The Sound of Glass (12 page)

“Thank you, Gibbes. I appreciate it.” She continued to smile, waiting for her insides to thaw.

“I know lots of other doctors in the area, too,” he went on. “You’ll probably want an internist or a GYN. A dentist. Whatever you need, I’m sure I know one I could recommend. Please don’t hesitate to let me know.” His voice was light, but his eyes held a serious glint. “You want to make sure that you’re under a doctor’s care, with your ulcers.”

“Yes, of course. Just give me a few more days to get settled and I’ll give you a call.”

He continued to look at her without speaking, and it was almost like they were daring each other to be the one to look away first.

Still studying her, he said, “I’m not on call this weekend and was planning on taking my boat out—maybe just to ride around in so you can check out your new home. We can fish next time. The invitation still stands if you and Rocky are interested.”

“He’ll love that—we’ll love it. Thank you. What should I bring? I’ll pack a picnic basket—there’s one in the pantry that looks like it’s still in good condition.”

“You don’t need to, but I have a feeling that you’re going to bring one anyway.”

She returned his smile, although it did nothing to melt the frozen spot inside her. “Can you ask Merritt to come with us again?”

He tilted his head, the way some people did when they couldn’t understand her accent. “I was under the impression that she’d rather sew her head to the carpet than spend any time in my company.”

She thought just for a moment, remembering what her mama had said about how it was always easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission. “I think the reason she said no was not so much because of you, although I won’t lie and say that’s not part of it. It’s more about the boat. And the water in particular.”

He looked at her with dawning understanding and she hoped, just for a second, that he would understand enough so she wouldn’t have to say it out loud. Merritt was such a private person that she would probably turn to stone if she knew what Loralee was about to tell Gibbes. But Merritt needed somebody besides Loralee to know, and Loralee just didn’t have the time to wait the fifty or so years she imagined it would take Merritt to warm up enough to anybody to tell them herself.

“Merritt’s mother drowned. She and her mother were driving over a bridge in a storm at night, and the car went over. Sarah managed to get Merritt free, but Sarah died.”

Gibbes looked stunned for a moment, then nodded his head. “Ah. Well, that would explain why she wouldn’t want to go out on the water. And I can’t say I blame her.”

“I know. But I think if she gives it a chance, she’ll find the water is different here. It’s still the Atlantic, but down here—except during hurricanes, of course—the ocean seems so much more forgiving. It’s warmer, calmer; the colors are green and blue and not black and gray. Growing up in Gulf Shores, I always found the water to be a place of refuge and renewal.” She looked past him, through the sliding glass doors that showed blue sky outside, remembering. “When my own mama died, I spent a lot of time on the beach staring at the water until I learned what I was supposed to. And I did. I finally figured out that when the waves come ashore and wipe away all the footprints, it’s like God telling you that starting again is part of life. It saved me.”

“And you want to save Merritt?”

Loralee dipped her head, examining her gold metallic strappy sandals. They had been Robert’s favorites, and they made her happy when she wore them. With a strength of conviction that came from deep inside of her, she said, “We all need saving.”

“Good luck with that. Something tells me that Merritt isn’t the type who enjoys a good ol’ coffee klatch with her girlfriends.”

Loralee almost laughed at the mental image of her and Merritt wearing fluffy slippers and bathrobes with towels in their hair, curled up on a couch drinking coffee while sharing confidences. She had the disloyal thought that she’d see Owen playing professional football before that ever happened.

She and Gibbes ended up at the checkout even though Loralee still had grocery items on her list. But her energy reserves were below empty, and she was glad she’d had this conversation with him. He was an unlikely ally, but one she felt good about.

He placed his two items on the lip of the conveyor and began loading her purchases onto the belt. She wanted to tell him to go
ahead, that she could do it herself, but knew she’d be lying. “Thank you,” she said instead, handing her credit card to the cashier.

Gibbes bagged her purchases and put them in her buggy before buying his own items, then escorted her out to her car, pushing the buggy and even loading her car. He didn’t ask permission. She liked that about him. He saw what needed to be done and did it. It reminded her of Merritt, although Loralee would rather dip her head in honey and lie down on a red-ant hill than say that aloud to either one of them.

“Thank you,” she said as he opened her door and she climbed in behind the wheel. She hit the start button and rolled down the windows, taking deep breaths of cool air.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine—please don’t worry about me.” She looked up at him, recognizing the same shadows she saw behind his eyes that she saw in Merritt’s. “And I’m sorry for your own loss. First your grandmother and then you find out that your brother is gone, too. I know you hadn’t seen him for a while, but I’m sure you’re grieving. It might help if you talk about him with somebody. Just let me know—you know I love to talk, but I’m a good listener, too.”

“You’re a nice person, Loralee. I hope living with Merritt doesn’t change that.”

She laughed softly. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. I understand Merritt. More than she thinks I do. She’s just one of those people who thinks they have to live with their toes pressed against the edge of disaster. She’s been pushed over it so many times she just comes to expect it. I think this place will be good for her. Every time I hear the mermaid’s tears I think they’re clapping to welcome Merritt.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Mermaid’s tears?”

“That’s what my mama called the sea glass.” Her smile fell at her next thought. “I hope you’re not upset that your grandmother left the house to your brother and now his widow is living in it. Especially since you grew up there.”

Gibbes shuffled his feet, uncomfortable. “Family tradition and
all. Cal was the oldest son and so the house should rightly have gone to him—or his heirs. And she’s welcome to it.” He looked at Loralee, but she was pretty sure he was seeing something else. “If my grandmother had left it to me, I would have torn it down.”

He stepped back and closed her door, his hands braced on the frame. “Remember to let me know about any doctor recommendations you might need. Call me anytime.”

“I will. Thank you, Gibbes.” On impulse, Loralee touched his arm. “And remember to call me anytime you want to talk. I really am a good listener.”

“I’m sure you are. I’m just not sure anybody’s ready to hear what I have to say.” He pushed off from the car, his smile back in place. “I’ll let you know about the boating.”

After a final wave, he picked up his grocery bag and headed toward his truck. She rolled her window up as she watched him walk away, wondering what demons he still saw lurking in the dark corners of the old house, and if they knew the ones Merritt was running away from.

Slipping her pink journal out of her purse, she opened it at the spot she’d marked with her pen and began to write.
The scariest things in our lives aren’t always the bogeymen under the bed. It’s the fear that the small bird with bound wings that lives in the darkest place in our hearts will one day find a way to break free.

She put on her seat belt, then drove back to the house on the bluff, thinking of the dark places in her own heart, and how much time she had before she had to face her biggest fear.

MERRITT

I
walked slowly through the dining room, my fingers lightly skimming the top of an elegant eighteenth-century sideboard with Queen Anne legs and detailed marquetry bordering the small drawers. A heavily tarnished silver tea service sat on top, and I’d already discovered that the drawers were filled with sterling flatware with handles embellished with vines of roses and the letter “H.”

As I’d taken inventory of all the rooms, I realized that the old house contained a fortune in antiques and art, presumably acquired by a family that had called this place home for generations. But Gibbes didn’t seem to have warm feelings about it, as if there were too many dark spaces clouding his memories. I felt them, too, the shadows that seemed to move and twitch right beyond my field of vision. But I also felt a warmth, a sense of family and belonging that must have been included in each floorboard and each nail when it was built all
those years ago. It was almost as if the house were waiting for someone to shine light into all of its corners.

I had been an art history major and then a curator of a small art museum in Farmington, Maine, but that made me no expert. The museum also contained pieces of furniture donated or collected from the area, the legs thicker and bolder, the wood darker and grainier than the almost dainty furniture in this house. It had made me think of the long, hard winters in Maine, and I couldn’t imagine this delicate furniture surviving in such a brutal environment.

These were family heirlooms, treasures that I owned but had no real claim to. Gibbes had expressed no interest in anything except personal mementos, but I would have to insist. I didn’t want any burning resentment to link us together. I wanted to give him what was his and cut ties completely. I wanted to be alone,
needed
to be alone. I’d already spent a lifetime loving people and losing them.

I sat down for a moment on a Chippendale sofa with faded blue and white Chinese silk upholstery, resting my clipboard on my lap. I was waiting to show Gibbes the inventory list I had made, and had even included a column for him to check off the items he wanted. I tilted my head back, not minding the whir of the new air-conditioning unit as long as the cold air blew on my face and dried the sweat on my cheeks and forehead. The HVAC man had looked at me oddly when I mentioned that it surely couldn’t get any hotter outside than it already was. He’d reminded me that it was only May.

I was the happy owner of six unsightly window units, which would make the house bearable while I determined when the best time to install the new central heating and air system would be. The estimate I’d received was more than I’d been expecting, but at that point he could have charged me three times the amount and I would have gladly paid it. For somebody with a genetic predisposition to keep the wallet strings tightened at all times, that was saying something.

The doorbell rang and I spent a moment mentally preparing
myself before standing up and answering it. Gibbes smiled when he saw me, but it was the kind of smile one gives to his dentist right before a tooth is pulled.

He paused in the foyer under the beautiful fluted arch that separated the doorway from the rest of the entrance. “Is that a cool breeze I feel?”

“It is. I had new AC units installed in the study and front parlor to create a cross breeze, and I added a new one in the dining room, two more upstairs in Owen’s and Loralee’s bedrooms, and one in the attic. It makes the house almost bearable.”

“It’s not that hot, you know. It’s still spring. You might want to leave the windows open so you can get acclimated before summer gets here.”

I wasn’t sure whether he was trying to prepare me or scare me, so I didn’t say anything. Instead I handed him the inventory list. “Here’s everything in the house—excluding the kitchen and garden. You’re welcome to go through those yourself if you think there’s anything there you might want. Or I’m sure Loralee would be happy to do it.”

He looked at me sharply, and I wondered whether my tone of voice had given me away. Loralee had been so excruciatingly helpful with the inventorying. She was like a diligent little worker bee who did what was needed and didn’t require any direction. She was efficient, organized, and—for lack of a better word—cheerful. She took frequent naps, but her sleeping habits didn’t interfere with her productivity any more than her propensity to wear high heels and makeup every waking hour did.

To my shame, I knew I was looking for reasons to dislike her—as if I didn’t have enough—but kept coming up empty. Even more shameful was that that just made me even more put-out. I responded by avoiding her as best I could, which turned out to be easier than I’d anticipated. It had only just occurred to me that she might also be avoiding me.

“Where is Loralee? I wanted to let her and Owen know that we’re definitely on for boating this weekend.” He opened his mouth to say something else, but hesitated, his expression like that of a person who’d just bitten into something rotten. After a moment, he said, “And I’d like to extend the invitation to you, too.”

“No,” I said quickly. Then added, “Thank you. I have work to do here. Besides, I don’t like the water very much.”

He continued his cajoling, even though his expression looked like he was sucking on a lemon. “That’s because you’ve never been on the water down here in South Carolina. And we won’t go near the ocean—just stick to the creeks and marshes and possibly the river. We’ll fix you up with a life jacket and a hat and a bunch of sunscreen and all you’ll have to do is sit down and enjoy the ride.”

“I don’t like the water,” I repeated, surprised at the power the merest suggestion that I go near a body of water still had over me. I felt cold all over, as if I’d been plunged into the frigid north Atlantic, and it had nothing to do with the air-conditioning.

“Okay, I get it. Just thought I’d ask.” He sounded too relieved, enough so that I began wondering about his motives.

“And to answer your question, Loralee took Owen to the nursery to get supplies for the garden. She’s planning on re-creating it the way it was. Maybe you can give her some insight, since you probably remember it. She wants to finish with the garden before she finds a job.”

Gibbes regarded me with serious eyes before glancing down at the inventory list. He flipped through the pages, giving each one a cursory glance before handing the clipboard back to me. “Nope. Nothing here I want. It’s all yours, and you’re welcome to it.”

“Didn’t you see my value estimations next to the items? There’s a fortune in furniture and paintings in this house. Not to mention heirloom silver. We can talk to Mr. Williams and see if we can work something out. . . .”

“I told you. I’m not interested in anything in this house except for a few personal items. That’s it. I don’t need the money, and I don’t
need the furniture. I don’t
want
any of it. It’s yours. You won it fair and square.”

I felt the blood rush to my head. “I didn’t
win
anything. My husband died.”

“You’re right, of course. I was out of line and I’m sorry.” He didn’t look the least bit sorry, but I let it go.

I placed the inventory list on the circular table in the entranceway. Eager to move on, I said, “I think I found the photo albums you were looking for. They’re upstairs in the hallway with the rest of the boxes marked with your name.” I hesitated just for a moment before adding, “I haven’t been up to the attic yet. There’s a window unit up there now cooling everything off. You’re welcome to go up with me now if you have time.”

I felt foolish all of a sudden, like a child afraid of the dark. But every time I approached the door I heard Deborah Fuller telling me about secretly gathering sea glass for Edith Heyward, keeping it from her husband, and seeing Edith’s face in the attic window. When I placed my hand on the doorknob I felt a little bit like Pandora, but with the benefit of hindsight. Maybe I
was
afraid of what I might find. Or maybe I was simply discovering the small pleasure of deliberately ignoring the little voice in my head that I knew was Cal’s goading me to do something I didn’t want to.

“You haven’t been up there yet?”

“No,” I said as I turned away toward the stairs, not wanting him to see my cheeks flush. “So we might as well get it over with now.”

We climbed the stairs, the rising warm air upstairs seeming to press into us, adding to my feeling of gloom. Gibbes glanced down the hallway at the piles of boxes with his name on them, then stopped next to me by the attic door. Stalling, I said, “I had the new AC in the attic set at sixty-eight. It’s a horrible waste of money, but I couldn’t stand the thought of going up there otherwise.”

He widened his eyes, as if to remind me that the new AC had been installed almost three days before.

I took a deep breath, concentrating on my loafers and how the tips were badly scuffed.
More people die from smoke inhalation than flames. Fire can suck all of the oxygen from a room and fill it with poisonous smoke and gases before flames even reach a room.
I didn’t have to wonder why that particular nugget of fire-academy wisdom had come to me at that moment.

With a confidence that was completely artificial, I turned the knob and the door swung open into the hallway. A tall, narrow flight of stairs, made of wood stained only by time, led the way up. They were steep steps, making them difficult to climb and impossible to see what lay beyond the top step.

“I should go first,” Gibbes said, putting a foot on the first step.

I bristled. I knew about Southern boys, and I needed to shove his chauvinism back where it came from. “Just because I’m a woman?”

He looked at me and it seemed as if he were trying very hard not to smile. “Well, it would be good manners. But mostly it’s because you’re wearing a skirt.” He indicated the steep steps in front of us. “I figured we’re already as well acquainted as we need to be.”

The air left my lungs in a sudden rush, meeting the blood heading toward my cheeks, and for a moment I saw stars. “Just go,” I finally managed, pointing toward the stairs.

A lopsided and decidedly boyish grin lit his face before he jogged up the steps. I grabbed hold of the banister and slowly began my ascent, taking each steep step one at a time.

The first thing I noticed were the dust motes in the shafts of light from the two dormer windows, dancing in the disturbed air like summoned spirits. Gibbes stood within the light, surveying the room around him, his hands on hips making him look like a pillaging pirate. The ceiling was high in the center, giving even a tall person like Gibbes plenty of room to walk about without banging his head on a rafter.

The ceiling and walls were unfinished—and uninsulated—which made me wince as I considered all the air-conditioned air I
was paying for that was apparently seeping through the cracks and single-paned windows. The HVAC man had expressed reservations about the wisdom of running the window unit, and had suggested I come up to look, but I’d refused, explaining it was just a temporary fix anyway. It was still warm in the attic, but bearable for a short period of time.

I thought of Edith up there sweltering, wondering how she’d managed it. Even with open windows and a fan or two, it would have been broiling in the summer. Deborah had said she’d seen a light on in the attic, so there must be electricity up there, which made me think Edith must have had a dozen fans. But still, even with the wall unit blasting, it was sticky and hot, suffocating. What had been so important to her that she would spend periods of time up there? Or had it been less about what she was doing and more about escaping something?

Gibbes looked up at an ancient ceiling fixture with a chain dangling from it. He pulled the chain but nothing happened. At least the light from the windows would be enough for me to see during the daytime, but I’d need to replace the bulbs if I wanted to be able to see at night. Not that I wanted to be up there after dark. There was something in the air up there, something beyond the dust and staleness, something more oppressive than even the heat. If the house had been a living, breathing thing, I might have said I’d found the dark place at its heart. But it wasn’t, of course. It was just an old house.

There was a long wooden ledge that extended across the wall below the dormers with an ancient fifties-style kitchen chair sitting in front of it, yellow foam erupting from the turquoise vinyl seat. Woven baskets in varying sizes littered the top of the table like offerings for some unknown entity. They were set up in a deliberate line, a measure of tidiness not expected on a worktable. I stepped forward involuntarily, wanting to see inside the baskets but knowing already what they contained.

Milky glass of varying hues lay dully in their woven homes,
listless without the wind and sun to bring them to life. They were separated by colors—varying shades of white, blue, green, brown—each as lifeless as the next. I wondered how long it had taken to collect them, imagining that it must have been years. I thought of the dedication, the purpose required to collect something as rare and precious as sea glass. My mother had had a small dish on her dressing table filled with a small handful of glass she’d collected on childhood visits to Old Orchard Beach with her cousins. They were the only reminder I had that she had once loved the ocean, and the great waves that sometimes left gifts of glass behind.

“What on earth could this be?” Gibbes walked toward the wall opposite the attic door and perpendicular to the dormer wall. Faded white sheets billowed softly from the blast of the air conditioner, undulating like ocean waves. Whatever they were concealing protruded in random bumps and lines, little fists of prisoners begging to be let out.

“Hold your breath for a moment—I’m going to yank these down.”

I realized I’d already been holding my breath, and just nodded. He reached up to the topmost corner and gave a sharp tug, the sheet releasing its hold on whatever it had been hung up on. Slowly Gibbes walked down the line, tugging the fabric from the top, until three large flat sheets had slipped down to the floor in a puddle of cotton and dust.