The Cottage at Glass Beach

The Cottage at Glass Beach

A Novel

Heather Barbieri

www.harpercollins.com

Dedication

In memory of my mother,

Michelle LeMay Doran

Epigraph

The voice of the sea speaks to the soul.

—Kate Chopin

Contents

[Prologue]

D
on't be afraid. It won't hurt you
.

Nora shrieks and darts up the beach, the waves inches behind. She is laughing. The water can't get her. Her mother won't let it.

Take my hand
.

Her mother's fingers are warm. Nora only reaches her waist.
I'll never be big enough. I'll never be like you.

Her mother laughs. Her voice is as sparkling as light on water. The folds of her skirt cling to her legs. She'd dived in, fully clothed. She isn't like the other mothers with their rules and careful ways.
Of course you will, in time. You are a part of me. You always will be.

Why?

That's the way it is with mothers and daughters.
She touches a finger to Nora's freckled nose and smiles. There is no other smile like hers. No one else who looks at her like this.

Nora giggles and runs away.
Catch me! Catch me if you can!
She hears the
shush
of sand shifting beneath footsteps, the sound of breathing, close at first, then receding. She ducks between the rocks, rife with mussels and barnacles, limpets and periwinkles, the stones wetted, dark. Her mother can't follow. She isn't small enough. Only a child could pass through here. Nora seldom wins the games they play. Today will be different. She hides, waiting to be found, for her mother to say she gives up.

Minutes pass. A red-shelled crab salutes with a claw, before vanishing into a crevice. A gooseneck barnacle clicks closed like the aperture of her father's camera. The creatures of the ocean are locking themselves up tight, as if they sense something coming. At first, Nora doesn't think to wonder why.

And then she realizes: the tide is coming in. She shouldn't have gone this way. She doesn't know how to breathe underwater.

Nora!
Her mother calls.
Nora! Where are you?

Here. I'm here
.

Her foot is caught, the sole of her sandal wedged tight, as if the rocks have reached out and grabbed her. She tugs at the straps. Her mother always helps her with the buckles, and now that the leather is wet, they are even harder to loosen. The waves are rising, to her ankles, her knees, higher each time. Unless someone finds her soon, she is going under.

N
ora opens her eyes, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Light filters into the room along the edge of the window shade. It is 5:30 a.m., Tuesday morning. The digital numerals glow a nagging red, reminding her of how little sleep she managed to get the night before. The newspaper hits the front door with a loud thump that startles her.

It was only a dream. She gazes around the master bedroom, assuring herself of the surroundings, of reality. She didn't think she would be grateful for that, not with the events of the past few weeks. She is alone, but she isn't drowning.

She notices that the letter she received a month ago has fallen off the nightstand and onto the floor. She doesn't know how. The sash isn't open. There is no draft. She must have knocked it over in her sleep. She'd been rereading it the night before—she'd meant to respond sooner, but life, tumultuous as it has proven to be recently, had intervened—weighing her options, deciding what to do.

The letter is from her aunt Maire, summoning her to Burke's Island, the place of her birth and her mother's disappearance, for the first time in decades.

There's no more time to waste. School is out for the summer. She can't bear to stay in the house another day. She has to get away. She'll pack her daughters' things that very morning, and then, they will go.

Chapter One

S
omeone was watching them that afternoon. Nora was sure of it. She scanned the cove, eyes sweeping over the shingled beach, the dun-colored rocks. Fishing floats bobbed on the surface, faded, disembodied, the water hiding its secrets under a mirrored sheen. The polished glass fragments for which the beach was named glowed in the sunlight, and skeins of seaweed laced patterns on the shore, waiting for the tide to claim them.

“Do you see something?” her daughter Ella asked.

Nora shook her head. She had to remind herself that they didn't have to keep looking over their shoulders, not on Burke's Island. They'd left the scandal and the press behind. Her husband, the source of it all, too.

“Look.” Annie pointed to a pile of shells by the back deck. “It's like they knew we were coming.” At seven, she still half lived in a world of make-believe.

“Who?” Ella's brow creased with trademark skepticism.

“The shell people,” Annie said with a secretive smile.

“Don't be silly. Aunt Maire probably left them there,” Ella replied.

“You have no imagination.” Annie sniffed.

“Well, at least I have common sense.”

“Girls.” Nora turned a periwinkle over in her hands. The blue-gray shell twisted in on itself, forming a tight knot, a dash of silver nacre at its center. Her mother had been an inveterate beachcomber, reading the shore, the waves, Nora trailing along in her shadow. She remembered a gauzy sun, wrapped in diaphanous clouds, light seeping through the gaps. A God sky, they called it, as if its source were indeed divine.
Don't look
, someone said, putting their hands over her eyes, shielding her. From what? The voices distorted, as if speaking underwater. The bone-aching cold of the ocean at first touch, the numb acceptance.
Keep moving and you'll stay warm.
The memories flitted, scaled, slippery, before they disappeared into ether once more, swallowed by the murky depths of her subconscious.
Don't let go.

She sighed. It must have been the long drive, making her feel so fatigued. Three and a half hours north of Boston, then the chartered boat, past Monhegan. That and finally being able to let down her guard after everything that had happened, giving in, to a certain degree—not entirely, she could never do that, not with the children to consider—to exhaustion. And yet standing on that crumbled shore near the cottage gave her such a piercing sense of déjà vu, she felt dizzy.

In the distance a ship steamed eastward across the Atlantic, a pawn in the vast ocean. The wind picked up. High summer on the outer New England coast, the best chance for fair weather.

She returned to the front of the cottage. They'd arrived to find no one home. Not in the cottage, nor the house up the road, where Aunt Maire lived, according to the name on the mailbox at the top of the drive. “Flanagan,” it read, her aunt's married name. Nora hadn't expected a ticker-tape parade, but she thought someone would be there to greet them, let them in.

“So this is it, huh?” Ella regarded the cottage doubtfully.

“I like it,” Annie said.

“You like everything.”

“No, I don't. I don't like black licorice or meat with bones or spiders. But I like this place. It feels like home.”

“Boston is home,” Ella reminded her.

“It's our home away from home,” Nora said. “A summer place.”

Built of gray island stone, the cottage was squat and sturdy, with scuffed white trim, a weathered red door, and empty window boxes. Nora made a mental note to purchase flowers—geraniums or herbs perhaps, for a mini kitchen garden—if she could find a shop in town that carried them.

She touched the doorknob, and she was a little girl again, the metal sphere dwarfing her small hand, the lock in its center an unblinking eye. As she suspected, the door was locked. Perhaps there'd been some confusion. She should have written sooner. She hadn't anticipated how long a letter might take to reach the island. It very well might come after them, on the ferry, later that week.

She felt above the doorframe, checked under the mat. No key hidden in the usual places. She jiggled the windows. The sashes held firm. She peered inside, making out only shadows through the lace curtains.

“No one's here,” Ella said. “Does that mean we can leave?” At twelve, she had perfected the art of the derisive lip curl, another indication that her adolescence was entering the fullness of its bloom.

“And go where, exactly?” Nora asked.

“Some place with central heating.”

She had a point, but Nora wasn't about to give up. They'd come all this way.

It was understandable they'd be tired and prone to snappishness. Ella had always been precocious, but now there was a wariness in her eyes that hadn't been there before.

“So begins my exile,” Ella intoned. She'd wanted to make the trip to Burke's Island—until it meant taking sides, until it meant leaving her father behind.

“You've been reading too many books about the Roman Empire,” Nora said.

“You can never read too many books about the Roman Empire,” Ella said, with a nod toward the car. “The food will go bad, if it hasn't already. Then we'll starve. All that will be left of us, bones—”

“I don't want to die,” Annie cried.

“We'll be fine,” Nora said. They would be, one way or another. “We definitely won't starve. We have food, and we can buy more in town when we need to.” Nora had packed provisions, the bottles and cartons rattling during the journey as if they too were nervous about where she was taking them. She'd been reluctant to stop in Portakinney, the main village, sensing she'd be too weary to exchange the most basic of niceties, assuming the shops were even still open at that hour. The media attention in Boston and the shifting alliances among her friends and acquaintances had made her more cautious of social interaction than she used to be.

Nora took out her cell phone.

“Who are you calling?” Ella had taken to watching her mother's every move.

“I'm tracking down the key.”

“We don't know anyone here.”

“We know Aunt Maire,” Annie piped up.

“We've never met her,” Ella said.

“I have—and you will,” Nora said. Though it had been years and she hardly remembered her, or much of anything related to the island. The truth was, she wasn't sure who to call. She didn't have Maire's number. Information? Did they have such a service on the island? She imagined an operator, hunkered down in the village, listening in on the inhabitants' calls. “Let me try to get a signal, okay?”

“Good luck with that,” Ella said. “Seeing as we're in the middle of fricking nowhere.”

“Language,” Nora said over her shoulder, not breaking stride.

“It's not even in the dictionary.”

“Maybe it will be in the next edition. Anyway, we both know what it means.” A stand-in for a four-letter word Nora muttered under her breath (and shouted when the girls weren't home) with greater frequency lately than she'd like to admit. She zipped her rain jacket to her chin. Despite manufacturers' claims otherwise, the material did little to cut the wind. Jagged bits of gravel pressed against the thin soles of her tennis shoes. The roads on this part of the island weren't paved, scattered instead with crushed shell and rock and prone, no doubt, to wash out.

The wind stiffened. Her lips tasted of salt and her curly dark hair streamed behind her in a tangled mess. At least she didn't have to worry about appearances here. That was the point. To be somewhere where she didn't have to be Mrs. Malcolm Cunningham. Where the only sounds she could hear were the voices of her children and the crash of the waves and her own footsteps on that solitary road.

At the top of a bluff, away from the trees, she managed to get a weak signal. She phoned Malcolm to let him know they'd arrived, as promised. (She was more determined than ever to be a person of her word.) She didn't want to make the call in front of the girls. She hoped it went straight to voice mail. Of course, that being the case, it was one of those rare instances when he picked up right away.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I told you. Burke's Island.”

“I thought you might have changed your mind.”

“You haven't done anything to change it.”

An impatient sigh. “How long will you stay?”

“Like I said, for the summer.”

“But the girls—”

“We can arrange something if you'd like to see them. How's your schedule?” Her voice went taut.

There was a dry-leaf rustle of papers on his desk. This great legal mind, giving her the artful dodge again. He hadn't lost his touch. The youngest attorney general–elect in Massachusetts state history, once destined for higher office. A man of the people, one of their own, born in South Boston, achieving the American dream. “I'm in the thick of things,” he said. “I'll have to get back to you.”

She had a feeling he'd say that. “All right. I have to go,” she said. “You're breaking up.”

“Bastard,” she said to the dial tone. He'd hung up before she got the word out, no doubt thankful for the escape. He knew how sharp her tongue could be, especially now. The expletive could wait for another time. She had plenty stored up, an arsenal.

She thought of how his name began with the French word for “bad.”
Mal
. How it was incorporated into a long list of words with negative connotations:
malfunction, malfeasance, malignant, malicious
. There had been a time when she'd associated only complimentary adjectives with him:
magnificent, mellifluous, magical, merry, mesmerizing
.

Those days were gone.

T
he usual prefixes that might produce results at home yielded nothing. Nora looked down at her cell phone ruefully, considering what to do next. Maybe she should check into getting a room in town for the night.

As she climbed down from the bluff, taking care not to stumble, a car sputtered around the corner. A woman with short, spiky hair rolled down the window, the car, a rust-patched 1960s-era Volvo, shuddering in idle as if it were having a seizure. “Hello, hello. I'm Polly Clennon, your personal welcoming committee. I waved as you drove through the village earlier, but you didn't see me. A lot on your mind, I expect. Maire left me the key. She's up-island today. Haven't kept you waiting too long, have I?” Mrs. Clennon spoke with a slight lilt, a hint of the Irish that lingered in the accents of the islanders, whose ancestors had settled its rocky shores after fleeing the Famine.

“We only just arrived,” Nora said as she trailed the juddering vehicle to the front of the cottage.

“Maire should have left the key for you under the mat,” Mrs. Clennon continued as she gave the driver's-side door a practiced slam. “Not that we lock doors here much. It's only that no one has lived in the cottage for so long. She must have forgotten in the rush.”

“I hope nothing's wrong.”

“Oh, no. At least I don't think so. She's the island midwife, bringing babies into the world. Delivered you too, you know.”

She didn't. Her father had never said.

“What a to-do that was.” Mrs. Clennon rattled on, before Nora could ask what she meant. “Our Nora, all grown up. My goodness, you probably don't remember me. I'd babysit you sometimes. Yes, I did. Maeve was the sort to get out and about. Never liked to stay in one spot for long. You were such a little girl, five, weren't you, when you went away. But now you're back. Don't know why Maire didn't mention you were coming sooner, but then, she's never been much of a talker. I tend to do the talking for both of us, in case you couldn't tell.” Indeed, she barely paused for breath. She could have been an auctioneer. “I'm sorry to have kept you waiting out in the cold like this. Distances can't be traveled as quickly as one might think. The roads are, shall we say, narrow and windy.”

“It's all right, really. It seems like it's getting warmer,” Nora said, hopefully.

“That's the spirit. Though it's not exactly Club Med, is it? I'm guessing you're used to finer.”

The banquets and cocktail parties. Little black dresses and ball gowns. The clatter of heels on polished floors, the murmur of gossip, the clinking of champagne flutes rimmed with lipstick traces, the faint jingling of charm bracelets and loose change. Those days seemed like a dream, as if they had happened to someone else. Now she was awake, awake to the sharp stinging air, the sky peeled back to a vertiginous blue. “I'm grateful for the quiet.”

Mrs. Clennon shot her a brief, penetrating look, equal parts sharp-eyed speculation and sympathy. For all her prattle, she didn't miss much. “Yes, I suppose you are. Sad business when a man starts thinking himself John F. Kennedy for all the wrong reasons.”

“So the news made landfall? I guess it caught the weekly ferry too.” Portakinney was a small town, and such gossip probably too juicy too resist.

“Don't worry. I tossed the papers with the headlines. A good few days' worth—they do go on, those news people. I let the islanders think the delivery truck broke down—which it did, though not for as long as they thought. I'm the postmistress, so I get a look at all arrivals and departures, at least of the postal persuasion. Anyway, I remembered you. You look like Maeve. I felt protective of you, and of Maire too, so I took things into my own hands, as it were.” Mrs. Clennon put a finger to her lips. “What transpired over there,” she said, gesturing to the distant mainland, “will be our secret.”

Nora wondered if that were possible, though she appreciated her discretion. The islanders, or at least some of them, must have Internet, after all. “You knew my mother?” she asked.

“Not well,” the older woman said, perhaps too quickly. “I was barely a teenager at the time. Didn't run with the same crowd, being three years younger, although my sister did, God bless her. Passed on. Two years ago, last April. Lung cancer.”