Maine - J. Courtney Sullivan [127]
It was after eleven now. Maggie sat on the jetty, her feet immersed in the chilly water. A busted-up lobster trap had washed into shore and landed on the rocks. New York seemed a million miles away.
All around her were tide pools full of periwinkles and algae, which turned the water brilliant shades of red and green. She thought of childhood days, when Chris and her cousin Daniel would wrest the periwinkles from where they lay, grabbing hold of their shells and dropping them into iced-tea bottles full of salty water, shaking them hard for no apparent reason, other than the fact that little boys sometimes got a strange kick out of being cruel.
The ocean stretched out before her, with nothing in the distance but a lone sailboat. Behind her, the cottage and the big house next door sat quiet and still. This place had been one of the few constants in her life. Perhaps next summer she’d be sitting on these rocks with a baby in her arms. Maybe she could even stay in the cottage through the off-season, as her mother had done leading up to the divorce. It wouldn’t be as gruesome as that spring had been. She could spend afternoons writing at the big table in the living room, while her child slept in a crib by the window, bathed in sunlight.
Maggie held a cup of herbal tea in her hand as she looked out over the choppy water. She wanted to tell her mother, but she felt terrified. Maggie knew all too well that Kathleen saw motherhood as the end of independence, growth, fulfillment. And yes, yes, we were at war, and terrorists might kill us all, and it seemed like a dreadful world to bring a child into. But when had the world been any better, really? When was it ever a safe time to create a life?
She took in a deep breath of ocean air and climbed to her feet, brushing sand from her tree-trunk legs, which were entirely resistant to the elliptical machine, thank you very much Great-grandma Dolan. As she walked back toward the beach, she saw an elderly couple in the distance practicing Tai Chi. They looked ridiculous, adorable. Some annoying reflexive part of her wished Gabe were there to see them. He would have taken their picture, preserving the sight forever.
She went up toward the cottage, planning to enter through the side door so she wouldn’t have to pass by her grandmother’s porch, where Alice was probably chain-smoking and reading a library book. Maggie felt guilty for avoiding her, but told herself she’d go visit Alice later in the afternoon, maybe bring some fresh cherries from Ruby’s Market.
As she came up the path from the beach, Maggie heard a repetitive banging sound that seemed to get louder as she approached. Then she saw him: a handsome, dark-haired guy about her age, wearing a blue sweater over jeans. He was standing at the side entrance’s railing with a hammer in his hand.
This must be the handyman Alice was yapping on about at dinner the night before, though he didn’t appear to be Mexican. He looked like one of those dashing Englishmen Alice so loved in BBC adaptations of Jane Austen books.
“Hi,” Maggie said, feeling her cheeks blush.
“Hello there,” he said with a wide smile. “Gorgeous day, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said slowly.
“Connor Donnelly,” he said, extending a hand.
“Maggie Doyle.”
“So nice to meet you,” he said.
Attractive straight men rarely came across as friendly—they usually either flirted or ignored you. Maggie felt skeptical.
“Have you seen my grandmother?” she asked.
“Oh yes. She’s around front,” he said. “Uh-huh. Thanks.”
Maggie turned the corner. Alice was down on her knees in the garden a few feet away, tending her roses and wearing a netted hat to ward off mosquitoes.
“Hello there,” she said when Maggie approached. She struggled to get up, and Maggie rushed forward to help her.
“I’m absolutely fine,” Alice said. “Don’t make me feel like