The Cottage at Glass Beach by Heather Barbieri Page B

intervals, the beacon of a celestial lighthouse.
    â€œIt is?” Annie pulled up a chair and gazed out the window, elbows on the sill. “Aunt Maire said there were shipwrecks in the old days.”
    â€œMaybe the ghosts will come up here and haunt you,” Ella said. “That’s what happens when you watch for them out the window. Your eyes meet, and in that split second they make a connection to you. You let them in.”
    â€œThey’d go for you first, because you’re mean and you need to be taught a lesson.”
    â€œOho! Listen to you!”
    Nora sighed. She had suds up to her elbows and didn’t want to rinse off and referee another spat. She often wondered what it would have been like to have another child. She and Malcolm had talked about having a third, before his affair came to light. (Though she spoke of it more often than he did, now that she thought about it.) There would have been another child, between the girls—a boy, perhaps—if she hadn’t miscarried that winter nine years ago. Her mother or Maire might have cared for her after the procedure, if they had been a part of her life then. She hadn’t told anyone she was pregnant, since it was so early, and in the end, she said she was down with the flu, because she didn’t want to deal with others’ pity or grief. Malcolm did what he could to support her, but despite his best efforts she’d felt alone in those weeks, hearing the latch click as he went off to work. She remained at home in the silent house, Ella off at preschool, a parade of black-and-white films showing on the television screen, Bringing up Baby, Casablanca, The Third Man , beloved classics that couldn’t penetrate the fog of disbelief and sadness, until finally she couldn’t stand it anymore and forced herself to get out of bed a few days later. She’d been afraid to try again, afraid during the first few weeks of her pregnancy with Annie, and yet the months went by easily in the end, the birth, too, more so than Ella’s, who, being a firstborn, caused some pain and trouble.
    Now she watched her growing daughters through the open kitchen door of the cottage at Glass Beach, considering how swiftly the years had passed, from infant to toddler to child to nearly teen. Annie, with her face close to the glass—or so Nora guessed from the halo of breath fogging the pane. Ella, her nose in her book.
    Annie began waving. “I’m waving at the waves. They always wave back.”
    â€œOne of life’s deep truths.” Ella snorted without looking up.
    â€œI see something,” Annie said.
    â€œYou’re always seeing things,” Ella replied.
    â€œNo, really. There’s someone down on the rocks. They’re not moving.”
    â€œIt’s probably a seal,” Ella said.
    â€œI know the difference between a person and a seal,” Annie said, adding in a hushed voice, “What if they’re dead?”
    â€œNow that would be interesting,” Ella said.
    â€œMama!” Annie appealed to a higher authority.
    â€œLet me see.” Nora joined Annie at the window.
    Yes, something, someone, lay on the ledge. “Stay here.” She tossed on a rain jacket. “I’ll be right back.”
    Nora staggered against the gale, coat winging out behind her. The hood refused to stay in place. She let it go and was drenched in seconds, water trickling down her spine, hair plastered to her scalp in flat ringlets. The rain came down so hard, she could barely see. Clouds raced across the moon, casting shadows that swept over the beach, elusive, spectral. It was easy to imagine things that weren’t there. The ocean reared back and threw itself against the rocks, sending up plumes of spray. Pebbles and shells tumbled over the shore with the sound of dragging chains and breaking crockery. Nora stumbled forward, the way slick and treacherous. She hadn’t bothered to change into boots.