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.
The olive-green armoire came in first, to be positioned against the living-room wall facing the fireplace. It was followed by the sofa and two armchairs – stripped of their slipcovers for the move. Feeling like a traffic cop, Sarah beckoned them on. Forty minutes later her natural pine harvest table and dark bentwood chairs were in place. The brown leather recliners went into the den. All boxes not designated for upstairs would go in there too. Sarah had assumed she’d have to set up her queen-sized bed with its iron headboard, but a peek round the door showed it waiting to be readied for the night. Last in were the washer and dryer. Again the men went above and beyond in getting them hooked up for her in the mud room.
She headed upstairs to get cash from her wallet to give them each a generous tip, then stood waving goodbye from the front step as they climbed aboard the truck. They had been there just over three hours. The house was already to beginning to look like home. A few weeks and lots of paint would pay maximum dividends. Her former mother-in-law had given her a hand-blown glass vase that she was now ready to put back out on the half-moon foyer table. Iris Colefax was a lovely woman. Sarah missed their relationship.
She was finally hungry and had just finished a hasty meal of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich when she heard a cat meowing plaintively somewhere outside. As she was peering through the rain-streaked panes of the French doors, the bell rang.
‘Who can that be?’ She stood, momentarily flummoxed, before making for the front door. She ope
ned it to see a sturdily-built older woman wearing a sensible coat along with bright orange Crocks standing on the steps. Her plump face was a maze of fine wrinkles, but her bobbed dark hair was only sparingly threaded with gray, and her posture was upright, making the stick in her right hand look like a prop. Tucked under her left arm was a plastic-wrapped loaf of something.
‘I’m Nellie Armitage from across the road,’ she announced cheerfully. ‘Your official nosy neighbor. They don’t just exist in books, you know.’ Sarah knew those who would have kept a stranger on the step, but she hadn’t been brought up that way.
‘Hi, I’m Sarah Draycott. Please come in,’ she encouraged.
‘Just for a moment.’ The woman entered nippily, confirming Sarah’s thought that the stick was mainly for show. ‘I hear you’re from Chicago!’ The dark eyes twinkled. ‘Word gets around on winged feet here. I’ve brought you a loaf of banana bread.’ She poked at the Saran-wrapped oblong.
‘Oh, that is nice.’
The round face broke into a beaming smile. ‘It’s been in the freezer for months if not years. I’m not much of a sweet eater. Just a blatant excuse to get my foot in the door. But you look too nice a girl to hoodwink with trumped-up offerings.’
‘Thank you.’ Sarah took the bread and set it on the table by the staircase. ‘I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.’
Coat and cane deposited in the foyer, Nellie Armitage followed Sarah into the living room. ‘My, you’ve already got your furniture in place. Looks right comfy.’
The room did look inviting, even with the sofa and chairs lacking their slipcovers. A fire would have made a nice contrast against the rain streaming down the windows. Sarah hadn’t yet decided between gas logs and wood burning. She wished she could have offered sherry, although she doubted alcohol was ever needed to bump up her visitor’s obvious zest for life. Nellie closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
‘Good aura. No restless spirits here, so far as I can tell.’
‘That’s nice to know,’ said Sarah; she’d just as soon not see Nan Fielding floating down the stairs. ‘Are you a medium?’
‘Can’t make that boast,’ Nellie replied with beaming honesty, ‘but I do attend the spiritualist church out by Dobbs Mill. Wouldn’t call myself devout, though. Take anything too serious and it stops being fun. That’s the way I look at it.’
Sarah bit back a smile. Her Aunt Beth would not think speaking of religion as a recreational activity amusing. ‘How about a cup of coffee?’ she suggested when her guest was seated on the sofa.
‘Just had one. You sit yourself down; I’ll guess your feet need resting after a busy morning.’
Very hospitable, thought Sarah. Increasingly amused, she settled herself in one of the armchairs.
‘Glad to have you in the neighborhood.’
‘I’m really looking forward to living here.’
‘Mind if I call you Sarah?’
‘I’d like that.’
‘How old do you think I am?’ Nellie fired the question as if sure of a winner.
This was tricky. Sarah had learned from her grandparents and their friends that the older people got the more eager they were to admit to their true ages, even to the point of boasting of the number of years under their belts. Best to go with the honest answer.
‘Seventy-five?’
‘Ninety,’ Nellie shot back smugly. Sarah tried and failed to smother a laugh. Given the bubbling echo from the sofa no offence was taken. Her visitor was fully aware of her entertainment value.
‘Well, you certainly don’t look it.’
‘I was the youngest of seven, the only one left now. Never married and can’t say it worried me any.’ She went on to talk about Reggie, her devoted great-nephew living only a few miles away in Ferry Landing with his nice wife Mandy and nine-year-old son, Brian. ‘Reggie will be coming to collect me at five. Always spend Friday nights with him and the family. Now tell me about you. Did your job bring you up here?’ Nellie leaned forward as if hanging on the answer. Sarah could see the irrepressible little girl peering from those sparkling brown eyes, awaiting further revelations.
‘No, I’m lucky in having work I can do anywhere. Being single I don’t have any ties. I design patterns for knitting magazines.’
‘What a fun-sounding job!’ Sarah could read the unspoken question in the revealing eyes. Did it pay well? The answer would have been very nicely. ‘But aren’t you rather young not to want to be out in the hustle and bustle?’
‘I’m thirty-four.’
‘You don’t look close to that, and such a pretty girl. My mother would have described you as bonnie.’
‘Thank you.’
Nellie looked around the room. ‘Would you believe I haven’t been in this house since Nan Fielding moved in? She was a teacher. Taught high school English, did you know that?’
‘Yes, the realtor told me. What was she like?’
‘Kept to her lonesome. Didn’t let the conversation go beyond the weather and an occasional mention of her garden if I saw her outside.’
Sarah considered this from Nan Fielding’s vantage point. She could reasonably have sized Nellie up as the sort who, once having got a foot in the door, would be constantly showing up when least wanted and increasingly hard to budge.
The brown eyes met hers with a knowing twinkle. ‘I can guess what you’re thinking, but Nan was just the same with everyone else – kept them all at a distance. I sure will enjoy having you for a neighbor.’ Nellie nodded decisively. ‘A good number of people on this road are summer people, only here from June through September. Oh, sometimes they begin trickling back in May, but not this year. It’s been too cold and wet.’
‘Does it seem a little flat when they go?’
Nellie gave the question its due deliberation. ‘I miss the children. My great-nephew’s boy Brian always enjoys the excitement they bring. This is a great place for family vacations. The parents like being able to let the older ones go off and enjoy themselves in the good old-fashioned way without constantly worrying something dreadful could happen to them. There’s so little crime here, you see. Most people round here don’t bother locking their doors. The only person I ever knew to have an alarm ringy dingy put in was Nan Fielding.’
‘There’s not one here now. I’d have noticed.’
‘Taken out. I saw the van pull in and spoke to the driver. Said the real estate agency didn’t think it was a good selling feature.’ Nellie preened, then sobered. ‘You have to ask yourself what happened in Nan’s life before coming here to make her feel in need of home protection.’
Sarah looked doubtful. She had some curiosity about the former tenant but it wasn’t overwhelming. ‘Can we assume something bad happened? The majority of people I know have them.’
‘That’s Chicago.’
‘Gangsterville.’ Sarah laughed. ‘Where did Nan come from?’
‘Boston. Can’t tell you more than that.’ Clearly this was disappointing. Nellie’s interpretation of only staying for a moment was an unusual one, but Sarah couldn’t get annoyed – she was old and very likely lonely. And it did feel good to just sit.
‘So you don’t get many break-ins around here?’
‘They’re a rarity and I never heard of one turning violent. The last I heard of anyone letting himself in where he’d no business going uninvited was Willie Watkins. He’s a sad drunk and you can’t blame his daughter, who’s past her own prime and has a leaky roof and bad knees to worry about, for kicking him out when he gets to singing all night. Not that he has a bad voice,’ Nellie conceded in the manner of giving the devil his due. ‘And it was winter – this past January, so you can’t rightly blame the old cockroach for getting under cover.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ Sarah pictured the red nose, stubbly-gray chin and knitted gloves with most of the fingers gone. ‘Did he wake the householders up?’
Sea Glass Summer Page 2