Sandcastles

by Luanne Rice

  “Like my picture,” Agnes murmured.

  “Your picture?”

  “On my camera,” Agnes said. “I tried to take it the night I fell. I wanted to capture…” She stopped herself, embarrassed.

  “Your vision?” he asked.

  “You believe me?” she asked.

  “I get it, Agnes. When life is really hard, it’s okay to need help. I did it when Paddy was sick; I imagined his guardian angel taking care of him. It helped me a lot.”

  “Do you think they’re not real?” she asked, worried that he’d try to talk her out of believing. “My vision, his guardian angel?”

  “The opposite,” he said, turning to give her a quick, bright smile. “I’m sure they are. They help us get to where we have to go.”

  “Where we have to go,” she murmured, gazing at him. She relaxed, knowing that he understood her. Closing her eyes, she thought of the pictures she’d seen painted on his car: people, creatures, monsters, all going places, using unusual means to get there.

  When they reached the Academy gates, Brendan read the sign out loud: “Star of the Sea,” he said.

  “It used to be called Stella Maris, when my parents were young,” she said.

  “Do you have your camera with you?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “It’s in my room. I’ll show you.”

  He nodded. Obviously he remembered the way from the other night, because he followed the winding drive past the jumbled stone buildings, the convent and academic halls, around the chapel with its silvery slate roof and steep spire, through the thick and fragrant vineyards, along the tallest stone wall, straight to Agnes’s house nestled in the hollow.

  Her stomach jumped when she looked at the front door—soon her father would be walking through it, to be greeted by his family, to sit down to dinner. Agnes had been waiting for this night for so long. Climbing out of Brendan’s car, she glanced around for her sisters—they were nowhere to be seen. Her eye fell on the picture he’d painted of the white cat—sitting on a stone wall, gazing at the full moon.

  She opened the front door; a cool breeze blew through the house. The windows facing the Sound were open, white curtains fluttering. Sisela, the old cat, reclined on the top of the bookshelf.

  “That’s Sisela,” Agnes said.

  “Hello there,” Brendan said, walking over, holding out his hand.

  Sisela rolled on her side, letting him stroke her throat. Agnes stood still, watching. Sisela was usually very cautious about allowing strangers close to her. Was it possible that she and Brendan had met before?

  “Oh dear,” Agnes said, wobbling. She felt suddenly weak in the knees, and he helped her onto the sofa.

  “Actually, Sisela’s usually very timid,” Agnes said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. Did you two make friends the last time you were here?”

  Brendan didn’t reply. He had slipped into medical mode and was very surreptitiously taking her pulse. What he didn’t realize was that his touch was making her heart race. She gazed at him, concentrating as he counted her heartbeats. His blue eyes were so alert, almost electric, and Agnes felt the current.

  “You painted her,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sisela. On your car,” Agnes said.

  He didn’t reply, but just held her wrist. Slowly he changed his grip so he was holding her hand. It had been so hot outside, and at the store, but in here there was nothing but a cool breeze. Agnes felt it on her skin and shivered.

  “Will you show me the image on your camera?” he asked, without answering her question.

  She nodded. It felt almost as if she were dreaming as she led him through the house, down the hall to the room she shared with her sisters. No boys had ever been in here—not even Peter. But Agnes didn’t even hesitate; she felt driven to show Brendan where she slept, and where she kept her camera.

  “Here it is,” she said, reaching up on the shelf. He stood beside her, steadying her, helping her bring down the camera.

  They sat on the edge of her bed. Agnes glanced at him. She expected him to seem curious, welcomed into the Sullivan girls’ inner sanctum. The room was filled with so many mysteries of sisterhood—books, paintings, posters, banners, scarves, jewelry boxes, clothes strewn everywhere—even, Agnes was embarrassed to see, Regis’s lacy demi-cup peach-colored bra hanging off her desk, and her purple thong tossed aside and accidentally hooked onto her lamp. But Brendan had eyes only for the camera.

  “Is the picture on there?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, checking to make sure it was charged, then turning it on. Brendan leaned over her shoulder, watching as she clicked through the images on her screen: Cece grinning, Regis and Peter waving, Sisela on the windowsill, Agnes’s mother at her easel, and then…

  “This is it,” she said as the white flash came into focus. She passed the camera to Brendan.

  He held it in both hands, and she could tell they were trembling. Reaching out, she steadied them with hers. His eyes were riveted, his mouth half open. He stared at the photo, a white blur. As he leaned closer Agnes caught sight of something she hadn’t noticed before—a profile, just the hint of a face, in the field of filmy white.

  “That looks like—” he began, sounding excited.

  “An angel, right?” she asked.

  “I was going to say something at sea,” he said. “The Kelly sea monster, rearing out of the breaking white of a wave.”

  “The Kelly sea monster?” Agnes asked, thinking of Tom’s ring. Brendan handed her the camera, and it slipped through Agnes’s fingers, smashing on the floor. As Agnes lunged to get it, her hat fell off. She grabbed the camera, and saw that the fall had cracked the screen.

  “Oh!” she cried, covering her head—the ugly shaved stripe, the bandage—with her arms.

  “What is it?” Brendan asked.

  “Don’t look at me,” she said, starting to cry. “I’m hideous.”

  “You’re not,” he said. “You’re beautiful. Besides, I’ve seen it before. I was your nurse, remember?”

  Agnes bowed her head and wept. She felt so embarrassed by how she looked, and the fact she somehow hadn’t computed the fact that he would already have seen, and upset by the fact her camera was ruined. If Brendan was disappointed at not being able to see more of the picture, he wasn’t showing it. In fact, he looked radiant—his eyes were bright, and his smile wide and so tender.

  “It’ll grow back,” he said. “Hair does that.”

  “It’s not just that,” she cried. “The picture is destroyed. I thought I’d captured an angel, the only one ever, and now it’s gone.”

  “At first I thought it was a monster,” he murmured.

  “It can’t be,” she wept. “It was too beautiful…”

  “Sometimes monsters and angels are one and the same, I think,” Brendan said, slipping his arm around her, brushing what hair she had left out of her eyes. “Besides, you don’t have to worry. It’s not gone.”

  “How do you know?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “Because whatever you want to call it, monster or angel, it’s here to protect you,” he whispered, kissing her gently. “And because the important things are never really gone…”

  Agnes’s knees felt weak, and she was sitting down. His lips touched hers, so soft and warm. She was melting into him, into his arms and chest and skin. She saw stars, brighter than the angel’s picture. Sisela meowed from the bed above, and Agnes barely heard. But Brendan did and, after another kiss, pulled slightly away to look up.

  “Hi there,” he said. Sisela was staring down with green eyes. “Are you our chaperone?”

  “She likes you,” Agnes said.

  “I like her, too,” Brendan said, reaching a slow hand up toward the cat. Sisela twitched her whiskers, purring as he petted her head.

  “Do you like cats?” Agnes asked.

  “I like this cat,” Brendan said.

  “You have met her before, haven’t you?�
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  “Once or twice,” Brendan said softly. “I’ve seen her on the walls a few times.”

  “When have you been here?” Agnes asked, feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She’d known there was something about Brendan, known he had met Sisela before—of course he had to have, to paint that picture of her sitting on the wall.

  But just then the screen door slammed, and Regis came charging in. She slid into the bedroom on bare feet, grinning to see Agnes and Brendan there.

  “A boy in our room! Zowee!”

  “Hi, Regis,” Brendan said.

  “Kids, time is of the essence. Agnes, in case you’ve forgotten, our father is coming for dinner in just a little while! We have clams to shuck, pies to bake! C’mon, get a move on!”

  “I’d better go,” Brendan said, looking at Agnes, holding her face between his hands. He stared at her with such fire in his blue eyes, she felt it spreading through her bones.

  “Okay,” she said. “I want to hear more, though.”

  He gazed at her, and she wished he’d never leave. “I want to tell you more, too,” he said.

  When he left the room, Agnes could barely move. She touched the spot where he’d been sitting on the bed beside her; it was still warm. Up above, Sisela was now purring, as if whatever mysterious history had existed between her and Brendan made her happy to remember.

  Agnes raised her gaze to Regis, who was staring down the hall after Brendan. She looked back, and the sisters locked eyes.

  “Dad’s really coming home,” Agnes said. “I’m not sure I can let myself believe it.”

  “Do you think it will be the same?”

  “The same as when?”

  “As when we were little, when he and Mom loved each other so much? When we were all so happy? Do you think we can get it all back?”

  “I don’t think it was ever gone,” Agnes said.

  “Really?” Regis asked, frowning, wanting to believe so badly it brought tears to her eyes.

  “Really,” Agnes whispered, the feeling of Brendan still shimmering on her skin as she stood up to hug her sister. “The important things are never really gone.”

  Seventeen

  Honor felt as nervous as she had at summer dances long ago. Even though this was all for the girls, she chose her dress carefully—a blue silk sheath, plain and sleeveless. The night was hot, and the dress would feel cool. She told herself her choice had nothing to do with the fact that blue was John’s favorite color. She clipped a strand of jade beads around her neck, slid a silver cuff bracelet onto her arm, and stepped into a pair of blue sandals. Then she kicked them off. Summer dinners had always been barefoot.

  By the time she got to the kitchen, the girls had all gathered and were at their appointed jobs. Regis was at the sink, a green apron over her pink sundress, expertly shucking littleneck clams, arranging them on a silver tray. Cece, in navy shorts and a pale yellow top, was mixing up cocktail sauce, wrinkling her nose as she tasted too much horseradish. And Agnes, wearing a white cotton dress, sat at the kitchen table arranging cheese and crackers. The aroma of raspberry pie, still in the oven, filled the room, and Honor felt almost overwhelmed with the moment.

  “Oh no,” Cece said, looking down at her shirt. “I spilled.”

  “C’mere, honey,” Honor said, leading her to the sink. “We’ll fix it.”

  “Should I change?” Cece asked as Honor let the cold water run, started to dab at the tomato sauce. “I don’t want to have a big wet blotch on me the first time I see him!”

  “It’s not the first time you’ve seen him,” Regis said. “You saw him when you were born, and you saw him till you were seven, and then on visits to Portlaoise, and you saw him again this week—”

  “You know what I mean!” Cece said, sounding panicked. “I want him to think I look nice, and like me!”

  “Like you, Cece?” Honor said, getting the last of the spot out. “He loves you.”

  “But what if he doesn’t?” Cece asked. “He hardly knows me! What if he thinks I’m not as smart as Regis, or as pretty as Agnes? I’ve got to change.”

  She ran out of the kitchen, ignoring her sisters and Honor calling after her. Honor felt frazzled, but one look at the girls told her she had to run after Cecilia. She hurried into the bedroom, saw Cece tearing through open drawers—pulling out tops, throwing them on the bed. None of them were good enough. Cece dissolved in sobs, with complete abandon.

  Honor hugged her. Cece shook, just falling apart. Honor held her tighter, soothed her with whispers.

  “You’re our little one,” she said. “He loves you as much as I do.”

  “But he doesn’t knowwww me,” she wept.

  “Yes, he does,” Honor said.

  “How can you say that? He’s been awaaayyy!”

  “But you’re his daughter. He loves you for that reason alone.”

  “He loves Regis, because she’s so smart and funny and scary wild, like him. And he loves Agnes, because she’s so holy and blessed and sweet, like you.” Cece’s assessment of Honor took her completely by surprise, but she didn’t react, just held on. “But what about me? Why would he love me?”

  “Because you’re Cecilia Bernadette Sullivan. You’re our baby girl. His baby girl…I remember the day you were born. He was right there with me…” Honor smiled, but she had to stop and couldn’t quite go on. She was seeing John’s eyes, his smile, the way he had cradled their newest daughter in his arms. “And you know what he said?”

  Cece shook her head. “No. What?”

  “He looked you right in your blue eyes and said, ‘I’ve been waiting for you.’”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. Those were his exact words.”

  “But how could he have been waiting for me, if he didn’t even know who I was?”

  “Because I think he did know who you were,” Honor said. “We both did. That’s why we love you so much, why we always have and always will. You have that certain ‘Cece-ness’ to you, that we couldn’t live without.”

  “He’s here!” Regis shouted. “He’s just walking through the vineyard now! Hurry and get back here!”

  “She’s right,” Honor said. “Now, honey…how about picking out a top?”

  “This one?” Cece asked, holding up a blue-and-white-striped shirt.

  “That’s perfect,” Honor said, catching the dismay in Cece’s eyes.

  “Oh no,” Cece said. “I was all wet, and now you are, and it’s my fault.”

  When Honor looked down, she saw that her dress was wet with Cece’s tears. Her stomach jumped; looking after the girls kept her from making sense of her own emotions. She wasn’t sure how she felt about anything. What if she let John back into their lives again, and something terrible happened? She felt so many conflicting things right now, she wanted to escape out the back door.

  “Mom, your dress,” Cece said.

  “Don’t worry,” Honor said, patting her shoulder.

  Walking into the kitchen, she reached for a paper towel. The girls rushed down the hall, in time for Regis and Agnes to unfurl the banner they’d made. The message had been painted, glued, and glittered by all three girls and flowed with crepe paper streamers.

  Honor watched the kids get the sign in place—held up by two tall driftwood branches meant to pay homage to their father’s favorite kind of beach sculpture. Then she went to the door.

  He was coming up the path, head down. Honor could see that he thought himself unobserved. He wore khakis and a blue shirt, carried a bouquet of beach wildflowers—asters, black-eyed Susans, sweet peas. His once-dark hair glinted with silver—the sight of it gave her a pang. And when he raised his eyes, she got to see it all: the way they went from nervous and uncertain to surprised and overjoyed, to see all three girls and Honor and the sign crowding the entryway.

  “Hi, John,” she said, standing out in front.

  “Hi, Honor,” he said.

  They just stood there, and for a minute Honor wasn’t sure
what to do. The sun was dipping down behind the Academy hills, glinting off the rock ledge and stone walls. The waves beat against the beach, their sound peaceful and constant. Her heart was pounding, and the front of her dress was soaked with Cece’s tears. John’s eyes met hers, as if giving her one last chance to back out.

  “Welcome home, Dad,” Regis said.

  “You’re here…” Agnes whispered.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” Cece said, and at that, John’s eyes flooded with tears. So did Honor’s.

  They stared at each other for a long time. This had been his home—she could see what it meant to him, to be back. She could barely breathe. There had been nights when she’d dreamed of this, and others when she’d made up her mind to never let him back again. He held on to the flowers, waiting for a sign from her.

  “You’re here,” she said, staring into his eyes.

  “I never thought—” he began.

  The words filled her with panic. She didn’t know what he was about to say, but she knew she couldn’t handle it right now. She reached for the beach flowers, her hands shaking.

  “Come in, John,” she said, standing aside.

  And he did.

  John’s skin was tingling as he walked through the door, right behind Honor. He took everything in—each sight, sound, and smell. The look in Honor’s eyes was almost too much for him, and he fought the urge to bolt. At the same time, he wanted to freeze the moment, stay as happy as he was in this instant, surrounded by his wife and daughters in what had once been his home.

  Cecilia hung back, looking up at him, a huge grin on her face.

  “You’re really here,” she said.

  “I really am,” he said. Everyone stood there, waiting for him to say something more.

  “What will you have to drink, John?” Honor asked suddenly.

  “I’ll have a beer,” he said.

  She went to put the flowers in water and get the drinks, and with that, John felt the new formality. Had he really expected to walk in and have it be easy? Have her know what he wanted, tease him and kiss him, the way she used to? Even the girls seemed stilted, gathering up cocktail things as if he were a guest. Only Cece stayed by his side, gazing up at him as if he were the most wonderful person she’d ever seen.