An elderly man stood on the path above, leaning on a walking stick. He wore baggy twill pants, like their grandfather used to wear, a brown hacking jacket, and a faded tweed cap. He must have come from the bluffs around the bend. Annie suspected he might have seen Ronan pass by, but she didn’t dare ask.
The man’s border collie tore down the embankment, wagging his tail and barking. “Don’t mind Patch. He’s friendly. Happy for the company, no doubt. We don’t get many visitors here,” he said, his voice low, with a hint of a rasp. He was missing a tooth, like Annie. She wondered if the tooth fairy ever paid visits to elderly people. “Where did you two come from?”
“Boston,” Annie said.
“Boston. That’s a long way from here.”
Patch leaped up and licked Annie’s face. She supposed the dog must have been named for the spot of black over his left eye. “We’re visiting for the summer,” Annie said.
“Like the migrating swallows, eh? You’ve both come for the season. And where might you be staying?”
“At our great-aunt Maire’s cottage, over there.”
Ella tugged at her elbow. Annie shook her off. What? Aunt Maire probably knew him anyway, so what was the harm?
He paused for a moment. “The prodigal daughter returns. . . .”
“What do you mean?” Ella was clearly trying to make up her mind about him.
“That it’s been a long time since your mother has been to the island. I remember her well.”
“You were here then?” Ella asked.
“I’ve lived here my whole life. I’m one of the old-timers. Reilly Neale is my name. Fixing up the boat, are you? Used to be your grandmother’s when she was young—and her father’s before that. How that boat lasted so long, I’ll never know,” he went on. “Must have put a good finish on it. Wish I knew what they used.”
“Maybe it’s magic,” Annie said.
“Maybe.” His eyes crinkled. “I could get it seaworthy, if you promise to keep to the cove and not to get into too much mischief. Got materials at home for the job.”
Annie looked at her older sister. They could certainly use expert advice.
“You know something about boats?” Ella asked.
“Know something about boats? Been sailing since I could walk. Would be still, if my sight weren’t going.”
“All right,” Ella said. “You’re hired.”
“We can’t pay much,” Annie warned, not wanting to mislead him.
He laughed. “Consider it a donation to the cause. I’ll be back shortly,” he said. “I live on the other side of the point.”
Reilly returned within a half hour, bearing not only caulking and varnish but potato and cheese pies, cookies, three cups, and a flask of lemonade, which he’d tucked into a carrier fastened to Patch’s back. “Thought you might like to have a picnic after we’re done working.” He sat down on a piece of driftwood with a wince. He smelled strongly of cigarettes, but he didn’t smoke in front of them. “It’s the arthritis,” he said. He walked with a hitch, he told them, due to a fishing accident and an accumulation of misfortunes. “Things start to wear out when you’re old.”
“How old are you?” Ella asked.
“Eighty-five, this July.”
“That is old,” Annie said.
“Spoken with the unflinching honesty of youth.” He gave each of them a putty knife and held out a tin of thick brown goo. “Spread this on the seams. Not too thick. No need to frost it like a cake.”
“Will there be a party and cake for your birthday?” Annie asked.
“Probably not.”
“Sure, there will. Your family—”
“My family left years ago.”
“Why?”
He paused. “It was right before your grandmother disappeared. There’s no use dressing it up. The truth is, I used to drink too much in those days, and my wife eventually had had enough. Can’t say I blame her, thinking back on it now, thanks to my dear friend, hindsight. She took my daughter and son and left the island for good. They’ve lived on the mainland ever since. She remarried, went on with her life, as she should have done, given the circumstances. Heard I have granddaughters your ages . . .” His voice trailed off.
“You haven’t met them?” Ella asked.
He shook his head.
“You should write to them,” Annie said.
“I did.”
“When it’s something important, you should never give up,” Ella said, perhaps thinking of their parents.
Reilly took off his hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, a pale strip above the weathered skin of his face, white hair ruffled by the wind. “When they talk about living the life of Reilly, they weren’t talking about mine, that’s for certain. I guess some of us are destined to navigate difficult seas.”
“Maybe you should get a better boat to ride them out,” Annie suggested. “The waves, I mean.”
“You two have an answer for everything, don’t you?” Reilly grunted. “Well then, maybe I’ll give that a try.”
Nora called to the girls, her voice borne away by the wind. To the east of the cottage stood the copse of spruce and fir. To the west, there were waves ragged as torn paper, as far as the eye could see, the mainland little more than a flat line beyond. Seals bobbed in the surf near the rocks, skin black, glistening, more of them now than when Nora and the girls first arrived, the silvery one too, ever present, barking orders, sunning herself on the ledges of the outer rocks. No sign of Annie or Ella anywhere. They’d taken off in such a hurry that morning, she didn’t know which direction they’d gone.
The scene was deserted except for the cats, Flotsam and Jetsam, nearly identical gray tabbies (Flotsam was missing part of her tail; Jetsam had a nick in his left ear) that lolled on the deck.
“I don’t suppose you know where they are.” She squatted down and scratched Jetsam’s ears, eliciting a motorcycle-engine purr. They weren’t lap cats, but they tolerated demonstrations of affection on their own, decidedly feline terms. “I thought you two were supposed to be working. You eat your wages and laze about.”
Jetsam winked and stretched with a contented sigh, aware, perhaps, that he’d already achieved tenure and didn’t need to exert himself.
“They’re down on the beach.” Maire came up behind her.
“Oh, I didn’t hear you—”
“I came through the trees. You don’t need to worry about the girls here. It’s not like the city. They can have some freedom to roam. Let out the lines a bit, so to speak.” Maire was wearing white coveralls.
Nora couldn’t think what she might be up to. “Has there been a toxic spill?” She smiled.
Maire laughed. “Oh, no. It’s the bees. I left my hat and gloves at the house.”
“Bees? Are you an exterminator too?”
“Heavens, no. I meant honeybees. I started keeping them after my husband and son died. At first, it was a way to pass the time, a hobby, but it’s grown into something of a side business. I sell the jars at the farmers’ market and by special order. I thought you might like to lend a hand today. It’s time to check the hives. I’d ask Polly, but she’s too much of a chatterbox. She sets the bees on edge.”
“I’d love to help. But the girls—”
“Our houses are so close together, they’ll figure it out. Or leave a note on the door, and they can find us when they’re ready, though we’ll probably be done before they are. You know children and their schemes. They could be busy for hours. Play is good for them. There’s not enough play in children’s lives these days, if you ask me. Too many schedules to keep.”
It was hard for Nora to overcome her tendency to hover, her instinct to protect the girls heightened by what had happened in Boston. But perhaps Maire was right. The sooner the girls put some distance between themselves and the complications at home, by whatever means the island offered, the better.
Nora accompanied Maire to the garden shed at Cliff House and put on her aunt’s spare beekeep
er’s outfit. She felt like an astronaut, the grassed meadow surrounding the hives at the edge of Maire’s property a new frontier. At first her steps were ungainly, tentative, the suit cumbersome, the netted hat too, a pith helmet, really, with a mesh veil. Bees circled, seemingly curious about the visitors in their midst. They alighted on her gloved hands and shoulders and scaled her arms, antennae twitching, gossamer wings fluttering, exploring the peaks and valleys of the fabric.
Maire walked ahead of her, steps easy, measured, as if she were leading a procession. She opened and closed boxes, wafting smoke as she went to calm the bees. They didn’t seem to mind the intrusion.
“Hail to the queen,” Maire said. “She rules the hive well. See how the others follow her every move. They’re Italian honeybees. I chose them because they’re reputed to have the best dispositions. It rained the day I was supposed to put the bees in, so we had to wait. A keeper told me to put them in a cool, dry place until the weather cleared, so I sprayed them with sugar water and brought them into the house with me.”
“In the house?” Nora asked. She couldn’t imagine doing that.
“Polly just about had a fit when she saw them, until she realized they wouldn’t do her any harm. In the end, they weren’t bad tenants at all. I missed them after they moved out, though I think they’re happier here, in their own place. Each hive has twelve thousand bees. Kingdoms unto themselves, I suppose you could say. Close your eyes. They beat their wings at two hundred and fifty cycles per second. That creates the humming sound. It’s astonishing, isn’t it, the complexity of life?”
Nora did as Maire instructed. The melodic hum filled her senses with a song of purpose and beauty. Moving among the colony, like swimming in the ocean, gave her a serenity, a oneness with nature, that seemed, however fleeting, a form of benediction.
“Like this.” Maire showed her how to waft smoke over the boxes. Nora paused, the smoker dangling from her hands like a hypnotist’s watch, swinging back and forth, the smoke rising upward in a twisting column.
“I know we haven’t been acquainted very long,” Maire said, “not in real time, but I want you to know you can depend on me.”
Depend on her, as she hadn’t been able to depend on her mother. Or Malcolm.
“I’ve been drifting these past few months,” Nora admitted. “It’s not like me. I don’t like the way it feels.”
Maire thought for a moment. “Perhaps not so much drifting as gathering yourself,” she said. “We each have our own paths to walk. One isn’t necessarily better than another. They jig and jag and turn back on themselves. They have dead ends and breathtaking vistas too, if we stop and look.”
“Yes.” There was, after all, Maire, standing before her, who she might never have seen again but for the letter. There were the girls, those challenging, precious bundles of humanity, the best things to have come out of her marriage. And her growing knowledge of herself, what she wanted, what inspired her. These things had come from that path, difficult as it had been. There was this island, this land, and the ways in which it offered sustenance. The ocean. The garden. The fields.
“After all, you have to understand where you’ve been before you can begin to move forward,” Maire said. “You’ve already weathered some of the worst of storms.”
Had she? “I’d rather have avoided them entirely.”
“I’ve wished that myself. But life doesn’t work that way, does it? We can’t be in calm waters all our lives. I suppose our existence might be rather dull, in the end, if we were.”
“Sometimes I feel like I’m fighting against a current—that I have been, my whole life. It’s hard to explain.”
“You had an unusual start, separated from the home, and some of the people, you loved. That would cause anyone to wonder about their place in the world, let alone the other things you’ve been through lately.”
The bees hummed, a choir. “Thank you for finding me, for sending another letter,” Nora said. “It must have been difficult, not getting anything in return for so long.”
“I should thank you. For answering.” Maire opened the box, exposing row upon row of labyrinthine honeycombs. “Whenever I have a problem, I bring it to the bees. Here, take this.” She handed Nora the box lid. “See, that’s the honey.” She pointed to the glistening amber beads. “Even among life’s stings, there can be sweetness. There will be for you too. Give it time.”
Chapter Five
Every afternoon, Nora and the girls swam in the cove. They stepped carefully over the sun-baked stones. Their towels, draped over pieces of driftwood, snapped in the breeze like colorful flags. Sometimes they wore snorkels, so that they could observe the vibrant life beneath the surface—sea stars, minnows, anemones. They made the acquaintance of an eel that lived in the southern rocks. He peeked at them from his stone fortress, a sour expression on his face, thick lips moving soundlessly. He had an elder’s visage, reminding Nora of a Confucian sage or an English magistrate.
“Will he bite?” Annie asked. They treaded water, a group of three, legs scissoring among the sea grass.
“Probably only if he feels threatened,” Nora said. “Best to watch him from here, all the same.”
What had he witnessed during his long life? Had he, or his ancestors, seen Nora and her mother the day they went out in the coracle for the last time? Had they overheard the conversations Nora had been too young to remember?
“Mom, you’re drifting,” Ella warned as Nora edged too near the rocks.
“Thanks, El.” Nora kicked toward them. “Do you want to swim laps? How about if you go between these rocks?” She indicated a reasonable, safe distance in chest-high water.
“What about you?”
“I’ll be right here.” She gestured to the wider cove.
She dove down, surfaced, stroking through the water with ease. It was as if the ocean itself were breathing, its swell the rise and fall of its chest, as if she breathed with it, inextricably connected. A seal appeared, then another, swimming alongside, leading her into deeper waters. She felt as if she could go on for hours, as if she might never stop.
Maeve had taught her to swim in that very cove, a hand on her back. “Chin up. Eyes on the sky. It’s all right. I’ve got you. There. You’re floating. See. You’re a natural, like me.” They moved on to the breaststroke, which Nora liked because it made her feel like a tadpole or a water bug, skimming along the surface, then the freestyle. “Elbows up, reach and grab the water. Kick from your hips. That’s where the power is. Head down, chin to your chest. That’s it.”
The seals had followed her and Maeve during the lessons.
“What do they want?” Nora asked.
“They’re curious. They wonder what sort of creatures we are.”
“What are we?”
“What do you want to be?”
“A sea creature.”
“Then that’s what you are.”
Mom!” Ella cried.
Nora turned, treading water. She was outside the cove now. Ella stood on an outcrop, waving her arms and yelling. “Didn’t you hear me calling you? That’s too far!” She looked so small, standing there.
The seals ringed Nora in a half circle, as if to see what she’d do next. She found their scrutiny odd, but she wasn’t afraid. They fascinated her too. “What are you thinking?” she asked. “What do you want from me?”
They dove out of sight. She waited a few minutes, hoping they would reappear, but the water remained still. They had moved on. It was time for her to do the same. She stroked back to shore, limbs burning. She’d underestimated how far she’d gone, how much energy it would take to return.
“You need to stay closer. I could barely see you,” Ella said as Nora emerged from the water.
“I was following the seals,” Nora replied. Her body felt heavy, her muscles rubbery, now that she was on land, the waves no longer supporting her.
“It’s fine for the seals. They live out there. We don’t.” Ella paused. “I swam the lengths
faster than I ever have. You should have seen me.”
“Me too,” Annie said.
“Must be something in the water.” Nora shook the droplets from her hair.
They spread the towels and collapsed on the beach, beads of water sliding off their bodies, absorbed by the sand, dried by the sun, a drop at a time, leaving a salty film on their skin. Nora recalled lying in the sun like this at the modest beach house of her friend Maria Cordova. From the ages of eleven to thirteen, when Maria and Nora were best friends, Nora would go to the Cape for a week each July. She loved the smell of paella and the boisterous conversation of Maria’s extended family, in contrast to her own quiet home. She was the only student at her school, St. Agnes, without a mother.
“Will it stay warm like this?” Ella asked. “I want to work on my tan.”
“It’s hard to say. There might be a storm later,” Nora replied. “Though they tend to blow through quickly at this time of year.”
“How do you know?” Annie asked.
“The ocean is telling us.” The waves had flattened to rolling swells that crashed against the shore, gaining momentum. Her father had told her what to watch for during their Saturday-morning sailings in Boston Harbor when she was a child.
“What else does it say?”
“That remains to be seen.” Nora tickled her. “Let’s go up to the cottage. It’s almost time to make dinner.”
While Nora washed dishes that evening (she and the girls each took a night—the dish democracy, they called it), the girls played Jenga and discussed the validity of fairy tales, a literary debate that was proving particularly contentious. Annie believed in them completely. Ella had her doubts.
“They aren’t meant to be real,” Ella said. “They’re stories people make up to explain things they don’t understand, that frightened them.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Your argument isn’t sound. There’s no evidence to support your point of view.”
The Cottage at Glass Beach Page 6