The Shell Collector (9 page)

“Seriously? You talked me into coming the last time.” The truth is, I knew he would’ve objected. Probably why I didn’t say anything. “Look, I’ll check in when I get back into town—”

“Oh, Maya?”

“Yeah?”

“I was thinking about the marks last night. Inside the shells. One way they could do that is to move a non-extinct species in after they cast the shell. We’re thinking here that it would be cheaper than unique molds.”

“Yeah, I thought of the same thing.”

“Okay. Good sign that we aren’t crazy. So be safe.”

“I will. Thanks for everything.”

We hang up, and I stay lost in thought until I reach Ness’s estate. I allow myself to daydream about the shelling ahead, the access I may have to raw beaches, the fact that Ness told me to bring a wetsuit and my snorkel gear.

What I try not to do is allow myself to think of Ness as a regular guy, as a man my age. Being taken on a tour of—whatever he has planned for this week—excites the sheller in me far more than the journalist. I remind myself that this person has an ugly history, that he’s the face of one of the companies I blame for the encroaching sea. I also remind myself of the exquisite fake shells and whatever it is they portend. And as I reach the edge of his estate, I let his misplaced palm trees remind me that all with Mr. Wilde is not as it seems. That his outer shell is not to be trusted.

The guard at the first gate smiles at me in recognition. He tips his hat and “ma’ams” me as I hand him my ID. After jotting something on his tablet, he leans out of his booth, peers down the driveway toward the estate, and whispers something into his radio. He nods at some inaudible reply. “Just one second,” he tells me.

This is different. I wonder if maybe someone is coming out to meet me.

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel and wait.

I lower the visor and check myself in the mirror.

I pull out my phone to see if there’s anything urgent in my inbox.

“Okay,” the guard eventually says. He hands me my driver’s license and press pass, and the tall iron gate swings open in greased silence.

I enjoy the long driveway this time, because it holds no surprises. I leave the windows down and take in the smell of moss and mulch, search the air for that sea breeze, watch out for any stray coconuts. The car chews up the road, and I try not to think of what the gravel is made of. Racing along, the back end of the car sliding with each small adjustment of the steering wheel, I enjoy this feeling of being on edge. This dangerous place. Here is where time slows down, where we can take it all in, where life becomes digestible, each moment new and therefore able to be savored.

Trees that don’t belong whiz by. The bent trunks of palms.
Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.
Bright birds flit across the road, searching for bugs and worms. And then I notice that the air is dusty, that I’m entering a fog, but it’s just a plume kicked up by a vehicle ahead. I roll the windows up to keep the dust out. As it thickens, I ease off the accelerator in case the other car is going slow. I watch for taillights, wonder if I’m overtaking one of the guards who works the inner gate. It’s a little after five. Might be when they change shifts.

And then I break through the dust cloud and back into clear air. Checking the rearview mirror for a car on the shoulder, I see nothing. I almost let the mystery pass—almost think nothing of it—but I find myself braking to a dead stop. The dust kicked up by my car trails after and swirls around me. I hesitate for a moment before deciding to throw the car into reverse to go back and investigate.

The road is still choked with the thick plume my car stirred. I stop where I think I broke into clear air. There isn’t room on the shoulder to park, so I hit the hazards and leave the car in the center of the narrow drive. I let the dust settle before stepping out.

There is a breeze, the scent of pine and salt air. Leaves whisper against one another, and I think I can hear the distant crash of the sea, but it could just be wind chasing wind through the branches, or the rustling together of palm fronds.

“Hello?” I call out.

The silence that answers makes me feel silly, makes me want to scurry back to my car and keep driving. I walk along the road instead, and my eyes are drawn to the gravel, to the crushed shells. I’m reminded of the meandering swath of shells that used to lie along the tideline at the beach where I grew up. I remember crawling along that path, even years after I could walk, searching for the rare intact jewel that everyone else had overlooked. Hard not to do that here—like the impulse to search a field of clover for that one mutant with four leaves—

My fixation on the road is the only reason I spot it: a place where the shells spill onto the shoulder. Bits of white and pink mix with the mulch and the sparse grass. The dust has cleared from the air. I search up and down the long drive, but it’s just me, my car, the trees, and the soft wind.

The grass is flattened in places. Tire treads. They head into the woods, though there is no drive marked here. Just mulch, a gap in the undergrowth, and enough space between two trees for a car to squeeze through. Peering deeper into the woods, I see a black gate. There’s a keypad beside it, glittering in the wan light filtering through the canopy above. I start into the woods, want to explore further, when the cry of a bird jolts my senses, and the darkening hour reminds me that I am expected elsewhere.

Torn and reluctant—duty overpowers my curiosity, and I hurry back to the car. Its red hazard lights throb a mild warning to no one. As I pull away, the double guard gates finally make sense. Whoever comes through the outer gate has access to this hidden drive but not to the house. For all the sense of mystery, I’m certain I’ve just discovered the rear entrance for the estate’s help, which grounds like these invariably have. An access road for the gardeners, the arborists, the housekeepers. I decide to ask the next guard if this is the case. It’s a dumb detail, but I’ll feel proud for having deduced it all on my own, just from a disappearing trail of dust and little more.

The young guard from my previous visit is manning the inner gate. He steps out of his small booth and holds out a flat palm, signaling me to stop. As if I would bash through his bright blue steel bar if he weren’t there to warn me. I have my info ready, including my registration, but he doesn’t ask for these. Just asks if I’m okay.

“Uh … yeah,” I say. “I guess.”

The guard frowns at me. “No car troubles?” he asks.

“No.” I shake my head.

“It’s just that—” He rests his forearms on the roof of my car, leans his head down close. “You checked through the outer gate quite some time ago, is all.”

I can smell the coffee on his breath. “Oh, that,” I say, and the plan to ask him about the hidden drive vanishes in a puff of paranoid self-preservation. “I saw a cardinal. Haven’t seen one in ages. So I got out to take a picture.”

He glances toward my bag, which is sitting on the passenger seat. “Get any good shots?” he asks.

“No,” I tell him, in case he asks to see. “Never saw it again. Beautiful time of day though. You’re lucky that you get to work in an office like this. You should see the view from my desk.” I laugh. I realize I’m babbling. It’s what I do when I’m nervous.

The guard just smirks. He pats the roof of my car in a way that’s mildly possessive, mildly offensive. Like I’ve said something cute. Like I’m adorable. Like he might pat a waitress on the ass as she passes a booth full of him and his friends.

“Go on in,” he says, stepping away from my car. He tips his cap, the bar lifts up, and I hit the gas before he can ask any more questions, or before my mouth can get me in trouble.

I don’t know what I’m expecting when I get to the house. Ness said we would spend the day shelling, so I imagine something extravagant, like a helicopter with its blades slowly spinning, a pilot flipping switches above his head, and word that a private island somewhere is staging for our arrival. Or maybe a large yacht docked behind his estate, a giant crane on its upper deck that scoops sand from the depths and sifts it through complicated onboard troughs to unveil ancient, fragile treasures. Anything other than Ness sitting on the front porch, waiting for me, in a t-shirt and a loud pair of bermuda shorts.

“You’re late,” he says, glancing at his watch as I get out of the car. The bridge of his nose is white with zinc oxide. As he gets off the bench, he dons an oversized hat with a full brim. All he needs is a bulky camera dangling around his neck to complete the tourist outfit. He looks like he belongs in Times Square, gawking at the electric billboards or getting his picture taken with Spider-Man.

“I got a late start,” I tell him. I pop the trunk and grab my two bags, one full of clothes, the other with my snorkel gear, wetsuit, and toiletries. Ness takes both bags from me and leads me into the house.

“First rule of shelling,” he says. “Don’t be late. Every single thing you do with the ocean depends on the tides, depends on the cycle of the moon.” He glances over his shoulder. “It’s a lot like relationships.”

I think he means to amuse me, but I’m startled instead. I nearly launch into my theory about how shelling is exactly like relationships in hundreds of little ways, but Ness’s manic energy has me struggling just to keep up with him. I follow him down a flight of stairs and through a hallway. He has to set one of the bags down to get the door, and then we’re out through the back of the house and on a rear deck, facing the Atlantic.

The sun glints off the sea, a field of jewels on a blue tapestry. Waves chase each other in jagged white lines toward the beach. Two peninsulas of rock jut out into the ocean. One is natural; the other was made to look natural, but it curves out and then runs parallel to the beach to shelter a small bay to the north. An empty dock and a boathouse sit in the bay. The boathouse would be a fine main residence anywhere else. Boardwalks and a labyrinth of stairs lead down to the bay as well as to the beach directly below the house—which is where I descended after dark on my last visit. I try to take it all in, but I have to hurry to keep up with Ness.

“I’m putting you in the widow’s watch,” he tells me. His voice is nearly lost in the hiss of the distant waves and the wind. We descend several flights of wooden stairs, follow a boardwalk that runs parallel to the steep dunes, and head to a house separate from the main estate. An in-law suite. But Ness called it something else. To me, it looks like a dollhouse swelled up to accommodate grown people. A little bigger than my New York apartment, it juts out from the dunes on thick beams. And there appears to be an even smaller house nestled on the roof. Ness lets me in and follows with the bags.

Somehow, the spectacular view outside is even better when framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows along the east side of the house. There’s a bed in the middle of the room, facing the view. White linen curtains are pulled back. I imagine the sunrise that will greet me in the morning. The house seems to levitate over the beach, and the windows compress the view to just the sparkling sea. It’s a dream. This will be like sleeping out on the clouds.

“Gorgeous,” I whisper.

Ness places the bags on the bed, then turns and studies the view for a moment, like he’s forgotten what it looks like. I try not to feel dismayed by the possibility that this room hasn’t been stepped in by anyone other than the housekeeper for years, that it just sits here empty and unappreciated.

“The better view is up top,” he says. “I figured you’d be more comfortable if we weren’t under the same roof. Considering my … reputation.” He smiles at me. Wags his eyebrows. I can’t decide if he’s being crass or if his sense of humor is just that unseemly. It’s like he’s forgotten my accusations the other night, or just wants that spat behind us. “Since you write for a living,” he says, “I also thought you’d enjoy the reading nook.” He leads me to a spiral staircase just off the small kitchen. The metal treads ring as he hurries up. I tear myself away from the view and follow him.

“I built this place for Holly, before she was born,” Ness calls down the stairs.

I laugh at the thought. “Most people paint the bedroom they’ve been using as an office, install a crib, change the outlet covers. You build this.”

“It didn’t seem like much. My dad bought a chain of islands when I was born and named them after me.
That
seemed excessive.”

I swallow any rude response. Several come to me with little bidding. At the top of the stairs, I find myself in the small room nestled on the roof. Four walls of glass, with a cushioned bench running along three of them. Two shelves of books ring the room beneath the bench, and more books are lined up along the deep sills. Ness cranks one of the windows open—they’re the kind with a spinning lever at their base. I turn and work the window opposite him. The sea breeze courses through the small space, whistling its way inside, between us, and then back out again. I glance up at the exposed beams overhead where a wind chime made of seashells softly rattles.

“Holly never really took to the place. It was my fault for making her sleep out here by herself when she was little. She got scared, tried to find her way back to the house in the middle of the night, and got lost.” Ness opens the door on the front of the small room and steps out onto the deck. He invites me to join him, then points down at the boardwalk leading toward the enclosed bay. “She fell asleep behind the rocks down there, out of the wind. I found her the next morning. It was the first really big fight Vicky and I ever had. I don’t think Holly has been in this house since. I just use it for guests now. Replaced all the children’s books with classics.” He waves his hand at the collection behind us. “I don’t think any of them have even been cracked.”

“Must’ve hurt, finding her out there.” I peer down at the rocks and think about what it must’ve been like for his daughter, running around in the pitch black, the crashing sea deafening and the wind chapping her face with her tears.

“I think I’ve overcorrected since then. Never really put pressure on her to be adventurous, to try new things. I have more regrets over all the stuff I
didn’t
do later in life than I do over that night.”