by Dan Poblocki
For Daniel, who helps me weather the storms
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
OCEAN OF GLASS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
RIPPLES
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
WAVES
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WHITECAPS
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE SQUALL
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
THE SURGE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE FLOOD
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
CHAPTER EIGHTY
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN
CRYSTAL SKIES
CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE
CHAPTER NINETY
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
THE FERRY DEPARTED from Haggspoint Harbor into the still waters of the bay early Friday morning, two days before the wedding. A group of nine travelers huddled at the bow of the boat, wrapped in layers of cardigans and shawls and cotton scarves, clutching the iron railing as a salty breeze tousled their hair. Their luggage was piled on several wide wooden benches behind them. They sipped steaming cups of coffee, tea, and hot chocolate, though the fresh air was more bracing than the caffeine.
Despite the chill in the September air and the ocean spray that dampened their skin, it was a beautiful morning. The forecast had called for sunny skies — a perfect weekend for a wedding — so no one on the boat had any notion of the storm that would rise up later that evening. The ferry glided smoothly past the jagged rocks of the coastline. Tall pine trees stretched up from the land, packed tightly together. A bald eagle screeched. Several in the group oohed and aahed in surprise, pointing toward the bird’s nest perched atop a tall barren trunk, unaware that by the next morning, the nest would be gone, taken out by the torrential rains and the gusts of wind that would also impede electricity, communication, and travel between the mainland and the many islands off the coast.
Behind the wheel, up on the bridge, the ferry captain stared into the peach haze of sunrise, setting a southeasterly course, steering as best as he could around the hundreds of lobster buoys that speckled the surface of the bay like colorful pieces of candy. The captain was a grizzled-looking but jovial man. His one crew member, his eighteen-year-old grandson, was hiding in the cabin below, reading a comic book, waiting to dock at the next wharf. The Sea Witch wasn’t nearly as large as the ferries that delivered mail and sundries to the islands closest to the coast, but it was a good size for a private party like this one. Those other ships never journeyed out to the farther islands, especially islands with a single, extravagant home like the one on Stone’s Throw Island, where he was now headed, completely unaware that the Sea Witch would be gone tomorrow, wrecked on a shoal off Haggspoint. If he’d suspected that a third of his current passengers would never set foot on the mainland again, he’d have turned the boat around immediately.
The wedding planner, a bubbly and bubble-shaped woman named Margo Lintel, had arranged this ride, as well as several more throughout the weekend. Margo stepped away from the small crowd and sat perched on the edge of a bench, disguising her clenched anxiety behind her businesslike face. She scanned her notebook, checking off completed tasks and writing down new ones. So far everything was going perfectly, but there was still a lot to do. She would not function half as well if not for her assistant — a young, bearded, and bespectacled man with narrow shoulders and a prominent gut — Gregory Elliott.
“The caterers confirmed the live lobster delivery for Sunday morning,” Gregory whispered in Margo’s ear while glancing at his cell phone. “Gagnon said he’d help me arrange the fire pit, and the seaweed planks tomorrow night. Everything according to plan. And the forecast is still clear.”
“Good. Great.” Margo nodded, jotting his words in her notebook. “Thank you, Gregory. Make sure everyone is comfortable, yes?”
Gregory smiled and headed back toward the group.
Margo flipped through a few pages searching for the guest list, glancing up at the company at the bow, trying to place names with faces. There was nothing more embarrassing than calling the groom’s mother by the name of the bride. Soon, she found what she was looking for:
The Sandovals
Bruno, the groom
Vivian, his mother
Josie, his little sister
Carlos, his father (arriving Saturday with the grandmother)
The Barkers
Aimee, the bride
Otis, her father
Cynthia, her mother
Elias (Eli), her little brother
The youngest two stood on opposite sides of the group, both staring into the distance. Josie and Eli. According to her notes, they were both starting seventh grade next week, in different schools, in different cities. They’d only just met on the wharf back at Haggspoint, and here they were already pretending that the other did not exist. Margo made a mental note to nudge the kids together once they reached the island. It was her job to make sure everyone had fun this weekend, no
t just the bride and groom.
She had no clue how quickly the coming storm would drag this idea away in a whirlpool of terror, spiraling it down into the depths of her memory, soon to be forgotten entirely.
FORTY MINUTES LATER, much of the morning mist had burned away. The ferry had passed the last of the lobster-trap buoys a mile back. The water reflected the sky’s hazy blue so seamlessly that the horizon was nearly invisible until a dark patch emerged in the distance.
The island.
“Ooh, look!” said Aimee, the bride.
“Is that it?” asked Bruno, the groom.
Their families, who had earlier dispersed to the benches to chat and rest, rushed back to the bow’s railing.
“That is the place,” said Margo, following them. “Lovely, no?”
“It’s perfect,” said Aimee. “Oh, this is so wonderful!” To Margo’s surprise, the young woman turned and hugged her so tightly Margo almost yelped.
“Looks the same as any other island up here,” said Eli quietly, as if to himself. Josie, the groom’s little sister, glanced at him quizzically, then released a small chuckle. He squinted at her, as if worried that she were secretly judging him, or maybe making fun. But she had already turned her back, not giving him a chance to figure her out. His face turned red.
“But it’s not like any other island,” said Gregory, Margo’s assistant. “The house’s size alone makes it unique. Look. You can just see it now.”
As the ferry got closer, Margo felt her heart flutter. Wooden pilings rose out of low-tide water, making the wharf appear taller than it had in Gregory’s photographs. Along the shore, sharp boulders created a wall-like periphery. There was no beach out here, only a fifteen-foot drop from the land to rocks that collected greenish tidal pools below. From the wharf, a gravel path stretched up a long grassy expanse toward the stone building at the top of the steep incline. The house was more beautiful than she’d hoped. It looked like something out of a Jane Austen novel — that or one of the famous “cottages” in Newport, Rhode Island, the majestic summer homes that weren’t cottages at all but modern castles built by the richest families of the northeastern United States during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.
Margo had read that the current owner had outfitted the building with modern amenities. An oil drum provided heat and hot water. An underwater cable ran to the mainland for electricity. She imagined that the party would be perfectly comfortable, if not indulged.
Gregory’s original description of the house as a two-story rectangular box was accurate, but it also seemed epically unfair to the grandeur of its Greek Revival embellishments. Or, Margo wondered, was the style Italianate? She’d encountered a few similar examples up and down the coast of Maine — beautiful, white, dressed with curlicues of stone, like the frosting on a wedding cake. Enormous lead-paned windows, half-moons at their tops, ran symmetrically along the first floor. Six to the left side of the front door. Six to the right. Smaller square windows decorated the top floor. Below, Ionic columns supported a heavy stone overhang at the main entrance. From there, wide stone steps led down to a marble trail that wrapped around a fountain where an oxidized copper fox and hawk were frozen in a desperate clash for survival.
At the bottom of the hill, a smaller, two-story structure stood beside the wharf — a boathouse or an extremely large shed — covered in weathered gray clapboard and trimmed with white. It was more traditionally New England than the mansion up the hill. This must have been where the extra guest accommodations that Margo had arranged were located.
Lovely view, thought Margo, wishing that she could take one of the rooms out there for herself. All this water!
The caretakers’ team had done a magnificent job of keeping the grounds in shape. The grass was trim. The gardens bloomed with late-summer flowers — an explosion of orange and pink and purple. Margo made out several men clustered together on the immense lawn, dressed in dark uniforms, standing still, watching as the boat approached the wharf. She waved at them, certain that they could see her, but none of them waved back. They only continued to stare, unmoving. For a moment, she wondered if the figures were actually statues. Margo felt a chill breach her insulated jacket and tickle her skin.
The captain blew the horn, a resounding call that echoed off the water in all directions. The party floundered momentarily, falling away from one another in surprise, as if a bomb had gone off. But Margo raised a hand and spoke up, and they paid attention, glad to have a leader. “Gather your belongings! We disembark shortly!”
A few minutes later, the captain’s grandson and first mate, Rick, had secured two sturdy ropes to the dock’s moorings and pulled the boat snugly against the platform. He pushed the metal footbridge away from the boat deck and opened the inner gate. The excited party shuttled off the ferry and climbed up onto the wharf.
Before they followed the crowd, Margo and Gregory met with the captain to double-check contact information. “You’ll not get any cell service out here,” said the captain, whose name was Sonny Thayer, “and you probably already know that the house has a two-way radio for emergencies. I don’t expect you’ll need to use it before I return tomorrow morning with the other guests.”
“No, I don’t expect we will,” said Margo.
“Enjoy the day. Supposed to be beautiful. Wish I could stay.”
“We do too,” said Gregory. “Thanks for everything, Sonny.”
Margo kissed Rick’s cheek and then bounded across the footbridge.
THE PARTY HAD GATHERED where the dock met the island’s gravel path. A white golf cart was parked there, and a diminutive man was loading luggage onto a platform at the rear of the vehicle. “Might have to make a couple trips,” Margo heard the man say. His voice was high-pitched, as if trapped in his bulbous nose. “Unless you folks don’t mind walking,” he added.
A small metal dinghy bobbed in the water near the rocks. Its little outboard motor was tilted up out of the surf. Margo figured it belonged to the caretakers, in case they needed to leave the island, though she couldn’t imagine making the crossing in a boat that looked like an oversize bathtub.
“Walking is good for the lungs,” said Vivian Sandoval, the groom’s mother. “And the air out here is magnificent. C’mon, Josie. It’s not far.” Her daughter smiled reluctantly and lifted a duffel bag from the ground.
“Eli will join you,” said Otis Barker, the bride’s father. “Won’t you, Eli?”
“But I wanted to ride on the cart with Aimee,” said Eli, sounding hurt.
His mother, Cynthia, rubbed his shoulder. “Give Aimee some space. Go on. Get to know your new sister, okay?”
“Technically, she’s not my —”
The bride sidled up next to him and stared him down. “Grow up, Eli,” Aimee answered through her teeth, her voice a sing-songy threat.
Eli blinked, shooting a glance at Josie and her mother, and then retrieved his suitcase from the back of the golf cart.
“Mr. Gagnon!” Margo called out with extra cheer. The little man stood on the footrail of the golf cart to see who was bellowing his name, then hopped off and pushed through the group, sticking out his hand at her.
“You must be the wedding planner. Mrs. Lintel?”
“Margo.”
“Call me Charlie.” He turned to the rest of the party and introduced himself as one of the caretakers. “My wife and I are so happy that you chose Stone’s Throw Island.”
Aimee and Bruno clasped each other’s waists and grinned. “So are we,” they answered. Otis raised a small camera and snapped their picture. The top of Aimee’s head, a wild mop of red curls, just barely met the height of Bruno’s broad shoulders. His own dark features stood in stark contrast to her paleness. They were an attractive couple.
Margo leaned close to Charlie. “I was hoping we may have some time this morning to go over a few things.”
“Of course. Of course. Time is all we have out here.”
“Splendid. Your men have done a
wonderful job on the property. It looks like something out of a fairy tale. The blossoms. The lawn. The fountain! My goodness!”
“My men?”
“Your crew,” Margo said, glancing up the hill where she’d seen the men standing, watching as the boat had approached. They were gone now. “They must have been working around the clock. I saw three or four of them from the ferry. Will they be staying in the house as well?” Charlie Gagnon turned and looked into her eyes. When Margo’d first seen him, she would have guessed he was in his midsixties. Now, confusion weighed down the papery skin of his face, giving him the appearance of a man ten years older. “What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
He shook his head. “Beatrice and I have no crew. We’re the caretakers. No one else has been on the island today until you all showed up just now.”
“But the men …” Margo gazed up the hill again. The space the men had occupied contained a shadowy residue, which she blinked away. She was certain she’d seen figures watching her.
Now, it seemed as though only the house on the hill was looking back. Those windows with the half-moon tops were like several pairs of surprised eyes.
“No men,” Charlie said, shaking his head sharply. “No crew. Only me and my wife.”
Margo felt something gurgle in her stomach. From somewhere in the distance, there came a low rumble. Was that thunder? She pulled her gaze away from the house and glanced out at the horizon. The ocean was a crystal mirror reflecting the endless blue sky. Not a cloud in sight.
Sonny’s ferry had already motored several hundred feet away from the wharf, turned now toward Haggspoint. Margo fought the sudden urge to run to the end of the dock and shout for him to come back. Instead, she shook out her arms and legs, and took a deep breath.
“Well then,” she said to Charlie, keeping her face as placid as the gulf water, “I am impressed.”
ELI’S STOMACH HAD felt fine during the boat trip, but now that he was back on land, he was struck with an annoying queasiness. He wasn’t sure if the strange sensation had been caused by the ride or by his sister’s outburst. Grow up, Eli! she’d said to him — in front of everyone!
Dragging his suitcase up the hill, Eli realized that the nauseated feeling was transforming. His cheeks flushed. His heart pounded. In his mind, he couldn’t stop replaying memories of when he and Aimee had been younger, playing hours of Bomberman on their old Xbox, before she became obsessed with boys and motorcycles and her sorority and finally Bruno, after which it was apparent Eli wasn’t worth her time anymore. Except to scream at.
