Sea Glass Summer (2 page)

‘You're right. A phone call wouldn't sufficiently meet my sister's standard of etiquette.' He chuckled. ‘Same old Beth.'

‘But it's hard not to halfway like her. I always feel I should suggest taking her out clubbing.'

‘Softie! Now off with you. Can't keep the movers hanging about on the front step with their arms full of furniture.'

‘Bye, Dad. Love to Mom.'

Sarah clicked off the phone and slipped it in the pocket of her dark blue jeans. There was nothing she could do inside until the movers arrived, but even if there had been she would still not have wanted to waste a moment getting down to the beach.

Opening the French doors she went out onto a flagstone patio containing a number of abandoned plant holders displaying only dried leaves on dead twigs, likely remnants of last year's annuals. There was a path of the same stone leading from the patio. Ignoring the saturated clouds and quivering chill that signaled impending rain, she followed the path's looping progression down the sloping lawn that was bordered on either side by hedges tall enough to provide only a minimal glimpse of the house next door. It was owned, the real estate agent had told her, by a couple from England. Sarah liked that the hedges weren't fiercely clipped. What looked to be elderly fruit trees stood ankle-deep in daffodils, surrounded by outcroppings of granite. It was a garden that seemed to have been allowed a personal say in how it wanted to dress for the various seasons, which somehow made the previous tenant seem suddenly very much present.

According to the ever-knowledgeable realtor she had been a woman named Nan Fielding, who had moved to Sea Glass from New Hampshire ten years previously, after retiring from teaching high school English. Single, inclined to be reclusive and, as was apparent from the tired interior of the house, not one to make above minimum demands on her landlord. He had put the house on the market after her death in late March.

Reaching the wooden steps, Sarah stood with arms at her side, taking in the rocky beach, inhaling the tang of seaweed, absorbing the murmur of the foam-streaked water. Walking alongside its edge was a woman with a small child hopping and skipping a few paces behind her, both wearing zippered jackets. Sarah was pierced by one of those moments of regret, less frequent now, but still painful. She breathed out, letting the damp breeze carry the emotion out to the gently shifting waves with their backdrop of lavender-brown hills.

After two years of marriage she and Harris had started trying for a baby. Six months later, when she failed to become pregnant, she'd gone back to her gynecologist and the round of tests had begun. Another year passed, during which she'd increasingly felt she was going it alone, with Harris off on the sidelines. When she was told in vitro was the next option he refused to consider it, saying he'd come to think having a child wasn't such a great idea. Why disrupt the lifestyle they'd come to enjoy? Three months later he'd phoned her from his office to say he'd made dinner reservations for them at their favorite restaurant. When he ordered champagne she felt a thrill of excitement. He was going to tell her he'd changed his mind. Happiness turned quickly to numbed confusion. He wanted a divorce. He'd fallen in love with Lisa Bentley. She was pregnant and he hoped Sarah would be civilized about the whole thing. Civilized! That part she did grasp. It was why he'd chosen to break the news at a restaurant where the maître d' looked as though he would clutch his chest and gasp for air if a patron burped. No chance of Sarah making a public scene. Or so Harris thought. She had tossed her glass of champagne in his face and walked out. The maître d' had approached her in the foyer with regal tread, to say it would be his privilege to summon a cab for her. Lisa Bentley had been her best friend from high school on, the maid of honor at her wedding, her confidante through all the fertility clinic disappointments.

The woman and child down on the beach disappeared from view. The sky was now so low it had become one with the ocean, but Sarah's spirits lifted as she went down to the beach. She had come to Sea Glass to make a new life for herself and she wasn't going to waste a moment of her first day dwelling on what was over and done. Single women today adopted children all the time – in the case of a friend of hers a little girl from Ethiopia. There were half a dozen red and yellow downturned kayaks along with a dory in front of the sea wall. Sarah had done quite a bit of river kayaking and loved it. She would have to get one. And maybe, in the future, a sailboat. She paused to look at some driftwood before crossing the pebbles, interspaced with the rugged groupings of rock, to stand at the water's edge. The wind-whipped waves came foaming up within inches of her feet. Bending, she gathered up a handful of suitably flat stones and one by one sent them skimming across the water. Her highest number of skips was seven. Tim, the grand champion, had once achieved twelve. But against that, she smiled; she had left him trailing in most of their kayak races.

There were no boats out in the bay, but Sarah's mind filled with the image of an eighteenth-century vessel with billowing sails arriving from Boston with the families who were the original settlers of Sea Glass. On her initial visit she had paid a visit to the historical society museum, two doors down from the realty office, and eagerly soaked up the information provided by the volunteer on duty. Among the settlers was a woman named Martha Cully who had remarked shortly before landing that it was a good omen that the sea was as smooth as glass, hence the naming of the village. She and her husband had been forced to leave Cornwall, England when his smuggling activities threatened to catch up with him. Throughout the coming generations the menfolk had all been seafarers, of the reformed, respectable sort, with the exception of Nathaniel Cully, born 1837, died 1925. Sarah had a fluke memory for dates. It was this man's life-sized bronze statue mounted on a six-foot granite pedestal that took pride of place in the center of the common. His father and brothers had been whalers, adding nicely to the family coffers. The Sea Glass Historical Society was the proud possessor of their remarkably fine collection of scrimshaws, bequeathed by Nathaniel's granddaughter and only descendent, Emily Cully, born 1908, died 2001. The family home, a grim red Victorian across from the common, had been left to a distant cousin of hers in New York. He had subsequently been killed in a plane crash, along with his wife, younger son and daughter-in-law. And the house now stood empty, abandoned to neglect by the remaining son. Only the essential maintenance funded by a provision in the will had prevented the grounds from becoming a wilderness. The volunteer had looked very severe when relaying this fact. No wonder the place was developing a reputation of being haunted. She had brightened when getting back to Nathaniel Cully, speaking as if he were an old friend, recently deceased. The
dear man
had suffered from sea sickness from childhood on; an embarrassing affliction, given his family background. He had found his true calling as the local doctor, delivering babies and taking care of everyone's ills, from croup to broken bones and final hours for nearly fifty years, never letting the worst weather keep him from getting to his patients in his horse and buggy. If that wasn't doable he had walked. Always beloved, he had sealed his place in the hearts of the community at the age of seventy-four. The volunteer had done a great job bringing the narrative to its climax. The statue didn't exaggerate Nathaniel's height, she had proclaimed proudly. He was the proverbial giant of a man and robust well into old age. On an April evening, when no one else appeared on the beach to help, he plowed the family rowboat out to rescue a group of six young people who had decided to go sailing, all lacking sufficient experience to deal with a sudden squall. He had brought them safely to shore despite his seasickness.

Sarah had been captivated by the story; it was there in her mind as she looked out at the scurrying waves – the indomitable old man and the chastened, foolhardy young people crawling out of the boat onto the safety of the beach. She incorporated into the vivid image several gulls crying hoarsely overhead, as some were doing now. Such disgruntled-sounding birds. But for them she'd had the beach to herself. Now two women with dogs, a black and a yellow Labrador, were walking her way. And coming from the other direction was an elderly man with a Cavalier King Charles spaniel. All three people waved on drawing closer and she cheerfully returned the greetings, then watched with pleasure as the Labs bounded, splashing into the water. It was a delight to watch such unbridled joy. The urge for a dog of her own strengthened, but she would have to do the responsible thing and wait until she was organized.

Sarah walked on to her left, detouring around the rocks, all the while searching the ground for a sparkle of color that could be sea glass. She soon found it was easy to be tricked by a pebble, especially a green one, polished to a wet gleam by a higher tide. She rounded the point. Above her now were the backyards of mansion-sized houses built in the era of large families and readily available servants. Her eyes were drawn to the red brick Victorian built by Nathaniel Cully's father. Glimpsed through the shadowing trees, she decided the volunteer at the museum had been right, it did look haunted. A shiver slid down her spine and the thought slipped into place – it was fear standing at first one window then the next. Waiting. Counting down the minutes to some unavoidable crossing of the threshold. Whatever was stirring in that house was roused by the tumult of the present, not the past.

What idiocy! Did she now think all houses spoke to her? Sarah had forgotten for the moment about sea glass, but when her foot slipped on the uneven surface and she looked down, there it was – quite a large piece of opaque aqua, obviously from the base of a bottle. Picking it up, she traced a finger around it. How many months . . . years of being tumbled against sand and stone must it have taken for all sharp edges to be buffed away? Here was her good luck omen, the start of her collection. She was so happy she could have danced back to Bramble Cottage through the now-sprinkling rain.

A glance at her watch told her she should hurry. There was always the possibility the movers would arrive early. Picturing them as her father had described – out front with their arms filled with furniture – she entered the house the way she had left it, by the kitchen's French doors. After placing the piece of sea glass on the window sill above the sink, she crossed the foyer to look out the front door. The scattered drops of a few moments ago had turned into a blowing curtain of rain with a filmy lining of fog, but there would have been no hiding a small car let alone a massive moving truck. She withdrew inside and felt the house settle comfortably around her.

If quick, she could go through the house and reassess her mental image of furniture placement so there would be no dithering when giving instructions to the movers. The foyer's peeling wallpaper with its little pink flowers on silvery-blue stripes looked the more tired in contrast to the refurbished wood floor. She liked the dark stain chosen by the seller, perhaps under the guidance of someone with an updated outlook. ‘Espresso' best described it. On her left was the good-sized living room, to her right a much smaller one. What would she call it? The den, she decided; the study sounded a little too eagerly important. The two rooms were entered through rounded archways, indicative of the nineteen thirties when the house had been built. One of its charming features, as pointed out by the agent, despite both rooms being painted uninspired beige. Each room had a fireplace, surrounded by built-in bookcases. Those shelves looked as though they wouldn't feel happy until lined with Tolstoy, Hawthorn, Dickens and other classics force fed in school; the sort of reading more in line with a woman of Nan Fielding's generation. What sort of person had she been? Renters aren't in general encouraged to leave their imprint. She went between the two rooms, summing them up. The dining end of the living room was designated as such by a dated nineteen seventies chandelier. It, like the kitchen, had French doors to the outside. She had only the two brown leather recliners donated by her parents to put in the den.

Back in the hall she picked up her purse that she had set down on the bottom stair and the raincoat she had tossed over the banister post and took them with her upstairs. The door to the bathroom at the top stood open. It was surprisingly spacious with a charming claw-foot tub, but the tile floor, along with the vanity and fixtures, would need replacing.

Sarah took a quick peek into the narrow space at the far left of the hallway. She'd decided it would work as her home office, as the agent had suggested, if she took the doors off the closet. There was no point in checking out the bedroom next to it because she had nothing yet to put in there. She'd need to purchase a bed and a dresser before any guests came to stay. She was particularly eager for her nieces, Julia and Lauren, ages thirteen and ten, to visit. They were great kids. The next bedroom was not much larger than the proposed guest one. More outdated wallpaper. Other people might consider it inadequate as a master. No en suite or walk-in closet. Sarah didn't mind the lack of either. Ninety-nine percent of the time she wouldn't be waiting her turn for the bathroom, and she had donated anything she was unlikely to wear again to Goodwill before leaving. On the positive side, the newly-refurbished wood floor would perfectly offset her white bed linen and filmy curtains; their lace edging would take up the cottage appeal of a sweetly-sloping ceiling.

Time to stow her raincoat and purse on the shelf in the closet and get moving. They were now half an hour later than promised. The rain was coming down hard against the windows, which probably accounted for it. Sarah was ready for another cup of coffee. The doorbell rang as she stepped back into the hallway, sending her quickly downstairs.

The two men she welcomed inside, although well into their fifties and damp around the head and shoulders, exuded a hearty efficiency. They apologized for the delay, caused by a detour resulting from road work. They took a brisk tour of the house, said they had the layout logged, and thought they could be done in two to three hours. Sarah had hoped this would be the case. Given that her apartment in Evanston had been a one bedroom she didn't have a lot of furniture, nor a large accumulation of accessories. If it hadn't been for the washer and dryer she could have rented a van and towed her car, although the drawback to that would have been not having anyone to help her unload. She offered coffee and was pleasantly refused. They had their Thermoses.