A wind kicked up and the entire house seemed to shudder. Poppy took that as a sign of approval from her parents. She touched her finger to her lips and pressed a kiss onto the stickers with their names. She walked quietly out of the room and shut the door, as if to give them privacy.
She walked into the sunporch and heard the mournful, unearthly squeal of the fisher-cat who’d taken up residence somewhere along the cove. The alien cry went right through her. It was the sound of trouble she knew was out there, but couldn’t see.
THIRTY
Michael
Michael’s clients came out of hibernation all at once, as if they’d spent the entire winter dreaming of nothing but their precious summer-home lawns. His phone lit up with calls from Boston, New Jersey, Connecticut, and New York. His clients wanted everything yesterday: new annuals, thicker grass, stone patios, and, of course, puffy blue hydrangeas as big as pompons.
Unfortunately for them (and for Michael), their wish lists were piling up because of the weather. It had been a brutal spring, with a couple of freak nor’easters that locked the Cape in ice and pounded the bluffs, leaving the ground as hard as concrete. Some of his clients wanted him to risk it and put the plantings in early, but Michael patiently refused. There had been some unusually warm days, but he’d lived on the Cape long enough to believe in the “Three Icemen” Ed had told him about long ago. Ed said that just when you thought winter was over, there would be three more bouts of bad weather, or “visits” from the icemen. Michael waited, and just like every year, Ed’s theory was rock solid. The third iceman hit late in March.
Now the ice was finally gone, the earth was soft, and the weather was warmer, but the forecast called for heavy rain that would wash away whatever grass seed the birds hadn’t eaten. Michael didn’t have time for rain. Shelby, Deeds, and Avery were in Santa Fe for a well-deserved vacation before the summer season kicked into full gear and the renters descended in droves. Michael had to deal with their inn—taking reservations, assembling a cleaning crew, and fixing the broken window in the corner unit—and, of course, he had plenty of his own landscaping work. And then there was Anibitz. His company wasn’t unlike a bright but troubled teenager with the kind of potential to become either a heroin addict or a Harvard grad. There was some kind of bullshit trademark dispute he needed to address, lawyers he had to call. He’d gotten used to having a partner at the landscaping business; he wished he had a partner in Anibitz. It was too much.
But what really bothered him was Poppy.
A few days ago, he’d been poking around the house the way he usually did. He wanted to see if any more furniture had been cleared out, and he’d brought a bag with him so he could take a few things he wanted to keep for himself, just in case. He filled it with a few of Ed’s records, some of Connie’s books, and the Yahtzee game they’d played so many times that first summer he’d lived with the Gordons. The score sheets still had Poppy’s doodles and Ann’s careful math.
He was looking through Connie’s bedside table, hoping to find a piece of her jewelry to pass along to Avery—nothing fancy or expensive; Connie’s jewelry was the stuff you’d buy at a craft fair. She had lots of leather, rocks, and beads. He cringed with embarrassment when he saw an almost-empty bottle of lubrication gel. He heard a noise, and when he looked outside he saw Poppy standing next to a beat-up old Honda Civic.
Poppy!
She stared off into space, deep in thought, like always. Her reverie bought him some time. He snuck into Connie and Ed’s closet, where he inhaled the musty smell of Ed’s big Pendleton wool shirts and Connie’s cardigan sweaters. The smell alone was almost too much for him. In the dark, he listened to Poppy’s footsteps, the thunk of her suitcase. He heard her call out for Ann and Noah. Who was Noah? Was that Ann’s kid, or did Ann have a husband?
When he heard the door shut, he made a run for the sunporch. Just before he ran outside, he paused and considered that this might be the last time he’d ever be able to enter the house. He looked around and jumped up, grabbing one of the ace playing cards nailed to the wall above the door. It came off easily, the nail clattering to the floor.
He stuffed it in the large pocket of his windbreaker and darted outside, wincing when the screen door bumped against the frame when he shut it. He hid behind an old oak tree, sweating and light-headed, watching as the lights went on in each room. He saw Poppy looking out of the windows—she’d heard him, he could tell. After a few minutes, he darted for the barn, figuring she wouldn’t ever look for him there. The door slid open and he gently closed it behind him, his heart thumping wildly in his ears. He felt crazed—what was it about this house, this family? About seeing his old friend Poppy again?
The barn was almost completely dark. It was now dusk. Michael peered beyond the small window and saw Poppy pull some boxes out of her trunk, hesitate, sigh, look around—did she see him? He ducked. When he rose again, he saw the back door close properly thanks to the hinges he’d replaced a few years earlier; that door had never hung right, so he’d used Ed’s plane on the bottom edge. That was perhaps his boldest and most obvious home improvement.
He slumped to the floor. Once his eyes adjusted, he noticed all the familiar tools on the pegboard, the old ham cans filled with screws, nails, and bits, jars of oil, and dirty old rags. He remembered what Ed had told him: “After I kick the bucket, these tools will be yours.”
In the corner, he saw the old white refrigerator from the 1950s with the sleek, long perpendicular handle that looked like an exclamation mark, and proud, silver letters spelling out A-D-M-I-R-A-L across the front. “No wasted space!” That’s what Ed had said whenever he opened it up to grab one of the Point beers he’d brought with him from Wisconsin. Michael could vividly remember the afternoons he’d spent with Ed in the barn, and the story Ed told him about how his mother had begged his father for the refrigerator after she’d seen an ad touting all the food-storage potential in the door. “No wasted space!”
The machine was unplugged and felt dead. He looked inside, and in the light coming through the window, he saw the two cans of beer that might have been there for a decade tucked into the door. It was strange: that was when the news of Ed’s death really hit him, when he realized Ed would never return to drink them. Michael backed away from the refrigerator the way a boxer might back off after a blow. Without bothering to shut the door, he slipped out of the barn and disappeared into the trees.
Now, still wounded, he parked his truck in front of a pile of pavers behind the landscaping building and took a sip of coffee from his thermos. He had a nervous twitch in his right eye from thinking that soon he’d have to confront Ann and Poppy and insist his way back into the family.
Jason was in a fit when Michael walked in.
“What’s wrong?” Michael asked.
“Oh Jesus,” Jason said. “The Shaws’ house. I just checked on it.” He had a way of saying “Shaw” that made the name sound much more complicated than it was—Shawerer. “Should have gone sooner. Damn pipes froze. Place is a goddamn disaster.”
“Thermostat?”
“Nah, I change the batteries out every fall. Furnace is only a few years old. Beats me what happened. Place is ruined, man. That asshole’s going to rip me a new one when I tell him.”
“That’s what insurance is for.”
“I guess.”
Michael took a bite of an apple. It tasted sweeter than usual. “Karma’s a bitch,” Michael said, careful not to look Jason in the eyes.
Jason began to laugh. Michael knew that was how he’d respond.
He turned and pretended to reach for something in his drawer in order to allow himself a small, private smile. Mission accomplished.
THIRTY-ONE
Poppy
Denial was Poppy’s best option. She decided to pretend this would be just another summer, and the house would always be there, and her parents were on a quick trip to the Stop & Shop in Orleans and would be right back. Only it wasn’t even summer yet. It was the
first week of April, and the damp cold went straight to her bones. That first night at the Cape house she did manage to find the breaker and turn on the lights, but she didn’t know how to turn on the heat, and when she went to the bathroom she discovered that the toilet bowl was drained, empty. Fortunately, her father had left heaps of wood in the woodpile outside the back door. She sat under a sleeping bag in front of the fireplace, dreading the moment she’d have to emerge from her cocoon and go to the bathroom or actually do something. She could hear mice scampering between the walls; maybe that was the life she’d felt in the house when she first arrived?
Ann ditched her, but the next morning Noah arrived to spend the weekend with her.
“Aunt Poppy!” he said, his voice lower than she’d imagined it would be. He was awkward at first, and so was she: How could this be the same little guy who’d squealed with delight when she’d given him a bath? She hadn’t seen him since he was six. He had Ann’s precise features—her sculpted, thin nose and wide-set eyes—but he was sturdy in a way that neither Michael nor Ann was, barrel-chested and thick, with long, luscious blue-dyed bangs and dark brown hair.
Their connection was instant—two free spirits who cared little about what other people thought of them. Blue hair? Awesome—and even more awesome that Ann could raise a child so comfortable in his own skin. Noah told her he had spent as much time as he could with his grandparents every summer, and she could see her father’s influence when she watched Noah work the house. In no time, he got the water running and the old boiler chugged to life. They watched classic films and sat next to each other on the couch playing games on Noah’s laptop. He showed Poppy how to use Garage Band and he’d parse out the separate tracks for the mournful-sounding songs he’d recorded. Poppy thought his music was brilliant, like everything else he did. But what really united them was their love of the house.
“I don’t understand why my mom would want to sell,” Noah said. “This place is perfect. And it fits us. It’s, like, us.”
“I know,” Poppy said. “I can’t even imagine anyone else living here.”
“I hate them.”
Poppy laughed. “Me too. I’ve already imagined who they are. The woman—she has an elegant name. Something like Evelyn or Jacqueline. She buys organic and sleeps on one of those acupressure mats. She has a rule: no makeup on vacation.”
“Except lipstick,” Noah says, “because lipstick isn’t really makeup.”
Poppy laughed. “Her husband, his name is Travis.”
“Totally! And he’s a banker.”
“He likes to talk about deals. At parties, he tells everyone we’re due for a correction soon.”
“He’s on his phone all the time.”
“He can’t go to the beach because the sand irritates his feet, and the sun makes his psoriasis flare up,” said Poppy. “Instead, he sits around and reads Malcolm Gladwell books when he isn’t following the market.”
They went on like this about everything.
As soon as Poppy got used to Noah’s company, he had to go back to Boston, promising to return the next weekend. Poppy fell to pieces during the week. She missed her parents, Noah, and especially Brad. She even missed Ann, and was irritated that she hadn’t bothered to visit.
One morning, while Poppy was resting on the couch, someone knocked at the door, which startled her. Nobody knocked on doors in Wellfleet.
More efficient tap-tap-taps. “It’s me, Carol. Anyone home?”
Not Carol, the evil Realtor. Ann went on and on about all the stuff Carol wanted her to do around the house—Carol says this, Carol says that. She was like a stepmother.
Poppy looked around and thought about the messes she’d made. She’d let her clothes sit in rebellious heaps on the floor next to her bed. The frying pan with dried eggs had remained unwashed in the sink for days. Empties. Damp towels. Dust. Poppy could have done everything Ann asked her to do, but she didn’t—not because she was lazy. There was more to it; a simmering anger, a willful effort to defy Ann, who had been terse and cold when they spoke on the phone. Instead of talking about anything that mattered, she went over to-do lists at a clipped pace, cold and practical. What did it even mean that they were sisters? Ann treated their relationship as an inconvenience.
Another knock. Don’t answer, don’t answer.… She heard the key turn in the lock—of course Carol had a key. Poppy abruptly tossed off the throw blanket, stood up in the harsh chilly air, and smoothed out her hair. She felt guilty, busted. The door swung open, followed by energetic footsteps. Poppy said, “Um, hi?”
“So, someone is here.” Carol’s voice was cold, even angry. “I saw the car in the drive. I have some paperwork, and since I was on my way to a showing in Brewster I figured—wait.” She stopped in the doorway. “Poppy?”
“Yeah.”
“Is that really you?” It was remarkable to see her transform at that moment, from Realtor to surfer, professional to friend, like a play of the light.
“Kit?”
“Oh God, I haven’t heard that name in years. I go by Carol now.”
“Why would you go from Kit to Carol?”
Carol—no, Kit—laughed, a low, grumbly laugh that reminded Poppy of all the times they’d gotten high together at Dirk’s. “That was a name I gave myself when I started surfing. Typical teenage-girl thing to do, trying to change my identity. The surfer persona. I thought it would catch on, but I guess I wasn’t cool enough for Kit.”
“I thought you were Kit. And cool. Seriously, you changed my life.”
“Oh stop.”
“You did! I became a surfer because of you. You’ll always be Kit to me.”
Carol looked around the house. “I can’t believe you’re Ann’s sister. The ‘itinerant.’”
“Is that what she called me?”
“Sure did. She’s a ball-breaker.”
“Tell me about it.”
“You guys are really related?” She looked at the Wisconsin Badgers mug on the table. “I should have put it together. You were, like, the only person I’d ever known from the Midwest.”
“I’m so exotic.”
“God, I can’t believe this is your house. Hey, sorry about your parents. I was afraid to ask Ann what happened. I heard from the librarian in town. Everyone loved your mom and dad.”
“Thanks.”
“This place is a wicked mess.”
“Yeah—I know.”
Carol frowned. “You’re depressed.”
“I probably am.”
“Swells are supposed to be good tomorrow. Offshore. Storm coming. Let’s go.”
Poppy crossed her arms tight in front of her, defensive. “I don’t really surf anymore. It’s been a long time. And I’m used to warmer water.”
Carol smiled.
“I don’t even have a wet suit.”
“Some things don’t change. You never had any gear, Wisconsin. I’ve got an extra, I’ll bring it by. See you in the morning at your home beach. Let’s get you out of your funk.”
Carol was about to put a folder on the kitchen table but hesitated. “I have some paperwork for Ann.”
“She’s never here. She’s avoiding me.”
“She’d better avoid me now, too.” Carol set the folder on top of the bookshelf. “Can you give this to her when she finally shows up? She won’t answer my calls.”
“She won’t answer mine, either.”
* * *
THERE HAD BEEN SO MUCH EROSION over the years that the parking lot at LeCount was half the size it had been when Poppy was a kid. The lifeguard stand was blown on its side. There weren’t just trucks in the lot but cars—nice cars, the same cars she’d seen in the parking lot at the boulangerie. Poppy stepped out of Carol’s car with her wet suit halfway up, the top hanging limp from her hips, nervous. The sun broke over the dunes and fractured over the steel-gray water. The wind was cold, but it was a good cold, unlike the chill in the lonely house.
She expected to see the same hard-core crowd a
nd join in the super-tight camaraderie. Instead she saw clusters of surfers who looked at her with suspicion, making her feel like the outsider, although she could tell they were mostly newbies and old guys in their fifties and sixties with longboards and stand-up paddles. At least half of them were girls. She was used to this in other places, but it threw her off on the Cape, where she expected everything to remain unchanged, where she and Kit used to be among the only girls in the inner circle of OGs, or “originals,” and everyone treated them like younger sisters.
The surfers acknowledged her. Poppy could tell they thought she, too, was a newbie. She didn’t care what they thought, and she didn’t participate in the surf world one-upmanship that happened on land. What mattered was how well you could read and ride the waves. She wanted to lose herself in the water and the rhythm and the rush. She wanted to forget about Brad and Ann and the sale. She wanted to forget that her parents had died.
“Ready?” Carol said, looking more like Kit with her messy morning hair and broad smile. “Keep your eye out for sharks. They’re bad now.”
Poppy zipped up, got into the water, paddled out so she could take off deeper, and started reading the waves. She’d forgotten how heavy the water was in Wellfleet, how salty and thick with a stew of seaweed, how real.
The cold made her ankle and jaw begin to ache, and she felt the tug of insecurity that chased her out of the water a few years ago. Forget about it, she told herself. This wasn’t the pipeline, it was her home break. She paddled out to the lineup. The surf was good and Poppy was in great form. She started hitting the lips and cutbacks and got the little barrels. She surfed like she was in a dream, letting her thoughts recede the way they did. It felt great, amazing even, to be alive like this, all animal instinct and muscle memory. She was in the moment, standing on top of the water like she owned it.
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