She was nervous about what lay ahead as it was, but she’d already made the call and said she was coming. She couldn’t turn back now. She could put this one thing right—or try to.

  She’d spoken to Alison’s father, Liam Scanlon, the night before, asked if she could visit Maggie, and why.

  “You don’t have to do that,” he’d assured her. “I’m sorry she’s been bothering you. She was never like this before.”

  “It’s the least I can do. Maybe it will help put her mind at rest.”

  “It’s not your problem. Whatever it was, is in the past.”

  “For her, it doesn’t seem to be.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” he agreed, a weariness in his voice. “It’s funny the things she fixates on. The other day she got worked up about the rain. The rain—it’s not as if there’s anything that can be done about that. She thought it was attacking her. I don’t know how much longer we can care for her here, but I can’t bear to send her away. She’s my mother, after all.”

  “I can’t imagine what it must be like for you.”

  “I wish we couldn’t, either. But life doesn’t always present us with the easiest path, her especially, poor woman.”

  No, Nora thought, it didn’t.

  He gave her directions: “Go a half mile north of the village, take the third right, inland. Look for a cottage at the top of the hill, behind the wooden gate.”

  Nora stopped for a cup of coffee at Joe to Go—even the island had an espresso stand—not so much for a caffeine fix but because she was procrastinating. She stole a look at her face in the rearview mirror, wiping a stray flake of mascara from beneath her eye. She glanced at her watch. She didn’t want to be too early.

  She sat there for a moment in her parking space, watching the world of Portakinney, such as it was, pass by. Cis McClure gave her a nod as he muscled a cask through the front door of the bar. Dec Connelly ambled past, looking right at her. She froze as their eyes met. But he didn’t appear to recognize her. He was just a kid, really, early twenties at most. She could see that now, in the light of day.

  She took one last sip of coffee before setting out, leaving the town behind. Close-set dwellings gave way to rolling fields and headlands, a flock of sheep or the occasional cow ambling over the grass. Ten minutes later she passed a stocky brown horse, which regarded her with a woeful expression as it nibbled at the oats in its paddock, then a pile of broken glass by the side of the road, where someone must have either thrown a bottle or crashed into the low retaining wall that ran along the length of the property.

  She took the appointed turn, the butterflies in her stomach multiplying. Up the incline she went, through a stand of glowering pines, then onward through more open country, bypassing an oak tree, a tire swing suspended on the lowest bough, the sky visible through the ring. The house stood beyond. She pulled up to the entrance and killed the engine. The house was similar to the cottage at Glass Beach, but larger, the door painted kelly green, echoing the color of the moss growing on the roof. Fishing nets were draped along the fence line of an enclosed garden, where green tomatoes and beans hung on the vine, yellow nasturtiums brightening the scene. A truck was parked to the right, the front bumper mangled where Maggie must have gone headfirst into the ditch, Alison’s Capri alongside. Nora was glad she was there.

  The curtains stirred. Alison waved from the window. She opened the door and came out to greet her. “Welcome to Casa Scanlon.”

  “It’s lovely.” The views of the rugged north coast were stunning.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Alison asked as they walked up the path.

  Nora nodded.

  Liam and his wife, Rita, stepped out onto the porch. He was a bear of a man with scarred fisherman’s hands and graying hair shaved close; his wife, dark-haired and slender. “Come in, come in.” They motioned her inside.

  Rita excused herself to retrieve a tray from the kitchen. Nora sat down on a blue velvet chair that made her think of Maire; Alison and Liam on a gray couch with lace panels draped over the arms, opposite. An oil painting of the dockyards was displayed over the mantel.

  “Ma made that,” Liam said. “Maybe that’s where our Ali gets her artistic ability.”

  “Does your mother still paint?” Nora asked.

  He shook his head. “She ends up frustrated—pun
ched her fist through the canvas of a landscape we tried to get her to work on. ‘That’s what I see,’ she said. ‘That’s what I see!’ ”

  “Or there was that time she painted herself,” Alison said.

  “Don’t remind me. Red paint. I thought she was bleeding to death.” He shook his head. “Her cackling away like a creature in a horror film. At least she had a sense of humor that day.”

  Rita brought out a tray with a pot of tea, cups, and biscuits. “Would you like something to drink?”

  Nora nodded, casting a glance around the room as she took a sip from the cup, burning her tongue. Maggie was nowhere in sight.

  “I’m glad to have the chance to meet you,” Liam said. “Normally, I’d be off fishing with the boys if I hadn’t hurt my back last week.”

  “I’m glad too.”

  “Ali has talked so much about you,” Rita said.

  “Good things, I hope.” Nora smiled.

  “The very best. We don’t get many visitors here, not like some of the other islands.”

  There was an awkward pause, during which Nora heard coughing from behind a door at the end of the hallway off the main room. “Maybe I should see her, before I lose my nerve.”

  “Of course,” Liam said.

  “I hope I don’t upset her.”

  She noticed the shadows under his eyes, registering to some small degree the toll the illness was taking on the family.

  Alison led the way. “She’s been quiet today. That’s a good sign.” She pushed open the door.

  Maggie sat in a chair by the window, staring at the distant ocean. The sky was bleached the palest shade of blue.

  “She can sit like that for hours, sometimes,” Alison whispered. “She doesn’t move at all.”

  The walls of Maggie’s room were a warm white, the faded quilt patched together from swatches of green florals and ginghams. Two throw pillows, embroidered with sprays of roses, lay on the bed, a well-loved, mildewed white rabbit, missing an eye, perhaps from Maggie’s childhood, in the center. There were photos on a bulletin board, fastened with tape rather than pins, Nora supposed, to lessen the chance of Maggie hurting herself. The picture frames on the light pine desk—of Maggie and her husband, her children when they were young, her grandchildren—had no glass. It was a simple yet warm room, timeless in its way; the room of a child or an old woman, depending upon the day.