The Cottage at Glass Beach by Heather Barbieri Read Free Book Online

dramatic.”
    â€œÂ â€™Bye.” Maire pulled out of the parking space and turned in the direction of the main road.
    Alison waved from the sidewalk, growing smaller in the rearview mirror as they headed for home. On the outskirts of town, the close-set cottages and buildings gave way to open fields, dotted with flocks of sheep, goats, cows, and an occasional horse, a tranquil scene at odds with what had happened a short time before.
    â€œWho did Maggie Scanlon think I was?” Nora asked as they passed a broken fence, the wood weathered gray.
    Maire weighed her words before speaking. “Your mother.”
    L ater, after a dinner of thick clam chowder and homemade bread at Maire’s house, the girls played on the deck while the women talked in front of the fire over glasses of wine. Maire figured they could use a glass or two after what they’d been through that afternoon.
    They sat on the sea green sofa she’d reupholstered herself, the chenille soft and plush, the cushions deep and inviting. A stack of gardening books by Rosemary Verey and Gertrude Jekyll rested on the end table beneath a silk-shaded lamp, favorite passages marked with Post-it notes, a garden journal open to the current date, with jottings of chores to be done that month and records of plantings. Sun filtered through the curtains, dappling the slate blue walls with spots of light and shadow, the doors and windows open to let in what remained of the day.
    â€œIs there anything I can do to make you more comfortable at the cottage?” Maire asked. “You have enough room? You’re welcome to stay here at Cliff House, you know—”
    â€œThere’s plenty of space, since there’s only the three of us,” Nora said, more free to talk now that the girls weren’t underfoot. “Malcolm, my husband, is staying in Boston.”
    â€œIt’s settled, then?”
    â€œNo, not exactly. We both needed space to figure things out. Or at least I do. It’s for the best. The media seems to follow him everywhere these days.” She fingered a loose thread on her sweater, a green that brought out the color of her eyes. “I wish you could have known us before all this happened. We were good together once.”
    â€œI’m sure you were. You might be again.”
    â€œMaybe,” Nora said. She didn’t sound optimistic. “What about your family?” She nodded to the photographs on the mantel.
    â€œJoe and Jamie were lost in a fishing accident three years ago.”
    â€œI’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”
    â€œWe’ve lived whole lives without each other, haven’t we?” There was so much about Nora’s life she didn’t know.
    â€œYes, we have.” Nora paused. “And after what happened in the shop today, I have a feeling there’s a lot I don’t know about my mother, too.”
    Maire swirled the liquid in her glass, contemplating the whirlpool it made, spiraling down the stem. She’d made it a policy not to talk about Maeve much up to then, though she remained ever-present in her thoughts. Anything could spark a memory of her—the color purple (plum, for the sky at evening, the waves too); the sound of the wind chimes, which she loved to touch as she came in the back door, announcing her arrival; sweet scallops on the half shell . . .
    â€œWhat was she like?” Nora asked. “You were her sister.”
    Sister. A word freighted with shades of meaning. “Maeve had a special way about her. A light.”
    â€œWas she beautiful?”
    â€œShe was lovely, yes. But it was more than that. There was something special that came from within. You must have seen pictures. Your father took so many. He was a talented photographer.”
    Nora shook her head. “There weren’t any. I didn’t know he even had a camera until I cleaned out the attic after he passed away last year. It was as if