Sandcastles

by Luanne Rice

  Especially because Brendan was so nice and funny, letting her pick the music, something her sisters almost never let her do. Cece was going a little crazy, telling him to change stations every time they hit a song she didn’t like, but Brendan just chuckled and didn’t seem to mind at all.

  “You sure there’s no problem with all of us showing up for the beach movie?” Brendan asked, glancing into the rearview mirror to see Regis’s eyes.

  “No problem at all,” Regis said, in a purring tone that let Agnes knew there was a lot more to it.

  They rattled down Route 156; Brendan had mentioned needing to get his muffler replaced, but he never had any money to spare, and as long as the car ran, he’d just keep driving. That was so different from Peter’s way of doing things; he’d just ask his parents for a new car. Turning under the train trestle into Hubbard’s Point, Regis leaned forward so the security guard would recognize her.

  “It’s nice in here,” Brendan said, looking around as they headed down the shady road. “I’ve never been here before.”

  “Let’s show him Mom’s old cottage,” Cece said.

  “Sure,” Agnes said. “I can never remember exactly how to get there, though. Do you know, Regis?”

  “Yep. We’ll take the long way. Go right here…there’s the cemetery, and that’s Foley’s Store, where all the kids leave each other notes…and left at the stop sign…and now loop up behind the tennis courts…”

  Halfway down the road that led to the Point, Agnes told Brendan to stop the car. They pulled over and leaned forward to look up the hill. There was Agnes’s mother’s old cottage: still weathered, nestled into the rock ledge, surrounded by pine trees.

  “You can’t tell from here,” Agnes said, “but it has a beautiful view of the water.”

  “Our mother used to sit on the front porch and watch down the Sound for our father,” Regis said. “He’d hike through the woods, or sometimes he’d row in a dinghy…but he’d always get here somehow, and she’d always be watching.”

  “Remember she told us about those kids next door who used to climb up on the roof?” Cece asked. “The boy who grew up to be an astronaut…”

  “Zeb,” Agnes said. “And Rumer. She’s Sisela’s vet.”

  “Really?” Cece asked.

  “Yes,” Agnes said. “Mom used to watch them climb up to the peak of their roof and gaze out at the stars. Once she decided to do the same—except instead of looking for stars, she was watching for Dad. And we all know what happened…”

  “She fell off and broke her collarbone,” Cece said.

  “That’s why she gets so freaked out about heights,” Regis said. “Like when Dad used to go up the Devil’s Hole cliffs. She has a fear of falling, or of people she loves falling.”

  Agnes felt Brendan reach for her hand. Was he thinking of how she’d looked that night in the hospital, having smashed into the rock? Had he seen her mother’s reaction, which, although Agnes couldn’t quite remember, must have been terrible?

  “If that’s true,” Cece said, “why do you two keep doing crazy things that land you in the hospital?”

  “Because it’s how we know we’re alive,” Regis said.

  Agnes felt prickles on the back of her neck. It was, quite possibly, the truest thing Regis had ever said. As Agnes turned around, to look at her and acknowledge the wisdom in her words, she saw Regis staring—dangerously, a million miles away—at her engagement ring, sparkling in the light of the rising moon.

  “Maybe now that Dad’s home, we won’t have to do crazy things anymore,” Agnes said.

  Regis didn’t reply; she just stared out the window.

  Agnes stared at her; her sister was worried about something. Deeply troubled—why hadn’t Agnes noticed the circles under her eyes before? “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Regis had the worst dream ever last night,” Cece said.

  “I know. Mom came into our room last night to see if you were okay,” Agnes said to Regis. “And you didn’t even wake up.”

  “It was a bad one,” Regis agreed.

  “Do you remember it?”

  “Something about Ballincastle,” Regis said quietly.

  “The usual,” Cece said. “Right?”

  But Regis just kept looking out the window.

  “You might be dreaming about it now because of the fact that Mom’s painting the scene—did you see?” Agnes asked.

  “That scary old castle,” Cece said, shivering. “And Dad’s sculpture with the cross on the top. And the three of us looking out the cottage window. It’s not one of my favorite paintings. It reminds me of being unhappy, while Dad was away…Regis, did your dream have—”

  “I don’t want to talk about my dream anymore!” Regis cried sharply.

  “Regis, I’m sorry!” Cece said, sounding shocked.

  “Let it go, Cecilia.”

  Her tone stung, and when Agnes turned to look into the back seat, she saw that Cece had tears in her eyes. Starting to admonish Regis, Agnes stopped short. Regis’s eyes were wild, staring out the window, as if she’d seen something that scared her to death.

  They were late for the movies, so Brendan turned the car around at the dead end. As they drove down to the beach, Agnes felt hot inside, almost as if she had swallowed a burning coal. In some ways, Agnes knew that they were all haunted by Regis’s dream. She had cried out in her sleep, in words too garbled to understand. But the meaning was clear, nonetheless: she’d been terrified, fighting to save someone she loved.

  What had happened, and what did it have to do with their father’s coming home? Agnes knew that the two things were related, and so did her sister, sitting silently in the back seat.

  “Cece, I’m sorry,” Regis said.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” Cece wept.

  “Oh God. Don’t cry.”

  “It’s just…” Cece sniffled uncontrollably. “I was so worried about you last night. That dream sounded so scary, the way you were talking, and I wanted to help you, but I couldn’t…”

  “Cece, it was just a dream.”

  “We’re happy now, right?” Cece asked, brushing away tears. “Now that Dad’s back home? You’ll feel better, Regis.”

  “He and Mom aren’t together,” Regis said hollowly. “In my dream, it was all my fault.”

  “But it’s not your fault. And besides, they will be. And she’s painting that picture of his sculpture,” Cece said. “As if she’s thinking of him. And he’s building that crazy circle of stones on the beach…out of pieces from the rock…”

  “Something good will come of it,” Agnes said. “They’re artists, and they inspire each other. Isn’t it obvious?”

  Regis wasn’t the only person in the house to have spent a sleepless night. Sometime after midnight, Honor had finished her painting. The large canvas depicted Ballincastle, the ruins of both the old castle and John’s sculpture. The cross on top was stark against the stormy sky. In the distance, looking out the windows of the small thatched-roof cottage, were the faces of her daughters. She’d stood back, examining the picture, knowing that she had captured the dark spirit of that time. But she and John were nowhere on the canvas. They were everywhere—and nowhere.

  When she heard Regis tossing and turning, crying out in her sleep, she wiped the paint from her hands and ran to comfort her. Agnes and Cece were sitting up in their beds. Regis was weeping, unintelligible words coming from her mouth.

  “Honey, wake up. It’s just a dream…”

  Honor held her, wanting her to wake up so they could confront the terror together, break through to its source. But her daughter drifted more deeply into sleep, and Honor finally kissed her and her sisters and walked back into the studio.

  Standing in the kitchen now, she looked out the window. The girls were out—Regis had been working, and Cece was with Agnes and Brendan. They’d called to say they were all going to movies on the beach at Hubbard’s Point.

  Honor stared toward the water, wishing for John. S
he thought of how hard his homecoming had been, and wondered how he was doing tonight.

  She left the kitchen, closing the door behind her, and walked across the meadow, awash in late-day light. Dragonflies hovered over the green-gold grasses, and asters swayed in the breeze. When she got to the vineyard, she smelled the pungent aroma of ripening grapes; soon it would be harvesttime.

  Reaching the wall, she paused. She stood above the beach, feeling the sea breeze ruffle her hair. Down below, John had stopped working for the day. All the fragments of broken rock had been arranged on the sand. At first Honor thought it was just one big circle, but as she stared down, she saw that he had created an intricate pattern—with rocks, stones, and pebbles arrayed around and around in concentric circles, doubling back on themselves, creating a labyrinth. In the center, there was an empty space.

  She climbed down the hill. When she got to the stone house, she saw John sitting on the sand, arms wrapped around his knees, staring at the sea.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hi, Honor,” he said, sounding surprised.

  “I saw what you made,” she said, gesturing at the labyrinth. “It’s so interesting. It’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You did it,” she said. “Put the broken rock together. Just in a different form.”

  “Wishful thinking, I guess. But it feels so good to be able to work again. I started thinking it’s all a puzzle. The rock can never be whole again. And us…we’re not fitting together, because something’s missing. Maybe we lost it in Ireland, or maybe—as you said the other night—it was missing for a long time.”

  “Missing?”

  “Something we can’t find…a place we can’t get to. That’s why I made a labyrinth. I thought, maybe that’s the only thing I could build that would make sense of us. Of you and me, Honor. The path is mixed up, confusing, but if you stick with it, you eventually reach the center.” He shook his head. “That was my plan, anyway, but tonight it feels like something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Going in circles, making wrong turns, trying to get somewhere that doesn’t even exist.”

  “It exists,” she said quietly. “We exist.”

  He shrugged, staring back at the sea.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “We exist.”

  “We do?” he asked, looking up.

  She nodded. “Do you have a beach blanket in that house?”

  “Sure,” he said, looking confused.

  “I want you to take me to the movies,” she said.

  “What movies?”

  “At Hubbard’s Point—remember how we used to go? When my family had a cottage there, and you used to come over for beach movies?”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Completely.”

  “But we don’t have a beach sticker, to get in,” John said, starting to smile.

  “I know; that is a problem.”

  His eyes were sparks in the fading light. “You want to go to the movies,” he said, “I’ll get us in.”

  He grabbed a blanket from inside and started toward Honor’s house, where she kept the car, but she grabbed his hand.

  “The beach way,” she said.

  “Really?” he asked. “It’s almost dark.”

  “If we have to sneak in, we have to do it right,” she said, holding tight to his hand. “Are you saying you can’t do it?”

  “Trust me on this, beach girl. When you were living at Hubbard’s Point and I was here with the Kelly contingent, I found shortcuts to get to you that no one else would ever find. Are you up for it?”

  “I am,” she said, gazing into his eyes. “You’re going to show me all your shortcuts?” she said, feeling excited. He had kept so much of himself hidden all these years; in some ways, knowing him more fully was all she had ever wanted.

  He nodded solemnly, taking a step closer, so they were eye to eye.

  “I am,” he said. “And you know what else?”

  “What?” she whispered. The air was sunset-still and summer-warm, but she felt a shiver run down her spine.

  “Right now, I want to show you everything.”

  “John,” she said.

  He put one finger to her lips. “Everything, Honor.”

  Her emotions swirled as they set off through the vineyard, following the sound of the waves and the smell of the sea, toward the place she had once called home.

  Twenty-one

  John and Honor started off along the beach, where every narrow creek and gully they came to had them grabbing each other’s hands, helping each other across. The wind-silvered driftwood log straddling the mouth of the tidal marsh was slightly rickety, so he crouched down for her to climb on his back. To his surprise, she took him up on it. Her touch sent his heart racing, and all he wanted to do was stop and put her down and kiss her. He couldn’t believe this was happening.

  He kept carrying her, even after he’d jumped down off the log. Her arms were draped around his neck, her legs clamped around his waist, and her cheek resting gently against his. She didn’t tell him to put her down, so he didn’t.

  They made their way down the beach. The water was to their right, and the woods, part of a nature preserve, rose up on the left. Just past a falling-down jetty, he headed up the beach to what looked like thick, impenetrable brush. Only then did he put Honor down, as he held aside a thatch of vines, ushering her into the warren of hidden paths.

  Walking through the darkest, spookiest part of the forest, he slipped a protective arm around her waist. He couldn’t stay away from her, and the scariness of the woods gave him an excuse to be close. She huddled against him as they skirted the Indian Grave, as they passed the old foundation, the haunted remains of the mansion called Fish Hill.

  “This is the way I came every night to get to you,” he said.

  “Until you had your license,” she said.

  “Even then, I sometimes walked. There was always something about coming through the woods—out of the darkness, into the light—your light, Honor—that made me want to do this…” He’d been feeling such despair these last few days, thinking it was all over. Ireland had been the last straw—what had she said? The culmination of so much…But here she was, smiling at him, and he saw that brightness, her radiance, again.

  “Were these trails always here?”

  “I cut my way through the brush—I guess some of these paths date back to when I was a kid. Someone has kept them up, though.”

  “Regis comes through here sometimes,” Honor said. “To see Peter.”

  “I showed her the way a long time ago,” John said. “Because she wanted to see the route I took to you.”

  “She wants to be in love like we were,” Honor said quietly.

  “I know,” John said. He wanted that for his daughter, too—but he doubted there could be anything like what he felt for Honor. They walked along, and John thought about Regis blazing trails to Peter—instead of the other way around.

  “Do you really believe there are ghosts here?” she asked, ducking under a low bough.

  “If you do,” he said, wanting her to press right against him.

  “I’m not sure whether I do or not. What did you believe in Ireland? I remember you wouldn’t answer me there, either.”

  “There,” he said, and his heart shut down just slightly. He didn’t like to think about it or talk about it, but if Honor was asking, he owed her a reply. As they tromped through the Tomahawk Point woods, she reached for his hand, making him want to tell her anything she wanted to know.

  “They were there,” he said. “I felt them in Cobh, on the docks. I thought of how you and I would have felt, watching our daughters sail away, knowing we’d never see them again. And I felt the ghosts of our families down through the centuries, Honor.”

  “I felt them, every time we had to leave you after one of our visits,” she said.

  “You know,” he said, “as much as I hated not seeing you and the girls, I was almos
t glad when you stopped coming. Because I couldn’t stand when you left.”

  “We couldn’t stand leaving,” Honor said, and they walked in silence for a while, the only sounds those of the leaves beneath their feet, and seagulls calling from the beach up ahead.

  They rounded the corner, and she leaned into him. A tall hill sloped down to the beach, and getting there required either climbing over or sliding under a fallen tree. John stood still, savoring the weight of her body against his. Maybe they could just stand here for the rest of the night.

  “Are you ready?” Honor asked, looking down the steep trail.

  “Whenever you are,” he said, ducking under the tree, waiting for her to follow.

  “Lead on,” she said, and he did, taking a first step down the jagged path, scored and furrowed by runoff, pebbles sliding underfoot as he blocked her from slipping and sliding. And when they got safely to the bottom, feet sinking into the soft sand, she gave him her hand again.

  When they got to the main part of the beach, they saw that many people had already set down their blankets. The movie screen was a white sheet, hung between the upright supports of what looked like a football goalpost. Honor surveyed the scene, pointed out a spot; John was happy to see it was toward the back of the crowd.

  “How’s this?” he asked.

  “Perfect,” she said. “But we have to dig a pit.”

  “Exactly,” he said. They both crouched down, dug a hole in the sand, building up a smooth mound for a backrest.

  They got into the spirit of it, scooping sand from the hole, packing it on the sloping back edge. Spreading their blanket in the pit, they were preparing to sit down and get ready for the movie when someone called Honor’s name.

  “Honor, is that you?”

  “Yes,” she said, peering through the darkness. Two old friends of hers from the Hubbard’s Point days, Suzi Wright and Darby Reid, came running over. John had met them long ago.

  “We sneaked in to see the movie,” Honor said.

  “Well, we’ll never tell,” Suzi said. “We’re just so glad to see someone from the old guard here. A few others are around…see, there’s Bay McCabe, over there, and there’s Tara O’Toole up on the boardwalk with Maeve Jameson…”