Sea Glass_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [0]
Honora
McDermott
Alphonse
Vivian
Alice Willard
McDermott
Honora
Vivian
Sexton
Vivian
Alphonse
Honora
Sexton
Honora
Vivian
McDermott
Alphonse
McDermott
Honora
Alice Willard
Sexton
Honora
Vivian
Honora
Alphonse
Honora
Vivian
McDermott
Alphonse
Honora
Alice Willard
Vivian
Sexton
McDermott
Alphonse
Honora
McDermott
Honora
Honora
McDermott
Alphonse
Vivian
Alice Willard
Honora
McDermott
Honora
Alphonse
Vivian
Honora
Sexton
McDermott
Alice Willard
Alphonse
McDermott
Honora
Sexton
Honora
McDermott
Honora
McDermott
Honora
Alphonse
Honora
Alice Willard
Alphonse
Honora
McDermott
Alphonse
Sexton
Vivian
Honora
Honora
Alphonse
ALSO BY ANITA SHREVE
The Last Time They Met
Fortune’s Rocks
The Pilot’s Wife
The Weight of Water
Resistance
Where or When
Strange Fits of Passion
Eden Close
Sea Glass
A NOVEL
Anita Shreve
LITTLE, BROWN AND COMPANY
Boston New York London
Copyright © 2002 by Anita Shreve
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
First eBook Edition: April 2002
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
ISBN: 978-0-7595-2763-8
Designed by Stratford Publishing Services, Inc.
for Betsy
Honora
Honora sets the cardboard suitcase on the slab of granite. The door is mackereled, paint-chipped — green or black, it is hard to tell. Above the knocker, there are panes of glass, some broken and others opaque with age. Overhead is a portico of weathered shingles and beyond that a milk-and-water sky. Honora pinches the lapels of her suit together and holds her hat against the wind. She peers at the letter B carved into the knocker and thinks, This is the place where it all begins.
The year is 1929. A June day. A wedding day. Honora is just twenty, and Sexton is twenty-four.
The clapboards of the house are worn from white to flesh. The screens at the windows are ripped and flapping. On the second story, dormers stand like sentries keeping watch over the sea, and from the house a thicket sharp with thorns advances across the lawn. The doorsill is splintered, and she thinks it might give way with her weight. She wants to try the pitted knob, though Sexton has told her not to, to wait for him. She steps down into the dooryard, her pumps denting the springy soil, unleashing a scent that collapses years.
Sexton comes around the corner then, his palms upturned and filled with dirt. He is a man with a surprise, a stranger she hardly knows. A good man, she thinks. She hopes. His coat billows in the breeze, revealing suspenders snug against his shirt. His trousers, mended at a side seam, are loose and ride too low over his shoes. His hair, well oiled for the wedding, lifts in the wind.
Honora steps back up onto the granite slab and waits for her husband. She puts her hands together at her waist, the purse she borrowed from her mother snug against her hip. Sexton has an offering: sandy soil, a key.
“The soil is for the solid ground of marriage,” he says. “The key is for unlocking secrets.” He pauses. “The earrings are for you.”
Honora bends her face toward the pillow of dirt. Two marcasite-and-pearl earrings lie nearly buried in Sexton’s hands. She brushes them off with her finger.
“They belonged to my mother,” Sexton says. “The soil and the key are an old tradition your uncle Harold told me.”
“Thank you,” she says. “They’re very beautiful.”
She takes the key and thinks, Crossing the sill. Beginning our life together.
The man came into the bank with a roll of tens and fives, wanting larger bills so that he could buy a car. He had on a long brown coat and took his hat off before he made the transaction. The white collar of his shirt was tight against his neck, and he