The Cottage at Glass Beach (17 page)

The local priest, Father Ray, tapped her shoulder. Nora had seen—or rather heard—him tearing around the island on his motorcycle, though she'd never actually met him. She felt some embarrassment over having not been to mass (Maire asked if she'd like to join her those first weeks, but then let her be), but clearly he wasn't the sort who went in for guilt trips. “Joining the congregation tonight, are we?” he asked.

“They don't look very holy,” she said with a smile.

“This is their second church. Some worship here more regularly than others.” He wore a collar and blacks, which made him stand out in the crowd. His stocky build hinted at a youth spent on the football field.

“They do seem devoted.”

“It is a sort of religion.”

“Maybe you should talk to the Vatican about introducing a communion ale.”

“There's a thought.” He laughed. “Might like that better myself. They send the most awful wine.” He paused. “You're Maire's niece, aren't you? I can see the family resemblance. How are you getting on?”

She took a sip of ale, considering. She decided to go with the simple answer. “Well enough.”

“I hear you're quite the swimmer.”

She wondered what else he'd heard. “I like the ocean.”

“It's special here, isn't it? A unique convergence of currents, they say.”

“Yes. And you?”

“I'm better on land. I tend to get seasick. Don't tell anyone. I don't want to ruin my credibility.”

“Your secret's safe with me.”

He paused for a moment, as if she might be compelled to share a confidence.

One of the men called to him from across the room.

“Someone needing to confess?” Nora asked.

“Or, hopefully, wanting to buy me a drink.” Father Ray winked. “Well, I'm off to minister to the flock. Drop by St. Mary's for a visit anytime. The door is always open.”

Alison breezed past with an empty tray. Nora had forgotten she waitressed there.

“Busy girl,” Nora said. She considered mentioning the disturbing letter, but then thought the better of it.

“Keeps me out of trouble.” Alison balanced the order with ease. “And pads the bank account. My travel fund.”

“Any thoughts about where you'll go?”

“A vacation someplace hot and sunny—Thailand, Brazil.”

“I might have to join you,” Nora said. “Have you seen Polly? She was supposed to meet me.”

Alison shook her head. “Not yet. Maybe the van broke down again. She doesn't have much luck with cars. Or she stopped to chat too long. The woman's a talker, if you haven't noticed.”

She was indeed.

“But here's her father, Gerry.” Alison nodded to the red-faced man who'd taken the seat beside Nora. He appeared to have had a good start on the evening, judging by the shine in his eyes. “The next best thing.”

“Next best thing, am I?” He grinned. “I'll do better than that.” He must have been in his eighties. He was spry, a touch of arthritis, perhaps, giving him the jerky movements of a marionette. Before Nora knew what was happening, he'd hopped off his stool and taken her by the elbow, jigging her through the crowd near the door. The pubgoers parted to let them through, some laughing and clapping indulgently, others scarcely registering them. Nora sensed Gerry made a regular habit of such displays. “Good for the heart,” he said, as he deposited her in her seat, with a gentlemanly tip of his cap. “Thank you for the dance.”

“You're welcome.” He was quite the character.

He leaned closer. “I'm looking to get laid tonight.” He wasn't necessarily propositioning her, merely announcing his general intentions, in an almost wistful fashion.

“Happy fishing.” She took a demure sip of her ale, suppressing a laugh. She imagined he'd never say such things when sober. She wouldn't drink much that night herself. She needed to have a clear head, the roads and the people of Burke's Island being challenging, at times, to navigate.

Gerry skipped off for a solo and returned a short time later, leaning on the bar for support. “Out of breath, I am.” He panted. “Gone are the days when I could close the place down.”

“It's the dancing.”

“And the age. More's the pity.” He paused.

“You don't look a day over—”

“A hundred?” He cackled. “Soon to be. Ninety-five, this last January.”

“That can't be.”

“Oh, but it is. How the time does pass. I was in the world war. The first one. Saw a lot of action, especially in France.” He gave her a playful jab in the ribs.

“You're quite the flirt, aren't you?”

“Don't tell my wife.”

“Is she here too?”

“Lord, no. She's up at St. Mary's.”

“Praying?”

“In the cemetery, God rest her soul.”

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize—”

“Years ago, it was. Still miss her.” His gaze clouded, before he fixed on her face again. “You remind me of someone.”

“I have one of those faces.”

He snapped his fingers, after a couple of unsuccessful goes. “That McGann girl. A fine one, she was. Maeve.”

“My mother.”

“That explains it. Sure. You're the child, all grown up. The spitting image.”

“So I hear. Did you know her?”

“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.”

N
ora 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 regard 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.