Sandcastles

by Luanne Rice

  Regis was making a mistake. She wanted love and romance, a fairy-tale dream. It killed Agnes to see her sister working so hard to invent something that could never be real. Because Agnes knew—she was sure—that Regis was trying to make everything right. If she and Peter could be in love, then she could pretend her family hadn’t fallen apart.

  Peter wasn’t right for her sister. He was nice, fine, but he was so ordinary. And Regis was awesome beyond words. She could climb trees so tall, Agnes had once believed her sister was going up there to inspect the moon at close range. She once swam all the way across Long Island Sound, with Agnes and Cecilia rowing the boat alongside to make sure she got to Orient Point safely. She was an honors student at Boston College, she worked two jobs, and she was the best sister in the world.

  Regis had taken care of Agnes after their family had broken up. Cecilia too, but she was almost too young to know what was happening. Regis had pulled herself back after Ireland—put the trauma away and locked it shut forever. Agnes admired Regis’s ability to block out and forget. The sisters had that in common. It had always been Regis and Agnes, sticking together through thick and thin.

  No one had ever had a better sister. When she’d gone off to college, Agnes had missed her so much; now, with her getting married, Agnes couldn’t even imagine.

  All Agnes could do was pray. That’s what got her through life. She climbed out of bed, walked over to the window. Knelt down, gazed out at the Academy grounds, with the long and beautiful stone walls. They held such secrets and mysteries. In a way, they were responsible for their family tragedy, and they held the promise of their salvation. They had been built by their beloved ancestors.

  Kneeling, she gazed out at the land and the walls, and started praying the Memorare. Beside her, on the windowsill, was Sisela, their cat. She was ancient, in feline terms—eighteen, just slightly older than Agnes—pure white, nearly toothless. Agnes wondered whether Sisela remembered her father. While Agnes prayed, Sisela purred. She touched her nose to Agnes’s cheek. She was a saintly, supernatural cat, Agnes was convinced—always bringing comfort to the family, always alert to passing angels. A sea breeze blew in, and girl and cat turned their faces toward the window. There in the glade, leaning on the oldest wall, Agnes saw her mother. She started to wave out the window, but her mother wasn’t looking.

  Her mother’s head was bent. She seemed to be staring at the sheet of blue paper she held in her hands. Even from here, Agnes could see her mother’s shoulders shaking, could see that her mother was crying.

  After the boat debacle, Regis borrowed Peter’s Jeep to drive home. She couldn’t stay away any longer, no matter what the Drakes thought. With the top down, she kept her eyes peeled for cops hiding out in their favorite spots. Her aunt had pointed them out—not just here in town, but also on I-95—teaching her that state troopers liked to hide under the bridge, behind the bank of mountain laurel in Niantic.

  Driving along, Regis felt the sun on her face. Like her mother, aunt, and two sisters, she had fair skin and freckles. When she was young, her father had always reminded her to use sunscreen. They would play on the beach, building driftwood and sand sculptures and setting up his shots, and he would always call her over, quickly smooth sunscreen on her shoulders and nose, risking losing the play of light on water and marsh grass in order to protect her skin.

  Her eyes welled up, thinking of how he had always tried to protect her. Her mother seemed to have forgotten that—the gentleness he had for the family, how he would remind them to put on sunscreen, take their jackets when it was cold, how he would tell them bedtime stories and sit with them if they had bad dreams. Was he really coming home? Her stomach flipped as she wondered what was in his letter and what her mother would have to say about it.

  Regis’s ring glinted in the bright light. It sparkled like a star, as if Peter had climbed a ladder into the night, pulled Arcturus straight out of the velvet sky so she could wear it on her finger. But seeing her mother gather those moonstones this morning had really hit her; her parents had been so much in love, they hadn’t needed anything like a diamond.

  By the time she saw the big stone walls and wrought-iron gates, her heart was pounding. A stretch of marshland eased up to the Academy property, serene with silver-green grass waving in the late summer breeze. Pulling over, she stared through the iron fence at the cluster of stone buildings, at the cross atop the chapel spire silhouetted by bright blue sky. For the second time that day, she shivered to think of her father’s last sculpture.

  “Pssst,” she heard.

  She scanned the area, saw nothing but a muskrat across the marsh and a pair of osprey circling above the glowing water, not far from where she and Cece had found the herons’ nest. She watched Sisela, the family’s white cat, stalking mice in the reeds. Suddenly Cece poked her head out of the drainage ditch, grinning insanely, pollen-glittery brown curls springing from her head and tangled with twigs and bits of grass.

  “What are you doing in there?” Regis demanded.

  “I came through the tunnel, of course,” Cecilia said.

  “The tunnels are only for seniors,” Regis said.

  “Dream on, if you think I’m following that stupid rule. I’ve known about the tunnels since I was five. And guess who showed me?”

  “Me, I know,” Regis said. “I’ve been ruing the day ever since. Where’s Mom?”

  “Waiting for you to get home.”

  “Where’s Agnes?”

  “Well, that’s why I’m in the tunnels,” Cecilia said, flashing the smile of a slightly demented spy. “I’ve been following her.”

  “And…?” Regis asked, trying not to look or sound too worried.

  “First she went to the Blue Grotto,” Cecilia said. “She walked around the statue of Mary five times. Also, Mom thought she finished her bagel at breakfast, but she didn’t. She brought it as an offering, and she left it at the Blessed Mother’s feet.”

  “I’m sure the birds enjoyed it,” Regis said. “Or the chipmunks. Then what?”

  “Then,” Cecilia said, her spy bravado faltering slightly, “the walls…”

  “The walls,” Regis said, closing her eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “I saw her.”

  “How far did she get?”

  “All the way to the edge.”

  “Did she go in?”

  Cecilia nodded gravely.

  “And you saw her come out of the water?” Regis asked, her heart starting to kickbox.

  Cecilia nodded again. “Why does she do it?” she asked.

  Her nutty-young-adventurer expression was gone, replaced by something completely vulnerable and quite painful to see, and suddenly Regis knew that Cecilia had been hiding in the ditch waiting for her—that this wasn’t an accidental meeting at all. Cecilia blinked, her eyes huge, waiting for Regis to say something big-sisterly and wise.

  “I’ll tell you some other time,” Regis said, shaking off the weird emotions pouring through her, the ones she’d really do anything, anything to get rid of. Checking the time again, she shook her head.

  “We should get to the convent now,” Cece said. “Mom and Aunt Bernie are over there, and I think they want to talk to us.”

  “Where is Agnes?”

  “Drying off.”

  “Okay. Come on—hop in. Let’s go see Mom.”

  “No, I’m going to get Agnes first. We’ll meet you there.”

  Cecilia took off in a blur. Regis watched in admiration as Cece disappeared through the chink in the stones, taking a shortcut through the tunnel. Regis knew how protective Cece felt of Agnes, how protecting someone else could make you feel much braver in your own life, brave enough to go into the dark, damp tunnels. Sitting very still, Regis remembered the first time she had ever been in there. Like Cece, she’d been five. It was so black and slippery, with hardly any light coming through the stones, and with moss growing on the path underfoot; it should have felt scary, but it wasn’t. She’d been with her father. Her hand h
ad been in his.

  “When we’re together, we can do anything!” she’d said to him. She had believed it, too. If only it had been true; if only the last time they’d been together hadn’t ruined their family. She felt a headache starting behind her eyes, the way it always did when she started to remember that day.

  Putting the Jeep in gear, she drove slowly through the stone gates, up the hill to the convent. She parked next to the nuns’ station wagon, took a deep breath, and went inside.

  Honor sat in a green chair, holding a cup of tea. She watched Sister Bernadette Ignatius—her sister-in-law, the girls’ aunt Bernie—pouring tea for Agnes, plunking in a sugar cube, handing it to her. Agnes shook her head.

  “She doesn’t want any,” Cecilia said.

  “Agnes. You were in the water so long, your lips are still blue,” Sister Bernadette said. “Drink the tea.”

  Agnes shook her head again, but as if she hadn’t noticed, Bernie placed the delicate white teacup on the mahogany table at her elbow. Agnes stared at it, as if she could read messages in the tea leaves.

  “She won’t touch it,” Regis said.

  “She won’t,” Cece chimed in.

  “Well, it’s there if she changes her mind,” Bernie said. She stood tall, straightened her habit, and sat down at the Windsor chair beside her desk. Honor gazed over at her. Sometimes, even after all these years, it still gave her a shock to see her old best friend, John’s sister, in a nun’s habit. Bernie looked so much like her brother, with all the bright wildness Honor remembered from their childhood. Honor knew that there had been parts of herself Bernie had traded away, to fit into her life as a nun.

  “Mom, will you tell us what’s going on?” Regis asked. “A tea party is really nice, but honestly—”

  “Is this your shower?” Cece asked, confused. “I know we’re having a tea party for your shower…”

  “Cecilia!” Honor said.

  “Great, Cece,” Regis said, trying to smile, as if she wanted to make everything normal. “You just let the cat out of the bag. A tea party for my shower? Mom, Aunt Bernie, I thought you didn’t approve of my getting married, so I never thought you’d throw me a shower.”

  “We’ll talk about that later,” Honor said.

  “I screwed up the surprise!” Cece wailed. “I’m sorry! It’s just that with everything happening…”

  “It’s okay, honey, I hate surprises anyway,” Regis said, hugging her from one side as Agnes, not speaking, hugged her from the other side.

  Honor stared at her daughters, comforting each other. The love among them was extraordinary, and always had been. She glanced over at Bernie, met her eyes. Was she thinking of her own beloved sibling?

  “Okay, everyone,” Honor said. “I want to talk to you about something. A letter from your father.”

  “Daddy?” Agnes asked, the first word she had spoken all day.

  “I saw it,” Regis said. “I held it in my hand. It really was from him, and he said he’s—”

  “Girls, he’s coming home,” Honor said.

  “He’s getting out of jail?” Cecilia asked.

  “He didn’t even deserve to be there,” Agnes whispered. “All he did was save Regis. How could they punish him for that?”

  Honor’s stomach tightened, as it always did when she talked about John with the girls. She had to reassure them, and she had to try to explain why John had been so adamant about not fighting the charges. Honor had begged him to claim self-defense, to call one of Tom Kelly’s powerful Irish barrister cousins. But he wouldn’t even discuss it. And once his mind was made up, she knew that was the end of it.

  “He’ll be so upset,” Cece said. “That we stopped visiting him.”

  “It’s true, Mom,” Regis said. “Won’t he?”

  “I didn’t even know he was coming home this soon,” Agnes said. “I thought he wasn’t supposed to get out till the end of the year.”

  “Did they pardon him, Mom?” Regis asked. “Is that what happened? Did his lawyer, or his barrister, whatever it’s called, finally get the court to realize that he’s not a killer?”

  “He did kill that man, though,” Cece said in a low, terrible voice.

  “Manslaughter,” Agnes said bleakly.

  “He’s being released for good behavior,” Honor said. “Sweethearts, it’s complicated. You love your father, and he loves you. That will never change. When I read this letter to you, you’re going to have some questions. You might feel upset at me for not telling you more sooner.”

  “Read it, Mom!” Regis demanded.

  “Let your mother finish,” Bernie said, frowning slightly.

  “I’m going to read it, Regis. I just want to prepare you all. It’s not exactly what I expected to hear, and I’m sure that’s true of you, too.” Honor looked over at Bernie. Did she know what was coming? Was she in on it somehow? Honor was close to her, as a sister-in-law, but she knew that Bernie’s first loyalty was to her brother. If Bernie did know, she was giving nothing away: she sat there, both impassive and on the edge of her seat.

  Honor pulled the blue stationery from the blue envelope, lowered her eyes, and began to read.

  Dear Honor,

  How are you? How are the girls? I think of you all, every day, all day. That is a fact, and the same as it has always been. Thank you for letting me know about Regis. It seems impossible to believe that she is old enough to have a boyfriend, much less get married. She hasn’t said one word about it in her letters. Thank you for forwarding them to me, by the way. I wonder what it means, that she didn’t see fit to tell me about her marriage. I have a lot of thoughts about that.

  You could probably tell me her exact reasons, you know her so well. One thing that comes to mind is, maybe she doesn’t want me to feel bad. Doesn’t want me to think of her walking down the aisle without me holding her arm. Is that crazy? After all this time, is that the last thing she would want?

  I’m assuming the wedding is at Star of the Sea. You didn’t mention it, and I’ve wondered about that, too. Don’t worry or feel bad, Honor. I might not tell you either, if the tables were turned. How could I do that to you, evoke a place so important to us, to our family, the chapel where you and I looked into each other’s eyes, promised to love, honor, and cherish, where we said our “I do’s,” where our life together began? I hope that’s the reason you didn’t tell me, and not a fear that I would show up.

  At that, Regis gasped, and Honor looked up from the letter.

  “He really thinks that?” she asked. “It’s not true! I just didn’t think he’d be home in time….”

  “Just listen, sweetheart,” Honor said.

  “Let your mother finish,” Bernie said.

  Here is what I want, Honor: to be at our daughter’s wedding. And I believe you want me to as well—or you wouldn’t have told me about her getting married.

  I’ve respected your wishes, Honor. I agree with your reasons, most of the time. They made more sense to me when I was in prison.

  Back then—

  “Back then?” Regis asked. “When did he get out? Why didn’t anyone tell us?”

  “Sshh,” Bernie said. “Listen.”

  Back then, it was so clear. I had screwed up so badly. I’d messed up things with you so ridiculously—what right did I have to even question your wishes? Life in prison, everything is black and white. Good and bad. There were no doubts. I hated myself so much for what I’d done to land inside there, I judged myself unworthy to question you. But these last six months, everything has shifted.

  Nature will do that. Staring out at the sky through bars keeps you from wondering too much. Honor, I used to think I’d go crazy if I wondered too much. But being on the mountaintop, or the tundra, or the seaside, or the sea itself breaks all the questions wide open.

  Honor stopped, scanned the next part of the letter, which she would not read to the girls. She felt their tension, wanting her to go on. Clear, blue light slanted through the arched windows, falling on the letter
she held on her lap.

  The questions all have to do with the same thing, you see. And there is only one answer. Think about that, Honor. You’re the one who first told me, so long ago. My wise…

  Again, she stopped, unwilling to read his words out loud. She should have edited the letter before bringing it before the children.

  I will see you soon, all of you. And I will be at Regis’s wedding unless you, or she, wishes otherwise.

  “That’s the end of the letter,” Honor said.

  When she looked up, she saw the shock in her daughters’ faces. She wanted to rush into the explanation, tell them everything she wanted them to know and understand. Instead, she sat quietly, waiting.

  “He’s out?” Regis asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Since when?”

  “Six months. Just as he said in the letter—”

  “Weren’t you going to tell us?” Regis shrieked.

  “Regis,” Cecilia said. “She probably was. And besides, who cares, as long as he’s coming home!”

  “But why didn’t you, Mom?”

  “Because I didn’t know myself until just a few days ago.”

  “Why didn’t he come home right away?” Regis asked. “How could he have stayed away from us?”

  “Your father carries his own burdens,” Bernie said, and Honor felt grateful to her for jumping in. “He feels guilty for what he did. He took a man’s life. And he’s sorry about that. There’s also the fact that he went to jail. He feels terrible for what you’ve all gone through.”

  “So he wanted to stay out of our lives?” Regis asked. “Agnes, did you hear that?”

  Honor looked at Agnes, who sat there silently, eyes closed tight, hands balled into fists.

  “He must be lonely,” Cece said.

  “Where is he now? Where did he write the letter from?” Regis asked.

  “I don’t know. It didn’t have a stamp or postmark, it was delivered by hand. Bernie, thank you for dropping it off at the cottage….”