“Especially as you live in California,” she finishes, pronouncing California in an unfamiliar, suspicious way as though it’s a benighted foreign land or an unsavory food. “What could it possibly mean to anyone there?”
I clear my throat. “Well, people do come east for school. I’m not the only student from California at Hardwick.”
This is almost not true, but her argument is ridiculous. I think of Philip Han (computer 1), and then am surprised to hear myself defending the school, listing the variety of courses I can take there, the many sports I can try, the wonderful teachers, the riding, the tradition and history, the independence I’m gaining being on my own, the excellent preparation for college . . . I swear I sound like a robot programmed to recite the Hardwick Hall catalog.
I guess I must believe some of it, though I’ve never verbalized any of it. I think part of it must be a pure gut reaction to Great-Aunt Helen, the kind of person who makes you want to disagree with everything she says just to deny having anything in common.
The gloom of this house and the austerity of its furnishings reminds me of the Salem witch trials in The Crucible, something we’ve been studying at Hardwick. The real Salem isn’t far from here, and it’s easy to picture Great-Aunt Helen right at home at the stake with her torch. What will happen to me if I have to leave school at the end of the semester? They won’t let me go home. I will have to live here—if Great-Aunt Helen will even have me—and I can’t do that.
“It would be quite another thing,” she insists, “if your mother had made any arrangements. Then I would be prepared to consider allowing you to continue, though it would be a real hardship for me to take on that responsibility from this distance.”
The word arrangements rolls uncomfortably from her mouth like it’s something dirty. She is talking about money, obviously. Great-Aunt Helen is from that old-money New England world that finds the discussion of anything financial to be utterly distasteful. There are lots of students like that at Hardwick, wearing worn khakis fraying at the cuffs and moth-eaten cashmere sweaters that belonged to their grandfathers, driving beat-up old Mercedes and Volvos with Haverford Lacrosse stickers on the bumpers and an assortment of old ropes and sails stuffed into the trunks. And yet every one of them has a trust fund guaranteeing they’ll never have to work. I don’t know if this is exactly true of Great-Aunt Helen, but Hannah always gave me the impression she was rich.
By the time dinner is finished—Great-Aunt Helen eats a very plain and very early dinner; lots of boiled things and no spices at all, not even pepper—the matter is settled. She is not prepared to keep sending me to Hardwick, and there will be no further discussion.
All I want to do is go back to school and sleep in my own bed for what little time I’ll have left in it. If it weren’t three hours and a ferry ride away, I would call a cab.
The room Great-Aunt Helen puts me in—my room, I guess, in the event that things don’t go well for Hannah—is tiny and dark, full of creaking, ancient furniture too tall for the narrow space. The effect is kind of Haunted Mansion at Disneyland, where the room stretches vertically while you stand still, and the paintings have eyes that seem to move. The paintings here don’t actually have eyes that move, of course, but just about. Above the bed is the portrait of a dour Puritan lady holding a very pale baby in white lace. Is it dead? The plaque in the frame reads, “mrs. grimes and her infant.”
The pipes in the old bathroom sink screech when I turn the water on—separate hot and cold faucets. The hot water never gets hot, no matter how long I run it. I huddle under the cold, thin quilt and wish for a nightlight for the first time in about ten years.
I think I sleep for a few hours and then wake up, feeling the cold air stir above my face like someone is standing over me, breathing. I spend the rest of the night staring at the tongue-and-groove ceiling, my eyes unwilling to close. When the sun starts to come up, I fall back to sleep uneasily, only to be awakened at seven fifteen. Helen wordlessly shakes me into consciousness, then turns away once she’s convinced my eyes are open.
By daylight, I realize the room is not scary, just bleak. Despite knowing what Great-Aunt Helen will think, I put on the same clothes from the day before—the warmest things I have with me—and go downstairs, where she has half a grapefruit and some black coffee waiting for me. I sit across from her in the kitchen at the plain farm table while she stares over her coffee cup at me. She raises her pointy silver grapefruit spoon. It has tiny, sharp teeth.
“As a girl,” she says, stabbing the air just above her plate with the implement, “I was raised not to laze abed and inconvenience my hosts. But I suppose one cannot fault you when there has been no one to teach you any manners.”
With that, she consumes her grapefruit in silence, section by section, and pours herself another cup of black coffee. The Boston Globe lies folded on the table to her left, but Great-Aunt Helen doesn’t allow herself the luxury of reading while she eats. I’m too afraid to ask for milk or sugar, and I’m even more afraid to tell her I don’t like coffee. Instead I take tiny, bitter sips. I feel like a little girl at a tea party, pretending to drink from her miniature china cup, except this scalding sludge is real.
After breakfast, I am turned out into the yard like a pony or a dog. I’m supposed to be here for two days, but it’s obvious Great-Aunt Helen a) thinks that’s two days too long and b) expects me to entertain myself. That’s okay, I realize. Roaming the island alone, even in the cold, is preferable to spending hours with her.
I follow the footpath around the side of the house to the back, curious about the view. It’s incredible. So different from California, where the coast is wide and sweeping. Here it’s rocky and craggy, with little coves and inlets. Where California is open, the terrain here seems full of secrets. The houses sit close to the edge of the island for maximum exposure to sky and water. But in a few places, the earth has buckled in narrow slides. It’s a little unnerving. I make sure not to stand too close to them. It must be beautiful here in the summer, I think. At the same time, Honor’s skepticism also makes sense: it’s frigid and lonely right now. No one would come here in the winter.
From the shingled cottage next door I hear a gentle jingle of wind chimes, and a fat black Lab comes loping over to me, pink tongue extended.
“Sparkler!” I hear a man’s voice shout. “Don’t worry. He’s friendly.”
The man is middle-aged, maybe fifty, maybe older. He has on a parka and round glasses with wire frames, and his graying hair is about as windswept as the bluff. He strides over, his right arm extended just like Sparkler’s tongue. When he reaches me, his handshake is dry and firm. He looks me right in the eye. Great-Aunt Helen has friendly neighbors. Much friendlier than she is.
“Jay Northsworthy,” he says. “You staying with Mrs. Chisholm?”
“Yes, she’s my great-aunt,” I say. Sparkler is standing on my foot, staring up at me imploringly. “I don’t have any treats,” I say with a laugh. Great-Aunt Helen has no pets, of course: another strike against her. I never trust people who don’t like animals. Jay steps away and tilts his head, as if sizing me up. He shuffles his mental Rolodex briefly and smiles when he comes up with the answer. “I’m going to say Hannah’s daughter, but I’m going out on a limb. Am I right?”
“Yes. You’re right.”
“You don’t look exactly like her, but there’s something there.”
My eyes tear up a little. It feels funny to talk to a stranger about Hannah when I don’t know when I’ll see her again. Funny in a bad way. I take a deep breath and recover. “I’m Wren. I’m her daughter. It’s nice to meet you.”
Behind his glasses, his own eyes are rheumy from the wind. “Great to see you. Is she on the island too?”
I shake my head. “No, she’s . . . working. In Europe. I’m here on my own.” I can’t quite bear to tell the whole story.
“Too bad. I’d have loved to see h
er. I run the newspaper here, the Gazette. Hannah wrote for me a bit during her summer breaks from Barnard. Then, of course, she went on to bigger things. The LA Times . . . We’re so proud of her here.” He’s older than Hannah, but only by maybe ten years. He must have been young then to be the newspaper editor.
I nod and turn away, worried that if I talk, I’ll start crying. I focus on Sparkler, reaching down to scratch his head. He pants in gratitude.
“But don’t you live in California?” he asks. “Or did she move to an East Coast paper?”
“We still live in California,” I manage. I look up. “This was just a long assignment. And I started boarding school.”
“Ah. Of course. A Hardwick family. She caved at last, eh?” Jay smiles. “She’s an incredible girl, Hannah. Woman, I mean.” He shakes his head ruefully, loosening a memory. “I was her boss, but you know what? She had me twisted around her finger.” He laughs awkwardly. “Don’t tell her I said that. Anyway, long time ago.” He backs away from me toward his house and snaps his fingers; Sparkler bounds over to him. ”You know what? Why don’t you come by the paper later, if you’re not busy? I’ve got something to show you. I think it’s something you’ll want to see.”
“I’m not busy,” I tell him. I’m the opposite of busy.
“Great. Sparkler and I will be there. I’m usually there by now, in fact. Getting a late start today.”
I watch this man—yet another stranger from my mother’s past—disappear back into his house with his dog. I don’t ask where the Gazette is. It’s a pretty small island. Besides, I’m too busy wondering what he wants to show me.
As I come back around to the front of Great-Aunt Helen’s house, I catch the taillights of the Lincoln turning out of the driveway. I wave, hoping Bernard will give me a ride. Either he doesn’t see me, or he doesn’t want to see me. At any rate, he doesn’t stop. Thanks, Bernard. I have to walk down into town.
By the time I get to the main street, I’m too cold and hungry to find the Gazette office without something to eat besides sour grapefruit. The freezing wind keeps reminding me of Hannah. However bad this is, it must be nothing compared to what she suffered in that crevasse that night. I try not to think about it, keeping my head down as I walk. The grapefruit is searing my stomach, making me more hungry rather than less.
There’s a diner that looks open, so I decide to stop there.
The waitress is young, but no nonsense, like my great-aunt. Her plastic red nametag reads kelly. She gives me a quick appraisal, then dumps me and a menu into a booth. I order hot chocolate and a blueberry muffin. The diner is warm, but I can still feel the cold air from outside seep through the glass.
I sit there, thinking about Jay and how much he and my mother have in common. Both work at newspapers. He lives next door to the family house. Has he lived there a long time? If she were writing for the paper here when she was in college, he would have been about thirty. Could she have been attracted to him? Is he attractive? It’s impossible for me to judge if a fifty-year-old man is attractive, but it’s conceivable.
Someone from Hannah’s long-ago past: check.
They live in different worlds: if this island isn’t another world, I don’t know what is, so double check.
Would she have had a reason to come back here, though, closer to the time I was born?
Waitress Kelly interrupts my thoughts, slipping my order onto the table with an efficient clunk-swish.
“Got everything?” she asks, but she’s already walking away.
When I look up to answer, I’m facing a girl my age, who’s sitting two booths away. Now I wish I had my book, because I’ll have to eat staring at her. I look out the window again. Maybe I can look like I’m taking in the sights.
“Muffins are better at the Picnic Basket,” she says in a loud voice.
There’s no one else in the diner, so I would have known she was talking to me even if she’d whispered.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“The Picnic Basket has really good blueberry muffins,” she repeats with a friendly smile. “I usually stick to toast here.”
“Thanks,” I say. Too bad; that advice would have been more useful before I ordered. I smile back. “You’re right.” I put down the muffin. “Too sweet.”
“And too dry. Who’re you visiting?”
“How do you know I’m visiting?” I ask.
“Because I know everyone on the island. Especially this time of year,” she says. “Especially any kids my age.”
I have to laugh. “Right. Makes sense.” I want to tell her she can come sit with me if she wants. It seems silly to yell across the empty room. She has a notebook, though, so maybe she’s working on something. And it seems too weird to invite her to sit with me. She’s pretty in a low-key way, the kind of girl who, in a movie, the guy doesn’t notice until the end. Her hair is straight, dirty blonde, shoulder-length, and her full smile seems a little big for her face, but it’s a friendly smile that softens her sharp cheekbones.
“I’m Eliza,” she says.
“Wren,” I say. “I’m here for a couple of days visiting my great-aunt. Helen Chisholm? You probably know her.”
Eliza almost makes a face but stops herself in time. I grin, though. It seems like we’re on the same page. “Where do you live?” she asks.
“Right now at boarding school, in Connecticut. But normally I live in California. Kind of north of LA.”
Eliza nods. “Never been. What grade are you in?”
“Lower Year,” I answer automatically. “I mean, I’m a sophomore.”
“Me too,” she says. “Our school’s teeny. It’s all the same kids since kindergarten. It’s like having forty brothers and sisters.”
I nod, even though I have no idea what that would be like. It would be hard to grow up on a tiny island like this. But even as I think it, I realize I’ve pretty much grown up on the tiny island of Hannah and Wren.
“So you know my aunt?” I ask Eliza.
“I do. I know all the year-rounders. Your aunt, your whole family, are old-timers. They’ve had that house forever. They might have even built it.”
“This is the first time I’ve met her,” I admit. “I don’t have that much family. Just me and my mom, but she’s away.”
Eliza brightens. “Oh, you should come back in the summer. There’s a lot more to do. The beaches are great. And the sailing. Do you like to sail?”
I shrug. “I’ve never really done it. Hey, listen do you know Jay Northsworthy? Of course you must, right? He’s my aunt’s neighbor, and he invited me to stop by and see the paper. I don’t know where it is, though.”
“Sure, I know Jay,” says Eliza. “You know where the high school is?” I shake my head. “You just keep going down Water Street past the village green, and then it’s just another block. You’ll see.”
“Thanks,” I tell her. I sip my hot chocolate and wonder: If I really did have to come live here with Great-Aunt Helen, would this girl be my friend?
The office of the Stone Cove Island Gazette is tiny, not very high-tech and jammed full of file boxes and stacks of old editions. It makes the Ventura bureau of the LA Times—home base to three reporters—look like command central. But I kind of like it for that. Jay and Sparkler seem to be the only employees, other than one high school boy struggling with a printer that looks as old as some of the furniture in Great-Aunt Helen’s house.
“You made it,” calls Jay, his welcoming voice booming. I’ve met three people on this island so far (not counting Bernard), and the two who aren’t members of my family are infinitely friendlier than the one who is. “Come in. Come in. I was just going through some files. Wait until you see what I managed to find.”
I think, Just like this? Without me even having to dig? In front of his son, or the intern, or whoever that boy is?
Jay beckons me over to his d
esk. “Not what I was looking for, though.” He hands me a blue bandanna, an assortment of kitschy postcards, still blank, and a lobster claw key chain. “I tend to keep stuff. Not what I was looking for, exactly, but this stuff is your mom’s, I think. The bandanna, definitely. The key chain, I’m not sure, but—”
“That’s why they call it the Packrat Gazette,” the boy chimes in from under the printer.
Jay rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “It’s more organized than it looks,” he explains. “Most things I can put my hand to, despite Charlie’s wisecracks. Maybe it’s at home, though. We need to close the issue pretty soon, but what do you say I take a look tonight? You’ll still be here in the morning?”
I nod. But again I wonder: Why doesn’t he just come out and say what it is he wants to show me?
I have hours in front of me, a whole, unscheduled day stretching out. Wren, hanging around. It feels strange after Hardwick, where there’s always somewhere you need to be.
First I wander to the end of the ferry dock. From there I can take in the wide crescent of the harbor. Above the town, an old hotel rises up like a giant dollhouse on the top of a hill. To my right, as I face the main street, I can see a lighthouse, painted in wide stripes of black and white. I can’t tell how far away it is, but I decide to walk there. I’ve got all day.
I walk and walk, out of town, then down a big hill, along the road that looks like it should take me to the lighthouse. I can see it in the distance, but I never seem to get any closer. The wind off the water blows sand across the road and stings my face. Dampness creeps into my shoes. On a warmer day, this would probably be a nice walk. I am just considering giving up when I see a weathered sign: beach access.
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