The Cottage at Glass Beach (3 page)

“I'm not that little—and you're not the only one who's smart. I just don't make a big deal out of it like you do.”

Ella smirked. “Score one for you. All right. I'll play, but I get to choose.”

“Fine.” Annie ran ahead.

“Where are you going?”

“I see something. Over there.” She raced toward a pile of driftwood at the base of the bluff. Annie was a fast runner, the fastest in her class, even faster than the boys. The low tide allowed relatively easy passage. “Look at the birds.” She indicated the colonies of puffins nesting in the outer rocks, bright-beaked and comical. “They could be in a cartoon.”

“I wouldn't get too close if I were you,” Ella warned. “You'll get pecked—or swept out to sea.”

“There you go, thinking the worst again.” Annie balanced on a log. “I'm Sir Francis Drake—”

“He killed people, you know.”

“I'm Christopher Columbus—”

“Do you have a multiple personality disorder or something?” Ella leaned against a granite boulder, hoping Annie would tire of playing the great explorer, that something truly interesting would happen. She wasn't holding her breath.

“Ha!” Annie spotted something tucked among the rocks and driftwood. “Behold: a boat!”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

“Don't you see? It's waiting for us.” She pulled aside the piles of twigs and netting that half concealed the find, heedless of the scratches she sustained in the process.

“I doubt that very much. It looks like it's been there a long time, judging from the barnacles on its bow.”

“There's nothing wrong with a few barnacles. Whales have barnacles. I might too, if we stay here long enough, like the sea people.”

“Would you stop talking about the sea people? There's no such thing.”

“That's what you think.” Annie climbed inside. The boat wobbled slightly as she settled her weight. “There. I'm on a voyage. I'm the captain.” She held her chin high. “You're supposed to salute me.”

Ella got in across from her. “You can't be the captain. You're too little. Captains have to be at least twelve.”

“Who made that rule?”

“Article three of the Mariner's Code. Everyone knows that.” Ella thought for a moment. “You can be a cabin boy.”

“I want to be a captain too. And besides, I'm a girl.”

“Even if we decided not to honor the code—risking the prospect of being charged with treason—there can't be two captains. You'll be the first mate.”

“All right,” Annie said grudgingly. “Where are we going?”

“To the end of the earth.” Ella lowered her voice. She relished opportunities to give her little sister a good scare, like the time she'd put on a Halloween mask and hidden in her room in the dark, one of those instances when getting in trouble was well worth the consequences.

Annie wasn't deterred this time. “We should go to Little Burke.” She gestured toward the island. “It could be our great adventure.”

“You're still thinking you're Mr. Columbus, aren't you?”

“That's Sir Columbus to you.”

Ella laughed.

“What's so funny?”

“Thinking of you as sir anything.” Ella gazed across the channel. The water seemed calm enough for the journey, but she knew they weren't ready. “One problem with your idea. No paddles.”

They heard Nora's voice in the distance. “Come on, girls,” she called. “We're going to town.”

“Oh, joy.” Ella alighted from the craft and brushed the sand from the seat of her shorts.

“Didn't you hear? We can get paint—for our room.”

“Big deal. It will smell bad and poison us with toxins and fumes.”

“You're the one who poisons people with fumes.”

“Ha-ha. You're so funny, I forgot to laugh.”

“And paint for the boat.” Annie continued, falling into step beside her. “It doesn't have a name. We can name it anything we want.”

“The
Ella
.”

“We are
not
naming it after you. I was the one who found it.”

The
Endeavor
.

The
Leaky Kon Tiki
.

The
Mermaid
.

The
Sea Maiden
.

They retraced their steps, arguing the whole way, Ella looking back over her shoulder, sensing that someone was watching them from behind an opening in the southern rocks.

Chapter Three

T
his is the main village, Portakinney. You must have passed by on your way in,” Maire said as they headed into town in her brown truck, a rosary hanging from the rearview mirror. The village buildings, mostly stone, occasionally clapboard, huddled together against the elements. Nets were draped across fences, festooned with colorful floats, drying in the sun, and crab pots and rubber boots sat on front steps.

“Portapotty, more like it,” Ella said.

Annie laughed.

“I wasn't being funny.” Ella wore her combat boots that day, ready for battle. They were her preferred footwear, along with a pair of black high-top Converses. Nora had done little to discourage her daughter. There was a part of her that secretly reveled in Ella's challenging the narrow strictures of the dress code at St. Ignatius (St. Iggie's, they called it), where the girls had finished first and sixth grades, respectively.

It had been a bumpy few weeks for Ella. She'd withdrawn from friends, locked herself in her room, iPod earbuds blocking external sound. (She kept the device at the ready on the island too, when she felt the need to tune them out.) The scandal hadn't been quite as hard on Annie. Younger children had a short attention span for such things, if they paid much mind at all, and Annie's generally sunny disposition kept any negativity at bay. Some of Ella's friends, unfortunately, distanced themselves from her with a chill factor bordering on arctic—whether from standard mean-girl behavior, change of interest, or parental example—as many of Nora's acquaintances, even those whom she'd thought close, had done; and Ella's analytical, reserved nature did little to remedy the situation.

“Portapotty,” Maire mused. “Some of the local kids call it that. Teenagers often get restless, wanting to see more of the world, be somewhere else. Small towns get too small for them, islands too.”

Four representatives of the island's teen population slalomed down a side road on skateboards at breakneck speed, not a helmet or kneepad in sight, narrowly missing the front bumper of the truck. Maire tapped the brake calmly, as if she expected them to be there. Nora caught Ella watching them, particularly two boys whose scruffy good looks, knit hats, and flannel shirts wouldn't have been out of place in Boston. She guessed them to be about fifteen years old.

“Saw you look,” Annie said.

“Shut up,” Ella hissed. Before they'd left Boston, she'd taken to spending long sessions in the bathroom, primping in front of the mirror and practicing the muscle isolations required for raising a single eyebrow.

Polly Clennon beeped from her postal van, a bright red boxy affair square as a postage stamp (apparently she handled the deliveries as well), as she roared out of town. “She's a speedy one,” Maire said indulgently. “Never been in an accident though. There's no one more capable behind the wheel. She could have been a race car driver.” Maire offered a running commentary on the other villagers they passed—a fisherman clomping down the road in waders, a duffel bag in hand (“That's Duff Creehan, setting out to crew on one of the trawlers,” she said, tapping the horn in greeting); an elderly woman, her bent back echoing the shape of the pines nearest town (“Meera Dooley—she's nearly ninety-eight now; walks into Portakinney every day”), who offered a wave—and a double take, as she noticed Nora and the girls in the cab. The island didn't receive a great deal of visitors, being far enough off the tourist trail and somewhat deficient in amenities. Counting the latest birth, the population numbered 201, on a piece of land measuring three miles at its longest point.

Maire steered down the steep main street, the truck bouncing. “Doesn't have the smoothest ride,” she apologized, “but it gets us where we need to go. The roads have a lot of character, and it's useful to have the high clearance.” She pulled into an angled parking space near Scanlon's Mercantile. “Here we are.”

The village was quiet except for clangs and shouts at the docks, where fishermen unloaded their catch. Longliners, trawlers, and purse seiners crowded the modest harbor. Their captains and crews, dressed in flannels and T-shirts stained with fish blood, shouted instructions to each other, while petrels, shearwaters, skuas, and terns circled for scraps. No news vans. No cameras. No questions Nora didn't want to answer.

A message board outside Scanlon's bristled with pushpinned announcements and advertisements:

Spare tires for sale—the automotive variety, not the ones around your waist.

Don't miss the Saturday Market. The Docks, Portakinney.

Bodhrán lessons. Reasonable rates.

Irish dancing workshop, the week of June 12. Contact Rena McGlone for details.

A bell jangled as Maire pushed open the door, announcing their arrival. Eighties music played on the sound system, taking Nora back to her youth, when both her hair and her ideas had been big, her face unlined and relatively innocent, her boots and skirts short; not long before she'd met Malcolm in law school and they'd become inseparable. “
Lies, lies, lies, yeah
,” the Thompson Twins sang.

“Do you know this one, Mama?” Annie asked.

Nora nodded. Yes, she did.

A golden retriever sprawled inside the entry. “That's Mortimer,” said Maire, as he thumped his tail. “He's a lazy, friendly fellow, especially if you give him treats or a pat on the head.”

“Sounds like others I know, animal and human,” Nora said with a smile.

“Humans are animals,” Ella pointed out.

Nora stopped just short of rolling her eyes. Ella could be such a know-it-all.

Mortimer licked Ella's hand. She squatted down beside him, his head in her lap within seconds. “Can we get a dog, Mom?”

Nora had seen that coming. “We're only staying the summer, honey.”

“I know. I meant, after we get back to Boston.”

Nora had been avoiding thinking about their eventual return and what exactly it might involve. “We'll see.”

“You always say that,” Annie said.

Nora didn't feel like discussing the matter further. She selected a flat of red geraniums from the rack of plants by the front door.

“Your mother used to grow those in the window boxes at the cottage,” Maire said. “She liked the way they brightened up the place.”

Nora felt a prickling sensation on the nape of her neck. Had she known that?

“No need to bring them in. Just let Alison or Liam know at the counter, and they'll add it to the bill.”

Annie begged for a treat from the candy and toy machines, their prizes encased in plastic capsules, things easily broken and lost, a coin in the slot the price of their release.
Please. Please
.

“This way,” Maire said, her rubber boots, the ubiquitous island footwear, squeaking across the sloped linoleum floor. Nora and the girls picked boots from a display at the end of aisle 1. The navy and forest green footwear had an L.L.Bean appeal at half the price.

The shop sold everything from rope to fishing nets, oilcloth to embroidery thread. Maire directed them to the east wall, where paint samples were displayed. Annie selected cerulean, as promised, Ella dove gray (at least it was a pretty shade; Nora thought she might have gone for something called “scowl,” if such a hue existed), and Nora pale eggshell, with a warm white for the trim. They proceeded to the rear of the store, skirting stacks of crab pots and waders, to have the colors mixed by a pale, monosyllabic young woman—Nora guessed her to be in her early twenties—in black skinny jeans and a holey T-shirt, a snake tattooed around her left wrist. As she flipped through a graphic novel, she blinked at them through a curtain of shaggy dark bangs.

“She looks like a vampire,” Annie whispered.

“Careful. We have extra-sensitive hearing.” There was a flicker of amusement in the girl's gray eyes. “Like bats.”

“She's kidding, right?” Annie asked Ella. She continued to study the girl, her lips moving as she counted the piercings in her ears (six), on the lookout for any sudden diabolical moves.

“I wouldn't count on it,” Ella said.

Nora shushed them. They must have been watching
Dark Shadows
reruns before they left Boston—Ella, in particular, couldn't get enough of them—though Nora had explicitly said not to. Annie was susceptible to nightmares.

“How goes it, Alison?” Maire asked.

The girl shrugged. “The usual. Trying not to die of boredom.” She glanced at Annie. “Oh, I forgot. I'm one of the undead.”

Annie pointed to the bandage on Alison's finger. “You
are
kidding. Vampires don't bleed.”

“You're good.” Alison cracked a smile. “And you picked my favorite color, cerulean. It's worth liking for the sound of its name alone.”

As the mixer shook the cans with a near-deafening rumble, a woman bundled in an oversize army green slicker and fisherman's sweater shuffled through the back door. Her short neck craned forward from the shell of her coat, giving her the appearance of a large, disgruntled tortoise, lips bent into a perfect upside-down U. Her eyes, dull at first, sparked when they locked on Nora. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Nora stammered. “I'm sorry. Do I know you?”

“Maggie, this is my niece,” Maire began.

Maggie ignored her, her attention fixed on Nora. “You have some gall coming here.”

“Mom, what's going on?” Ella asked.

“It's okay, honey—”

“Gran—” Alison attempted to calm Maggie. “I'll take care of the customers. Why don't you—”

“Customers? She's no customer.” Maggie Scanlon stabbed a dirty-nailed finger at Nora. “She's—”

“You must have mistaken me for someone else.” Nora held her ground. “My name is—”

“I know who you are,” Maggie said. “You can't fool me, the sea witch, the whore that you are.” She trembled with rage, spittle flying from her lips.

“Gran!” Alison took Maggie's arm as the older woman headed for Nora. “That's enough!”

“Maggie, please.” Maire stepped between them.

“There's no call for that kind of talk,” Nora said, shielding the girls.

Maggie's voice rose to a shout. “Get out! Get out of my shop!”

“Fine,” Nora said. “We'll take our business elsewhere.” She hustled the girls out the door.

W
hat was the matter with that lady?” Annie asked from the safety of Maire's truck. “Is she going to come out here and yell at us again?” She scrunched down and peered over the lower edge of the rear passenger window.

“No, honey. She was confused, that's all,” Nora said, though she too stole glances at the storefront, wondering if Maggie Scanlon would barrel through the front doors and accost them again.

“I'm sorry,” Maire said. “I wouldn't have suggested going there today if I'd known that was going to happen.”

“It's not your fault,” Nora said.

“I feel responsible. I heard she's been having some issues, but I've never seen her like that before.” She dug through her purse, murmuring something about the frequency with which she seemed to misplace her keys.

“I guess I have that effect on people.” Nora tried, not quite successfully, to keep her tone light. Her hands trembled as she fastened the seat belt.

“I told you we should go home,” Ella said.

“We'll be there in a jiffy,” Maire assured her. “I just need to find my keys. That's what I get for carrying such a big purse. There's more room for things to get lost in. Sometimes I feel as if it's a magician's hat. Polly says that one of these days I'll pull out a rabbit.”

“I meant our real home. Boston,” Ella said.

“We just got here,” Annie protested, “though that lady is kind of scary.”

“Don't let Maggie frighten you off,” Maire said, still rummaging around in her handbag in mounting frustration.

Nora hoped Maire hadn't left the keys in the store. She didn't relish the thought of any of them going back inside.

“I'm not frightened of anything,” Ella said, stubborn as ever. “I just don't like her.”

“She hasn't been herself lately. Please don't judge her—or the island as a whole—by this unfortunate episode. She'll probably have forgotten about it by tomorrow. Her memory comes and goes, short-term, especially. Happens to me sometimes too. A symptom of age, I suppose.” It apparently dawned on her that she'd slipped the keys in her pocket before going into the shop. She selected the proper key and inserted it in the ignition.

“Do you know her well?” Nora asked.

“We islanders all know one another, after a fashion,” Maire said, starting the engine and putting the truck in gear at last. “Too much in one another's business. I wouldn't say the families were close, not since—”

They jumped at a knock on the glass. It was Alison. She motioned for Nora to roll down the window. “You forgot your things.” She handed Nora the bags and retrieved the flat of flowers from the rack outside the shop as the truck idled. “I'm sorry about what happened in there. Da doesn't want Gran in the shop, but she still acts like she runs the place. Don't pay her any mind. It's dementia. She's got good days and bad. Thursdays are probably the best to come in, for future reference. She's at my aunt's, up-island, so she won't bother you then.”

Nora thanked her.

“Come back and see us again,” she said, with a note of dry humor that only made Nora like her more. “It's usually not so dramatic.”

“ 'Bye.” Maire pulled out of the parking space and turned in the direction of the main road.

Alison waved from the sidewalk, growing smaller in the rearview mirror as they headed for home. On the outskirts of town, the close-set cottages and buildings gave way to open fields, dotted with flocks of sheep, goats, cows, and an occasional horse, a tranquil scene at odds with what had happened a short time before.