The Cottage at Glass Beach (9 page)

Chapter Eight

D
ays passed. Annie had begun to wonder if she'd see Ronan again. She took to exploring the shoreline at dawn, when the mist rose from the sea, as if it were part of a dream. No one else was out at that hour, except for Owen Kavanagh, fishing or swimming in the distance. He'd nod or wave, but they were rarely close enough to speak. He tended to venture into more dangerous areas, farther out on the rocks and surf than she dared go.

This morning the tide was low enough to walk among the tide pools. “Hello, fish,” she said. “Hello, anemones.” They were her friends too. She slipped between the rocks at the end of the beach, the sand between exposed at low tide. She liked to hide. She'd hidden in the garden at home many times. The laurel hedge, filled with nesting birds, provided the best cover. She had a fort inside, perfect for her and perhaps a close friend. Not Ella—she was too big and bossy; the birds didn't like her tone of voice, so Annie stopped inviting her early on. She'd been in the hedge when she overheard her father talking to someone on his cell phone, under the guise of feeding carp in the pond, a can of fish food in hand. He stood near an azalea bush, a stray napkin and spent balloon (which had read “Cunningham for AG” before it popped) lying beneath it from the fund-raising party her parents had had a few days before, the weather being fine enough for the guests to spill outside. He spoke softly, with the same hushed tones she used when confiding in her best friend, Katie. “Do you have secrets too, Daddy?” she'd asked, startling him as she emerged from the hedge and followed him into the house. “Just business, Annie-pan,” he said briskly. “I didn't realize you were there.”

She felt a chill there on Glass Beach, in the shade of the rocks, and flitted out into the sun again.
I'm a butterfly
. She could transform herself. She could make anything new.

“Hi, Annie.” Ronan stepped lightly along the lip of a pool. She'd never seen anyone with such perfect balance.

“Where have you been?” She'd been hoping to see him, and now there he was.

“Away, fishing. You haven't told anyone about me, have you?”

“No. I never break a promise.”

“Good. I knew I could trust you. I have something for you.” He handed her a shell—plain, white, flawless. It was threaded on a piece of braided sea grass. “Go ahead. Blow on it.”

She did. “It doesn't make a sound.”

His eyes sparkled. “Just because you can't hear it, doesn't mean someone else can't. Keep it. You might need it someday.”

“When?”

“It's not someday yet. When it is, you'll know.”

She slipped the necklace over her head. She liked how it smelled of the sea, that he'd made it for her.

“Do you want to swim?”

“I'm not supposed to swim alone.”

“You aren't alone. You're with me. We won't go far. There's something I want to show you.”

“We still haven't gone out in my boat. I have paddles now.”

“This will be better. You'll see.” He took her hand. The warmth from his skin spread through her body. “Still cold?”

She laughed and shook her head.

They ran through the shallows, water splashing behind them, spray iridescent in the sunlight, and dove in. The salt stung Annie's eyes, but she didn't close them. She wanted to see where Ronan was taking her. She'd never known anyone who swam as well as he did, not even her mother. She mirrored his movements as best she could. They surfaced at intervals, to draw breath, before submerging once again.

Ronan treaded water, cocking his head. “They're coming. Listen.” He tugged her beneath the waves. She caught her breath, fast, before going under. Then she heard it: a basslike sound, like a muffled horn, deep, sonorous, followed by higher whistles—a symphony of the sea.

“What was that?” she asked after they surfaced again, gasping. She'd never held her breath so long. “It was beautiful.”

“The whales, singing.” He paused, noticing how breathless she was. “You're tired. We'd better go back.”

“I don't want to.”

“I know.” He guided her to shore and sat by her side, drawing symbols in the sand.

“What do those mean?” She gestured to the marks, a series of curves and lines, as if in code.

“It's a special language,” he said. “Maybe I'll teach you sometime.”

“Would you write my name?”

He scratched loops and dashes that looked like sparrow's wings or fish scales.

“It's pretty. I want to write my name like that, always.”

He shook his head. “It's between us—for the beach only.”

“For the beach only,” she agreed.

“So you're here with your family?” he asked.

“My sister and mom.”

“And your dad?”

“He's coming, I think. Actually, I don't know. He hasn't been around much lately.” She sighed.

He nodded, as if he knew exactly what she meant. “Things are always changing,” he said, studying the waves. “Sometimes in ways we don't want them to.”

They fell silent. Ronan was easy to be with. She could have spent hours with him, hours and hours.

He got up abruptly and crouched down behind a pile of driftwood. He seemed to sense things before she did.

“What's wrong?” she asked, wondering if she should hide too.

“Someone's there.”

She looked in the direction he indicated. It was Owen Kavanagh, casting a net from one of the outcrops. “It's just Owen. He comes from the ocean, like you. Do you know him?”

Ronan didn't answer. He slipped away through a slit in the rocks without another word.

M
aire met Annie on the path that meandered down the bluff. She was on her way to gather seaweed and shellfish, a basket on her arm. She'd glimpsed the boy before he'd dashed away. “I see you've made a new friend.”

“Friend? There was nobody but me.” Annie toed the sand. She wouldn't meet Maire's eyes. She was obviously hiding something.

There was a pile of beachcombed findings at her feet—periwinkles, clamshells, sea glass, a perfectly spherical granite stone. She'd already assembled quite a collection at the cottage. She'd shown it to Maire on many occasions. “You've found more treasures.”

“There's something new every day. You never know what you'll find.” Her gaze darted in the direction the boy had gone.

“A visitor too?” Maire gestured to the footprints the waves hadn't quite had a chance to erase.

Annie bit her lip. “No one is supposed to know, especially Ella. She gets so bossy. I don't think Ronan would like her very much.” Annie covered her mouth. “Oh, no. I shouldn't have said his name. And I was doing so well, too.”

“It's all right. Is he a summer visitor, like you?”

“I think so. I'm not sure. All I know is that he's my friend. He likes to play. Ella doesn't, not always. That's what happens when you get older, doesn't it? I won't let it happen to me.”

Maire smiled. It was such a gift to have children at Cliff House again. She'd forgotten what it was like—their discoveries, their small joys, seeing possibility in everything. “Well, we'll keep it between the two of us for now, shall we?” She supposed there wasn't any harm. Perhaps Nora already knew. She kept such a close eye on the girls.

“Are you good at keeping secrets?” Annie asked.

Maire drew her fingers across her lips. Yes, she was. Too good.

“Some secrets are bad, aren't they?” Annie mused, perhaps thinking of her father.

“This one isn't. At least, I don't think it is. I'm glad you made a new friend.”

“I am too. We're making lots of friends on Burke's Island—Polly, Alison, Owen, Reilly—”

“You've met Reilly?” She supposed she shouldn't have been surprised. He walked the bluffs frequently, though he didn't travel far beyond the point anymore, unless it was for Sunday mass. He sat in the same pew as Maire, third row, left, a small statue of Saint Rita, patron saint of impossible causes, in the niche nearby, candles burning at her feet.

“Yes. And Patch. I can't forget Patch.”

Maire and Joe had had a dog too, a chocolate lab named Diggity, who went down with his master. She hadn't had the heart to get another, not knowing what the future would bring. “He's a sweetie, isn't he?”

“It's nice to get to know someone my own age,” Annie said, speaking of Ronan again.

“Yes, I'm sure it is.” Ella was the only one who hadn't formed a new friendship on the island, but then again, there weren't any other children near the point.

“Where are you going?” Annie asked.

“To harvest seaweed. Some types are good in salads, others for the garden. The vegetables are particularly fond of it. Would you like to help?”

“Yes.” She took Maire's hand, looking up at her trustingly. “I'm glad we came here, Aunt Maire.”

“I am too.”

O
wen likes to fish, doesn't he?” Annie asked later after they returned to Cliff House. Maire had had her younger niece all to herself that morning. Nora had gone into town to run errands, and Ella remained at the cabin, engrossed in her book,
Mockingjay
being her latest selection. Maire and Annie were in the garden, laying the seaweed out to dry. Once it was ready, they'd spread it on the beds to nourish the roots of the plants. “He's always on the rocks, catching something.”

“It's what he loves to do,” Maire said. She shaded her eyes. There he was, coming up the path. He seemed to be getting along better now. At first, he'd been tentative in his movements, as if he didn't trust his feet to support him. “Hello, there. We were just talking about you.”

“My ears are burning.” He presented her with a batch of smelt.

“My favorite, ever since I was a little girl. I'd catch them with my dad. We were the only ones who liked them.” Maire cherished those times with her father. He taught her about the ocean. The sailor's superstitions: Never sail on Friday. Never whistle aboard a boat unless it's to summon a fair breeze, when becalmed. The rules of navigation.

“Me too.”

“We were just finishing up here.” Maire rose to her feet, dusting off the knees of her jeans. “Why don't you come in for a cup of tea?”

“And cookies?” Annie asked hopefully.

“Before noon?” Maire smiled.

“It's never too early for cookies,” Annie said. She'd hinted that snickerdoodles were her favorite.

“That's what I always say,” Maire said as they went inside, leaving their boots at the door.

“Did you lose your clothes in the shipwreck?” Annie asked Owen as Maire set the kettle on to boil.

He shrugged good-naturedly. “I've never been much for fashion.”

“I was going through the attic the other day, and I found some clothes that might fit you,” Maire said. She'd been meaning to mention it to him. She'd noticed how he tended to wear the same pair of ragged shorts.

“That's not necessary—”

“You'd be doing me a favor. Keep an eye on the pot, and I'll bring them down.” She'd already sorted the shirts and pants, running her hands over each piece of clothing, washing, folding, pressing, as she used to do when Jamie and Joe were alive. She wasn't sure the clothes would work, Jamie having been a rangy six-footer, while Owen was five-ten at most and strongly built. And yet Jamie had worn his clothes baggy, so perhaps some of them would fit Owen.

She lingered in Jamie's room—taking in the space in that had belonged to her son, in which he had grown from a small boy who feared the dark and loved basketball and astronomy to a young man who would barely speak to her, filling the room with his sheer size, with the force of his anger. Where did that rage come from? How did she lose the ability to communicate with him? The thoughts pained her. She wished she'd told him how much she loved him, but she'd gotten worn down by the arguments, the trouble. There didn't seem to be anything they could agree on—and then he was gone.

She picked up the cardboard box with a sigh and carried it downstairs. “Here they are,” she said, placing it on the table for Owen's perusal.

“What's your favorite color?” Annie asked him, taking a peek at the contents. “This shirt is nice.” She fingered the collar of a gray flannel button-down.

He thought for a moment. “Blue.”

“Mine too,” Maire said. “A good thing, since there's so much of it around here.”

“It's hard to choose,” Annie said. “There's something pretty about every color.”

“An excellent philosophy,” Owen said, “seeing beauty in all things.”

She smiled. He seemed to have her seal of approval too.

That night, Maire brought Owen dinner—crab cakes, beans, and honeyberries from the garden. She'd invited him to the house on several occasions, but he had yet to take her up on it, perhaps not wanting to intrude. He wasn't expecting her that evening. But she thought he could use a home-cooked meal; she had a feeling he hadn't had one in a while. She balanced the covered plate on her left hand as she wound her way down the point. She hadn't spent much time there, even in her youth, other than to summon her father for supper or to visit Patrick, when he first came to live with them. The memories of him still pained her, even after all these years.

Rabbits and voles had made homes just off the path. She glanced down at her feet, at intervals, to make sure not to put a foot wrong. It wouldn't do to twist her ankle. “Just sit for a moment,” Joe would say. But she had to be doing. Maybe it kept her sane, or close to it.

She'd thought of bringing another plate for herself, to keep Owen company, but she didn't want to be presumptuous. He seemed to like his privacy. Smoke trailed up into the sky from the fishing shack. It had been decades since a fire had been lit in its small hearth. She hated to think of the condition the shack was in—the mice, the cobwebs. She'd warned him, but he hadn't been deterred. “I've seen far worse,” he said. She didn't ask him what he meant.