The Cottage at Glass Beach (18 page)

“There's no reason you should have.”

They lapsed into silence, the only sound the wiper blades moving across the windshield in half circles, the rain coming down harder. She put on the high beams, casting the road before them in shades of gray.

“So he's gone?” he asked.

“Who?”

“Your husband.”

It was odd to hear him say the word. She hurried to explain. “Yes. I wasn't expecting him. To visit, that is.”

“You weren't?”

“No. He didn't come for me. He came for the girls.”

“Are you sure of that?”

Yes. No. She didn't want to get into it, not then, not with Owen. It was as if Malcolm was riding along with her, the backseat husband, still calling the shots. “I thought we said we didn't owe each other explanations.”

“So we did.” He gazed out the window at the streaming dark, the headlights trained on the road before them, its margins appearing narrower in the nighttime hours. “Though that doesn't mean we can't get to know each other better. I thought we were.”

“We're friends, remember?” Goose bumps prickled her skin. She supposed she should have worn a heavier coat. “Aren't you cold?” She should have thought to have had the car serviced before they left Boston. The heater still wouldn't work, not an issue on the mainland during the summer, but here, on the island, it could be.

“Not really. I'm used to it.”

“Well, I am.” She tried the heater anyway, to no avail, the radio too, fingers pressing busily, to break the silence, to give her something to do. All she could get was static. “What did you say to those guys, anyway?”

“Something they'd understand.”

N
ora and Owen alighted in front of Cliff House. The moon appeared, the squall having passed, as he predicted. His skin was luminous in that light, his eyes searching. She looked away, feeling the warmth in her cheeks. “Well,” she said, suddenly awkward as a teenager. “Thank you.” Maire's house stood behind her. The girls were there, upstairs. She should bring them home, get them to bed.

“For what? You would have done the same for me.”

“To less effect.”

“Oh, I'm not so sure. You can be rather intimidating when you want to be.”

“Hardly. You scared the hell out of them. What's your secret?”

“Ah, but it wouldn't be a secret if I told you, would it?”

They went their separate ways, he to the fishing shack, she to Cliff House. A single light burned in the front room, the curtains half open, Maire, still awake, knitting. Nora tapped on the door.

“You don't have to knock. The door isn't locked. It's your home too. I keep telling you that.” Maire motioned her inside, a basket of knitting at the foot of her chair, a half-finished multicolored sweater—perhaps for one of the girls, judging by the size of it—draped over the side, awaiting the next purl. “You look pale. Did something happen?”

Nora paused at the foot of the staircase.

“Maggie wasn't at Cis McClure's, was she?” Maire asked.

“No.” Nora told her about the incident in the alley.

“Must have been the Connelly boys. That Declan has been a problem for years. We should report them. I could ask John O'Connor to give them a talking-to. Wouldn't be the first time he's had to do it, believe me.”

“I don't think they'll try it again,” Nora said. Reporting them would only stir things up, if they did indeed forget the encounter. “They were drunk.”

“I'm sure you're right, but it bears watching. It's good Owen was there.”

Nora nodded. All she wanted to do was return to the cottage, take a long, hot bath, and pretend none of it ever happened. “I'll grab the girls and—”

“Don't worry about them. We had a lovely evening. They taught me how to play Snap and Golf—such fun card games—and we made sugar cookies.” She nodded at the kitchen counter, where the frosted treats in shapes of flowers, butterflies, and trees rested on cooling racks. “I love getting to play the grandmother. They're fast asleep. Let's leave them for the night. Why don't you stay too? There's plenty of room. We could have breakfast together in the morning.”

“That's all right,” Nora said. “My things are at the cottage.”

“You could probably use a little time to yourself.”

“I didn't mean—”

“Of course you didn't. You're a mother. You put them before yourself, always. Go have a nice long bath,” Maire said, as if she'd read her mind. “A glass of wine. Whatever would make you feel better. You've had quite a night, haven't you? I should have thought of that before.”

“No, you shouldn't have. You've already done so much for us,” Nora said. “Thank you, for everything.”

Owen was waiting for her when she returned to the cottage. She wasn't completely surprised to see him. It was as if they'd reached an unspoken agreement earlier, as they'd driven home together in the dark, a sense, perhaps, that they'd been moving toward this point for days. She hadn't realized how much she'd wanted this—to lose herself in the moment, to stop thinking. It seemed as if all she'd been doing lately was worry, keeping her emotions in check. The effort was consuming her, suffocating her. And there he was. A means to forget, offering escape, sensation, desire . . . If she'd stopped to consider the implications, she might have gone inside alone. But for once, she didn't stop, didn't consider. She wanted to know what it was like—to see if she could still feel.

The moon bathed the cottage, the landscape, in shades of blue and gray, as if they were underwater. Owen pulled her toward him. She did nothing to stop him; if he hadn't reached for her, she would have reached for him. He pushed open the door, led her backward to the bed. And then everything fell away a layer at a time—her clothes, her responsibilities, her past.

She looked into his face; his eyes held hers, never breaking contact. Malcolm had always kept his eyes closed. He tended to take her quickly, holding her apart from him, as if to get better leverage. When she tried to tell him what she wanted, he became defensive, fearing he'd failed, and so she let it go. Sometimes he pleased her, others she'd lie and say he'd made her happy, because she couldn't bear to see the shame and disappointment on his face, because it was fine, really. Sex didn't always have to be earthshaking. They'd been married fifteen years, after all.

Owen was different, and she was different with him. He turned over her hand, traced the tattoo on the underside of her wrist. They whispered to each other, guiding, exploring.
This. This
. Everything was new with him. Everything. She cried. She felt as if she were breaking apart. “What's wrong?” He stroked her cheek. “It's so beautiful,” she said through her tears. The room seemed to glisten, just the two of them, together, while through the open window the waves kept cadence, rushing up the beach, covering the rocks, the sand, the hour changing over, the tide coming in.

Chapter Fifteen

V
oices warbled, swooping closer. Nora squinted in confusion. Who was outside? Where was she?

Her vision cleared, her mind too: in the cottage at Glass Beach.

“We're home! We're home!” The girls, running along the path.

She sat up in panic. Owen. They mustn't see him. She glanced around the room. He wasn't there. Where had he gone?

No time to think about that now. Things were looking different in the light of day—messy, in every sense of the word. She pulled on a T-shirt and shorts as Annie threw open the door and pounced on her. “Wake up, sleepyhead!”

“Is it late?”

“No, it's early. We missed you, so we came home.”

Ella stood in the doorway, examining the scene with forensic intensity.

“Were you lonely here by yourself?” Annie asked. “You have sparkles on you.” She flicked at Nora's skin.

“Must be sand,” Nora said. “I didn't bother to shower.”

“How European of you. Aunt Maire said you were going home to take a bath. I heard the car last night. I saw you from the window,” Ella said.

“I didn't get around to it.” Nora yawned and rubbed her eyes, partly for effect. She could smell him on her, hoped to God they wouldn't notice.

“Were you up late?” Annie asked.

“A little.”

“I thought you said you were tired,” Ella said. “What were you doing?”

They couldn't imagine her having a life separate from theirs. “Reading.” It didn't feel right to lie to them.

“You didn't get far.” Ella considered the paperback copy of
The Woman in White
on the nightstand, the bookmark indicating meager progress, the needle of the compass quivering nearby, as if it were a polygraph.

“I wanted to take my time. It's too early for conversation. I'm not a morning person. You know that.” She had to be careful what she told them. They had a certain idea of her. She was not so much a person as their mother; she couldn't disappoint or confuse them by revealing herself to be anything more or less. She had to be the one they could rely on—especially Ella, the intensity of her feelings almost too much for her to handle, a spark that might fan into flame.

Now her older daughter considered the rumpled sheets, the dent in the second pillow. “You moved around in your sleep a lot.”

“I always do,” Nora replied. “You know that. Dreams.”

“Bad ones?” Annie asked.

“I don't remember,” Nora said, changing the subject. “You must be hungry. I'll get you breakfast.” What better way to divert them than catering to their most basic needs? She herded them out of the room and busied herself pouring cereal into bowls and making toast.

Ella regarded her closely, her chin dipped down over the bowl of Cheerios, little O's of cereal expressing collective surprise below her disapproving face. “So”—she crunched—“have you heard from Dad?”

“No.” Nora hadn't expected to.

“You didn't turn off your phone, did you?”

“You'd know better than I would.” Nora raised an eyebrow at her.

Ella slurped the milk.

The noise served its purpose, setting Nora's teeth on edge. “I know you miss him.”

Annie's gaze moved between them.

“You haven't forgiven him, have you?” Ella asked. “You tell us to forgive and forget.”

Yes, the inconsequential things siblings tended to argue about. This was different. “Just because your father and I have separated doesn't mean we don't love you,” Nora said, a sentence she'd repeated over the course of the last few weeks. “We both love you, very much.”

“Do you? Then why did you bring us here?”

“I thought it was best. Aunt Maire's letter arrived at the right time. You know what it was like at home.”

“El—,” Annie interceded.

“Coming here hasn't really fixed anything, has it?” Ella set her spoon down on the table with a clatter.

“I came here for you.”

“No, you didn't. You wanted to know what happened to your mother. You wanted to escape—from the stuff with Dad.” She flung her chair back and stormed outside.

“El, wait.” Annie went after her.

The door slipped its latch and creaked open. It hadn't closed completely, revealing a slice of empty sky, heavy with clouds. It was raining over the ocean, raining hard. Nora picked up the chair Ella had thrown and put it back where it belonged. There was a gouge now in the wood. “Maybe I did.”

A few moments later, there was a footstep on the deck, another. Nora's heart beat faster. She would turn Owen away. She would say last night was a mistake. Because she wasn't that type of person—

“Good morning,” Maire called.

Nora sighed in relief, in disappointment; she wasn't sure which was stronger.

“How was your evening?” Her aunt's face was bright as ever as she pushed open the door. “You didn't sit and brood, did you?”

“Not too much.” Nora gave her a wry smile.

“He'll be back.”

Who did she mean? “Perhaps,” she said, to be safe.

“Anyone can see he still loves you.”

Malcolm. Of course she meant Malcolm. “Sometimes I think he loves the idea of me, more than the reality.”

“It's good you're here, to give yourself time and space. He'll come to his senses. You'll see.” Maire went on. “I thought you might like these.” She proffered a basket of produce—baby carrots, lettuce, radishes, and beets. “I was going to give some to Owen, but he wasn't home.”

“Do you know where he's gone?” She made the question casual. She'd thought she'd built a fortress around her heart that nothing, no one, could breach. No one except her daughters.

“Out fishing again, most likely. I suppose he must leave us someday. He has his life, though I hate the thought of him going. I've gotten used to having him here. He knows this coast as well as I do by now, probably better. I've been thinking about giving him Joe's old boat. It's hard for him, not having his own. I've gotten him started, fixing it up. He's made remarkable progress. Must work on it day and night when he's not on the cliffs or wherever he goes. I wonder if he ever sleeps.”

Did Maire know more? If so, she wasn't saying. Her aunt sat down quickly, steadying herself.

Nora rushed to her side. “You're not feeling dizzy again, are you?”

“A little. Happens sometimes, in the mornings, mainly. Silly diabetes. A most inconvenient condition. Remember, I told you?”

She did. “Have you been to the doctor? You said you'd go.”

“Yes, yes. Told me what I already knew. Now, don't you go worrying about me. You have enough on your mind.” She took a deep breath and stood again. “There.” She demonstrated a little twirl. “All better. Besides, I didn't come over here to bother you. It's time to check on the bees again.”

As they strolled next door, Maire chatted away about the state of the garden (“The lemon cucumbers are really coming on; wait until you taste them—you can eat them, skin and all”) and her desire to keep chickens (“I hear the Araucanas have particularly lovely eggs”). Nora stepped into the bee suit, the fabric crinkling, settling. She put on the veil, the gloves. There were smaller suits now too, for the girls. Maire had made them herself, since they didn't come in children's sizes. The women walked to the edge of the orchard where the hives were sited to catch the rising sun, the light waking the bees each morning, calling them forth to greet the day. But there would only be the two keepers today. It was better that way. The bees might sense Ella's mood.

“The bees command our full attention, don't they?” Maire said. “Giving us a break from our troubles, whatever they may be.”

Yes, if only Nora could focus on the task at hand. Her thoughts kept drifting to Owen and Malcolm. “When will the honey be ready?” she asked.

“Not for a while yet. The bees are only getting started. They need the warmth, the sun, the flowers. We have all those things now. There's nothing like high summer on the island.”

“It's beautiful,” Nora agreed. Perhaps one of the most beautiful places she'd ever been. Nowhere else had she experienced the connectedness of things, the sustenance and solace nature could offer. Beyond the boundary of the orchard, the property went wild, grass and trees and brambles running free, the bees curled into nodding bluebells nearby, humming with contentment and industry.

“Do you like him?” Maire asked.

“Who?” She was grateful the veil obscured her expression.

“Owen. I know you weren't sure about him staying on.”

“You've been so welcoming—to both of us.” A successful dodge.

“I'm happy you're here. This place has had just me rattling around for too long.” She looked small and vulnerable then, against the wide open landscape. “Do you feel at home? I want you to feel at home—because it is your home. It always has been,” Maire said, a plea in her eyes. “I've been thinking. There's so much you could do here, if you decided to stay. The island doesn't have an attorney, or you could focus on your cooking or the jewelry you've been making. The pieces are lovely. Maeve would be proud.”

Nora could imagine staying beyond the summer, more so every day, but it was too soon to be making such decisions. “We'll see,” she said. “I love it here, but I need to think things through.”

“I know. Life is complicated.”

“And I need to understand the island and my history better. For some reason, I can't let the past lie.”

The bees buzzed louder, a dirge. “No, I don't suppose you can.” Maire kept her eyes on the hives.

“What is it you haven't told me?”

Maire hesitated. “I've been waiting for you to get a sense of the strangeness here, the otherness that isn't widely understood. And I was afraid that once you knew, you'd leave, that there would be nothing for you here, that you would think us all mad. I don't want to lose anyone else.” Her eyes brimmed with tears.

Nora touched her arm. “You're not going to lose me. Please. I can't begin to understand until you share what you know.”

“I'll tell you, but you might not believe me. I'm not sure if I believe it myself. Remember the charts in the attic and how I mentioned that our ancestors had supposedly reached an agreement with the sea and the seals that lived within it? There was a balance in all things in the beginning. That's what people thought. But as I told you before, with my parents' generation, something changed. I can't help but think it had something to do with your mother's disappearance and an argument I overheard my parents having one night. I was fourteen that summer, Maeve sixteen; she'd won the swimming race again. My mother was convinced that Maeve wasn't hers, that she was a changeling, a creature of the sea. That her ability to hold her breath so long and swim so fast proved it. That my father had found her on the beach and substituted her for their biological baby, who had died in childbirth before my mother regained consciousness. Maeve and my mother had never gotten along, you see. The conflicts between them intensified, as they often do with firstborns in the teenage years, Maeve more so than others, her will being particularly strong. Perhaps my mother was looking for reasons for their estrangement, though I too had always felt there was something different about Maeve. Anyway, Da found me outside my parents' bedroom door, eavesdropping. He told me to never tell a soul. That some things were best left alone.”

“Did my mother know?”

“Oh, yes. I told her. I was angry one day, and I said she wasn't really my sister, and why. We got into a terrible fight, drawing blood, making scars, physical and otherwise.” She pulled back her collar to reveal a pale crescent on her neck. “She withdrew after that, from all of us, until your father arrived.”

The humming of the bees grew louder, ringing in Nora's ears. “Is it true?”

“I don't know. No one does.”

“But if it were,” she said slowly, “then I'm not a McGann—”

“Yes, you are, through my father, at least, if not more. We are bound together, aren't we, though perhaps not in the way we supposed.”

“Were there any medical records?”

She shook her head. “There was no doctor on the island until after you were born. Before that, only midwives, from our family. My mother gave birth at home, no one but my father in attendance. That was the way it was done then.”

“But the death your mother spoke of—”

“Swept under the carpet, never recorded, or not true in the first place. The birth had been hard. She had a fever. She could have been hallucinating about the stillbirth and the substitution. It took her weeks to recover, and she had severe postpartum depression afterward.”

“And my grandfather?”

“He never spoke of it again.”

Nora nodded. That sounded like her own father, a man of few words, especially when it came to difficult subjects.

“Are you all right?” Maire asked. “I know it's a lot to take in.”

“Yes.” Though, truly, she didn't know what to think.

Maire put a finger to her lips. “We're disturbing the bees. I guess it's too much for them too. They're still getting used to the new queen. If we don't give them enough time, they might reject her.”

“And what happens then?”

“They could kill her.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yes.” She administered liberal puffs of smoke to calm the insects, and within seconds, the air was so thick Nora could barely see. She and Maire were mere outlines then, not forms so much as suggestions, lacking definition, moving through a space in which landmarks were no longer visible, and great care must be taken.