impos-
sible unless the tide was way out. I saw a motorboat up near the
lighthouse cliff that must have been Sylvie’s.
I went left. Took off my sandals, because that was an unbreak-
able Beach Rule, no matter how cold it was. I rolled up my jeans. I
walked in the soft, thick sand closer to land, moved past the beach
layer where all of the scary stuff collected, then headed down to
the hard, wet ground closest to the water. I could walk forever
there; I could even walk all the way back to the beach house if I
wanted. I could see Possession Point, our house tiny but visible
in the distance. I picked up a stick and dragged it behind me. I
tried out the water and found it freezing. I collected a few shells,
rinsed them off, and put them in my pocket. I walked past a
few houses, imagining that I could choose which one was mine.
Modern, with huge glass windows? Small but charming? The
houses were spread out here, your own bit of the endless beach
and the endless sea, and it was obvious these people lived a life
* 60 *
Stay
that was aware of both of these elements. A statue made from
driftwood decorated one deck, a string of floats likely washed
ashore lined another railing. A rowboat was pulled up tight to one
small house, its oars stuck up in the sand.
And then I was at that shack I had seen from the shore before.
Maybe people just stored their boats there, or their garden tools,
or their whatevers. It was smaller than a one-car garage, made
out of shingles and planks weathered gray. Maybe no one actu-
ally lived there. Wait—it had a chimney, though. An even smaller
building stood off to the side. Wait—no. Was it an outhouse? Did
people have those anymore? Because it looked like one of those
outhouses you saw in the hillbilly movies.
You pictured a guy with no teeth. But then again, it had a cer-
tain charm. It had to, or it wouldn’t have kept me there so long,
looking at it. I started noticing things. Firewood stacked up. An
apple tree? Could that be, there on the beach? Did this beach just
grow unlikely things? I saw plants in yellow pots on the window-
sill inside. A pair of orange gardening clogs.
“You’re not the tax assessor,” a woman said.
I startled. She came up from behind me, a woman with
gray hair cut just under her chin and a face with deep wrinkles
and a stern mouth. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt with short
sleeves. She was small, but her arms were roped with muscles.
She carried two tin buckets, one overflowing with what looked
like weeds.
“No,” I said.
“Not much other reason to stare, other than to assess value.”
“Just curiosity,” I said.
* 61 *
Deb Caletti
“It’s a curious place, isn’t it?”
“Do you live here?” I asked.
“I do. It’s my full-time home now, if you can believe it. I
had an apartment in New York, which I finally gave up last year.
Would you believe that either? We used to come here in the sum-
mers. But now it’s just me.”
“New York,” I said. “Wow.”
“You’re thinking how different it is there from here. Which
is the point. There, you get what you need only with much
effort. You can’t collect your grittle and snips for dinner, right
off of your own land.” She held up the bucket. I wondered if
maybe she was crazy.
“Well, thank you for letting me look,” I said.
“Annabelle Aurora,” she said. She set down the buckets, held
out a hand.
“Clara Oates,” I said. We shook.
“Summer visitor,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You can come by for dinner some time. Bring your father.”
I swear to God, my heart stopped. She’d shocked me, that
was for sure. While I was used to being connected to my father
in our own city, I hadn’t expected this sudden knowledge by some
unknown old lady with an outhouse on a beach. It seemed as
likely she’d know my father as I’d know hers.
“Tell him I have muscles,” she said.
I was sure she was crazy then. She had muscles, all right.
As
sible unless the tide was way out. I saw a motorboat up near the
lighthouse cliff that must have been Sylvie’s.
I went left. Took off my sandals, because that was an unbreak-
able Beach Rule, no matter how cold it was. I rolled up my jeans. I
walked in the soft, thick sand closer to land, moved past the beach
layer where all of the scary stuff collected, then headed down to
the hard, wet ground closest to the water. I could walk forever
there; I could even walk all the way back to the beach house if I
wanted. I could see Possession Point, our house tiny but visible
in the distance. I picked up a stick and dragged it behind me. I
tried out the water and found it freezing. I collected a few shells,
rinsed them off, and put them in my pocket. I walked past a
few houses, imagining that I could choose which one was mine.
Modern, with huge glass windows? Small but charming? The
houses were spread out here, your own bit of the endless beach
and the endless sea, and it was obvious these people lived a life
* 60 *
Stay
that was aware of both of these elements. A statue made from
driftwood decorated one deck, a string of floats likely washed
ashore lined another railing. A rowboat was pulled up tight to one
small house, its oars stuck up in the sand.
And then I was at that shack I had seen from the shore before.
Maybe people just stored their boats there, or their garden tools,
or their whatevers. It was smaller than a one-car garage, made
out of shingles and planks weathered gray. Maybe no one actu-
ally lived there. Wait—it had a chimney, though. An even smaller
building stood off to the side. Wait—no. Was it an outhouse? Did
people have those anymore? Because it looked like one of those
outhouses you saw in the hillbilly movies.
You pictured a guy with no teeth. But then again, it had a cer-
tain charm. It had to, or it wouldn’t have kept me there so long,
looking at it. I started noticing things. Firewood stacked up. An
apple tree? Could that be, there on the beach? Did this beach just
grow unlikely things? I saw plants in yellow pots on the window-
sill inside. A pair of orange gardening clogs.
“You’re not the tax assessor,” a woman said.
I startled. She came up from behind me, a woman with
gray hair cut just under her chin and a face with deep wrinkles
and a stern mouth. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt with short
sleeves. She was small, but her arms were roped with muscles.
She carried two tin buckets, one overflowing with what looked
like weeds.
“No,” I said.
“Not much other reason to stare, other than to assess value.”
“Just curiosity,” I said.
* 61 *
Deb Caletti
“It’s a curious place, isn’t it?”
“Do you live here?” I asked.
“I do. It’s my full-time home now, if you can believe it. I
had an apartment in New York, which I finally gave up last year.
Would you believe that either? We used to come here in the sum-
mers. But now it’s just me.”
“New York,” I said. “Wow.”
“You’re thinking how different it is there from here. Which
is the point. There, you get what you need only with much
effort. You can’t collect your grittle and snips for dinner, right
off of your own land.” She held up the bucket. I wondered if
maybe she was crazy.
“Well, thank you for letting me look,” I said.
“Annabelle Aurora,” she said. She set down the buckets, held
out a hand.
“Clara Oates,” I said. We shook.
“Summer visitor,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You can come by for dinner some time. Bring your father.”
I swear to God, my heart stopped. She’d shocked me, that
was for sure. While I was used to being connected to my father
in our own city, I hadn’t expected this sudden knowledge by some
unknown old lady with an outhouse on a beach. It seemed as
likely she’d know my father as I’d know hers.
“Tell him I have muscles,” she said.
I was sure she was crazy then. She had muscles, all right.
As
Similar Books
