The Cottage at Glass Beach (16 page)

“You have a missed call,” she said.

“You didn't have to answer it.”

“A message.” She thrust the device at him. She was aware of the girls inside the house, making the drinks, juicing the lemons, adding water, pouring in sugar, making everything sweet. The day, and all that lay between them, fragile as glass.

“I can explain.”

She stared at him. She felt tightly coiled as a spring.

“Nora—”

“Remember, I'm your wife, not one of your constituents.”

“That's not fair. This isn't what I want.”

“What isn't?” Her words rat-tatted in the quiet afternoon.

“A divorce.”

“But she thinks you do.”

“I didn't say—”

“Didn't you?”

“She has her own situation to work out.”

So that's what marriages were. Situations—the Situation Room taking on a whole new meaning. “Sounds like a fine start to a relationship, one built on mutual destruction and deceit. I'm glad you two have so much in common.” She paused, the words leaving a bitter aftertaste.

“I'm hurting too.”

“My heart bleeds for you.”

“Don't raise your voice.”

“I'm not raising my voice.” How dare he tell her what to do? How to feel? She wanted to scream at him.

“You are. They might hear you.”

The girls, their mutual trump card. The one they tried not to use.

Maybe she was talking too loudly. Though it was more her tone than anything else that probably got to him. He wasn't used to her speaking to him that way—sharp, biting, judging, no hint of affection, not even a glimmer. She'd been indulgent of him, loved him, for so many years.

“Why did you come here?” She dropped her voice lower. “Why did you, really?”

“I just wanted to see—” He faltered. He never faltered, but he did now.

“What you're missing?”

He looked at the ground, unable to meet her gaze.

“And is it enough, Malcolm?” Enough to make him stay? And if it was, did she care enough, trust enough, to let him?

He stroked the keys of his phone, absently, his fingers perhaps itching to dial the number he knew by heart. He caught her staring at his hand and froze, too late. He'd given himself away. She knew it wasn't calculated. For all his faults—and hers, she wasn't perfect either, she knew that—he wasn't manipulative. Defensive, exasperating, deflective, deceptive, yes; manipulative, no. He was, simply and finally, himself, perhaps ultimately unable to change for her, or she for him. “And what about what I want? Have you thought about that?”

“I thought you wanted to try.”

“I did. But you haven't. You haven't done a damn thing.”

“You don't know that.”

“Don't insult my intelligence,” she said. “Right now, I want you gone. Do you hear me? G-O-N-E.” She shoved him. “You shouldn't have come here in the first place.”

He stood his ground, striking the same pose he did in court, the one that won him case after case. “I don't like being jerked around like this.”

“That's right, Malcolm. You're the victim.”

“What's going to be enough for you?”

They weren't hearing each other, their words ricocheting. “You already know the answer to that.”

He took a different tack. “And what about the girls? You're supposed to protect them.”

“Seriously? Screw you.”

“There's no call for that kind of language.”

“Oh, yes, there certainly is. Protect them? That's exactly what I've been doing. I doubt you can say the same.” She turned her back on him and walked away. She would not let him get the best of her.

The rest of the day passed. They spoke to the girls too brightly, their words so vehemently upbeat they shone. To each other, they said as little as possible, their movements as carefully choreographed as steps in a dance, their lines so well spoken they might have had weeks of rehearsal.

The next morning, she woke to find he'd gone. And while she had expected it, it surprised her too. She felt his absence more keenly than she might have thought. He was still a part of her, whether she liked it or not. She put the spare blankets in the closet, the sheets in the bag, to be transported to Maire's for washing.

Ella's eyes brimmed with tears. “Where is he?”

As if Nora had misplaced him. “He went back to Boston.”

“What?”

“I'm sorry, honey. He was visiting. He couldn't stay.”

“Why?”

“His work—” And the other things she couldn't speak of.

Ella sputtered. “You drove him away, didn't you? What did you say to him? What did you say?”

“El, I'm doing the best I can, for all of us.”

“Your best isn't good enough.”

Annie put her hands over her ears. “Stop shouting! Stop!”

They turned and looked at her.

“He didn't even say good-bye.” Annie cried softly. “He always says good-bye.”

Nora pulled her close. Annie's tears dampened the front of her shirt. Ella ran out the door with a slam.

“El—” Nora called after her.

Malcolm hadn't told the girls he was leaving, to spare them—and more likely, himself—a scene. Nora supposed it was better that way, in the end.

Ella sat below the spruce, gaze fixed on the kite, still high in the tree. She stayed there for some time, as if by the force of her will she could bring the kite down, bring her father back. When she returned to the house at last, exhausted, Nora ran her a warm bath, to wash away the tears.

Over the passing days, the kite faded and tore, a ribboned piece of its tail catching on the roof, where it fluttered, a hapless banner of the days they'd spent as a family, before the wind ripped it free at last, carrying it past the cove, twisting in midair, out to sea.

Chapter Fourteen

T
he girls sat in the beached coracle, the surrounding sand, rocks, and driftwood their sea. The pebbles shone. The tide retreated, leaving behind petticoats of white-laced foam. The shore smelled strongly of seaweed, and their lips had an invisible crust of salt. Their hair broke free of its braided restraints, falling into their faces in tangled strands they kept pushing behind their ears, so that they might contemplate the forbidden ocean, its currents summoning them, its waves promising adventure.

“It's not the same.” Ella threw down the plastic tube she'd been using as a telescope in disgust.

“We can't take the boat out. We promised.” Annie hopped out of the vessel and waded in the shallows—oh, that breath-catching, skin-prickling, delicious cold, like no other—as if that would suffice.

If their father had been there, he would have gone with them. But he was gone.

Ella tromped along the tidal margins, leaving footprints in the wet, slate-colored sand, the heels filling with water, legs splattered with the ocean's damp breath, its gritty muck. “No, we didn't. We didn't promise anything.” She set her lips in a sullen line.

“But she thought we did.” Annie cupped the water, marveling how it went clear when she held it in her hands, divided from the larger body.

“She thought we did—in her mind. It was never spoken of, and therefore, it doesn't count.”

“We'd still be breaking the rules. We'd still be lying, indirectly. She's been sad enough already lately.”

“Sad and mad are two different things.”

“She's both, isn't she? I don't want her to be mad at me.”

“Suit yourself. I don't care if she is, when it comes to me.”

The seals appeared in the cove, observing them from the rocks. “They want us to play,” Annie said. She missed Ronan. She hadn't seen him in days. Did the seals know where he was? They weren't saying. “They like hide-and-seek.”

“I wonder if they'd come closer, if we went out in the coracle,” Ella said.

“Maybe if we sit here, they'll come ashore,” Annie said. “They like the rocks on sunny days. They leave their babies there, while they fish.” It was pupping season. Reilly had warned them to keep their distance.

Ella flopped down on the sand. The clouds moved across the sky in a steady line, a processional, heading south, to Boston—to their father. She pointed her finger at the tip, as if she could catch hold of the plume and ride it all the way home.

Patch barked from the point. Reilly was nearby, casting a line, a slope-shouldered silhouette, eyes fixed on the waves that would not give up their catch easily that day, neither side willing to admit defeat. He must have been staying away, thanks to their mother.

“Let's go.” Ella grabbed Annie's hand and set out to join him.

“But Mama said—”

“She didn't say we couldn't talk to him. There's no harm in talking, is there?”

“No,” she admitted. She'd missed Reilly, Patch too.

As they drew closer, Patch dashed down the path and perched on a slab of granite, woofing a greeting. Reilly patted the space next to him, large enough to accommodate two slender girls under the age of thirteen.

“Where have you been?” Annie asked.

“I might have asked the same of you.”

“Under house arrest,” Ella said.

“And now you're on parole, eh?” Seabirds spiraled above the pinnacles, up into the clouds. “When I was a boy, I used to want to fly like that, above everything. Be able to dive in, catch all the fish in the world, their silver scales turning into coins. Such an imagination I had.”

“Have you caught anything today?” Annie asked. The earth fell away beneath their feet—Reilly's booted, the girls' laced in red and black Converses—dangling above the thrashing surf.

“Not much of consequence. The big fish like deep water. Here, I only hook the little ones. They aren't as tasty. Not enough fat stored in the tissues, you see. I miss being at sea.”

“So do we.”

“Give it time. You'll earn your stripes—and your mother's support.”

The line went taut. So did he. Then it slackened, his body too, before he set his shoulders again. “Patience,” he told himself.

“My mother's always telling me what to do—and not do,” Ella said.

“She's keeping you safe.”

“From what?”

“All that might harm you.”

Ella contemplated the ocean. “Since we're confined to shore,” she said, “would you teach us to navigate?”

“We're already on probation,” Reilly said. “Don't want your mother to have my head. A formidable woman, she is.”

“She just doesn't want us on the water. It doesn't matter if we learn skills on land. You have a compass, don't you?”

“I do. I keep it in my pocket. It was handed down through the family. Something of an island tradition, you could say.”

“Please, show us,” Annie said.

“The points of the compass rose,” he began with a verse his great grandfather had taught him, “hold more wisdom than you suppose. . . .”

P
olly Clennon came by that afternoon, announcing her arrival with a beep of the mail van. Her hair was now deep purple. “Do not, under any circumstances, go to Merry Manes to get your hair colored. I should have known better. Merry is my friend, but she's never been the best with dye, and what with her sight getting worse—she needs to up her eyeglass prescription, if you ask me, but she'd have to go to the mainland for that, and, well, that's a hassle—she can't make out the labels. At least I didn't end up puce, like Maura O'Donnell.”

“You wear it well.” Nora smiled.

“My husband's taken to calling me Violet. Or Aubergine. He's quite the cutup, believe me. Ah, well, it will grow out; it will fade, as things do, given time.” She paused. “Here's your mail.”

Two letters; no legal documents, as Nora supposed. One had no return address. The other was a note from her friend Miriam, probably in the vein of her last. “Please know I'm thinking of you,” she'd written, her effort to find the right words apparent in the brevity of the message, one that sounded like a sympathy card, for that's what it was. Nora was far from the world of 16 Oak Street and the neighbors like Miriam who'd appeared with dinners of lasagna or enchilada casserole in the days after the scandal broke, as if she'd lost the ability to cook, as if someone had died (not someone, though something, yes). Like those who'd peered from behind their Venetian blinds, noting the media trucks with avid curiosity, those who'd hovered by their mailboxes, hoping to be interviewed, taking their turn in the spotlight, to talk about her, Malcolm, the girls, suggesting a deeper acquaintance, a knowledge, than they actually possessed.

On this part of the island, there was only the shell road, with little or no traffic. A road that glowed on clear nights, when the shadows fell between the broken cockles, and the moon lit the nacred edges to brilliance. A road that disappeared into the mist on foggy evenings. A road few others had taken. Nora hadn't been followed, except by the past.

“News from home?” Polly asked as the van idled, the engine rumbling as if clearing its throat. She had the window rolled down, her freckled arm resting on the door. A single mailbag sat on the seat beside her. Aretha Franklin's “Respect” played on an antiquated stereo system, the cassette tape tinny, hissing.

Nora gave a dismissive wave of her hand. The wind snatched at the envelope. “A note from a friend,” she said.

“Will they visit?”

“I hadn't really thought about it.”

“Not much room for guests, is there?”

“No, there isn't.” Nora knew she was fishing for details about Malcolm and what had transpired during his stay.

“Houseguests can be wearing. Not that I mind, myself. I like company,” she paused. “And where might the girls be?”

“Down on the beach. They found a coracle.”

“Maeve's coracle? We could put it in the museum, if you ever get tired of it,” she said, clearly turning over the possibilities in her mind. “Some said your ancestors made a deal with the sea,” she added, “so that they might always travel its waters safely. Didn't work for Maire's husband, poor man. But then, he wasn't a McGann.”

“Or my mother.” Though she was.

“So many stories.” She gave Nora a considering look. “We all have our histories, our mythologies, don't we? The historians think they're being impartial, relying on facts, but even the facts can be mighty unreliable, depending upon who's doing the telling.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know how I go on. They called me Babs, short for Babbling Brook, when I was a girl. My family started it. Nicknames. The perfect thing to call them, eh? A little cut, a little jab, in the saying of them? Not that I minded. Rise above has always been my modus operandi. It's gotten me far enough in life, if not off this island. Anyway, it's the old-timers who might be able to tell you more about Maeve. They—along with a host of others—gather at Cis McClure's on Wednesday nights.”

“My mother seems to stir up strong feelings in people.”

“She was memorable, that's for certain.”

“I've lived most of my life not knowing whether she left or disappeared. I told myself it didn't matter—” The words tumbled out before Nora could stop them.

“But it does. It cuts to the very heart of you, of course it would,” Polly said. “Go into town later. Most everyone should be there, or at least the usual suspects. I'll introduce you.”

“I'd like that.”

“I'm sure Maire will watch the girls. She doesn't go in for that sort of thing, not since Joe died. He was a fiddler, you see. Performed regularly at McClure's. Brings back too many memories for her to even consider setting foot in the place. She still feels the loss keenly. I think there's a part of her that expects he'll come sailing home one evening, from wherever he's been. Some things are too hard to get over, no matter how much time passes.”

They fell quiet and turned toward the ocean, that magician, whose greatest trick, it seemed, was making people disappear.

A
fter Polly left, Nora opened Miriam's letter:

How are you doing? You've been on my mind. Will you really be staying on the island for the summer? It's strange not having you here. The house is so quiet. I have to stop myself from going over and knocking on the door. I keep forgetting you're not there. I miss you—

She should write back. She knew she should, but she didn't know what to say. She'd sat down before, pen poised over paper. The words wouldn't come. She'd try again soon. She'd ask Miriam about her life, rather than speaking of her own. Maybe that would make it easier.

She went inside and turned to the other letter. “McGann,” read the name in labored print. It must have been a mistake—Maire's married name was Flanagan, Nora's Cunningham. The address matched the number for the cottage, not Cliff House. Odd.

She tore open the envelope, nicking her index finger in the process. There was only a scrap of lined yellow paper inside. She pulled it out. “Why are you here?” it read. No signature. The writer appeared to have pressed the pencil so hard into the paper that it punctured it in places.

The girls came into the house, faces flushed, hungry for a snack.

“What's that?” Ella asked. “A letter from Dad?”

“No.” She crumpled it up and threw it in the garbage. “Just junk mail.”

N
ight had fallen by the time Nora drove into town, the stars and occasional streetlamp dotting the velvet darkness with pinpricks of light. Moths fluttered before the headlights, cream-colored, fragile. Hers the only vehicle on the road, making its way to the center of things, Cis McClure's, where people drank and sang and danced their troubles away. The spots outside the bar were taken. She had to park up the street and around the corner, down a deserted alley. Her boots clattered on the cobblestones, conspicuously loud in the quiet. Even at that distance, she felt the throb of the music, as if it came from the earth itself. She passed Scanlon's, closed now after hours, the bakery, the shoe repair, no sign of life within, the windows dark.

The entire population of the island, or close to it, seemed to have crammed into the pub that night. Every seat taken, every space to stand occupied. Girls in short skirts and low-cut tops, chests pale, freckled, young men in knit hats and flannel shirts, hair black or blazing red, the old men in tweeds and patch-elbowed jackets, either hanging off shoulders or straining across bellies. Nora stood on tiptoe, hoping to spot Polly Clennon, but the loquacious postmistress was nowhere in sight. The drone of voices filled the space, a hive of gossip, conviviality, and intrigue. Patrons sat, head-to-head, in tense or jocular debate; others clustered around tables, chiming in. Some danced. Some sang, to themselves or in small groups. A band tuned up in the corner, preparing to play.

A seat opened at the bar, and she took it. The stool was wooden, offering little comfort. She caught the bartender's eye. Cis himself poured the drinks—Cisco being his full name, she gathered. Broad-shouldered and spade-faced, he was an imposing presence amid the greater chaos around him, the only suggestion of gentleness in his hands as they swiftly, neatly poured the drinks, not spilling a single drop. “New, are you?” he asked.

“As a penny,” she replied.

“Worth a sight more than that, aren't you?” he said. “Though that's what I'll charge you.”

“The going rate?”

“Newcomer's special.”

She ordered the house ale, the foam poised perfectly on the lip of the glass. She would have preferred a glass of white wine, but had the feeling such a request would have been verboten. Cis set the drink in front of her with a nod.