The Sound of Glass Page 11

  Steve came down the stairs behind us. “I’ve got to run to my van to get a special tool—it’s an old lock and I don’t want to break anything. I’ll be right back.”

  I waited until the front door closed behind him. “Do you know what’s up there?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No.” She looked at me closely, as if determining whether she could tell me something. She seemed to find what she was looking for and continued. “When I was a girl, whenever I passed by the house at night I’d glance up and see a light on in the attic, and sometimes I’d see Miss Edith looking out the window. A few times I waved, but she never seemed to see me.”

  Laughter came from the kitchen, reminding me that we needed to join the others. But I was reluctant to move forward. There was something in Deborah’s voice that made me hesitate.

  “Do you know what she was doing?”

  She paused. “She made her sea-glass chimes up there, among other projects. As I grew older she and I became friends, but she never showed me what she did up there, and only mentioned a big project she was working on. She was very secretive about it and always kept the door locked. Just about everybody in town seemed to have a few thoughts on what she was doing in that hot attic. But one thing we did know for sure.” She pressed her lips together in a tight line. “She wasn’t mourning her husband.”

  The door to the kitchen opened, and Owen ran past us up the stairs with a quick hello and a surreptitious glance over his shoulder. I heard his door shut hard right before the kitchen door opened again and Maris stuck her head out, looked around, and then, apparently not finding what she was looking for, slowly withdrew her head again.

  I barely noticed, Deborah’s last words still hanging in the air. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  The locksmith reentered the house and headed toward the stairs. Deborah’s eyes followed him before she turned to face me again. “I’m not one to gossip, but my mama played bridge with Miss Edith when I was a little girl, and she’d bring me along sometimes. She was a nice lady, really lovely, and with beautiful manners. I watched her little boy, C.J., sometimes when I got a bit older. I guess he would have been your father-in-law. Anyway, I remember she always wore long sleeves, even in the summertime.” She paused. “We had a secret that not even my mother knew about. Actually, until now I don’t believe I’ve ever told anybody.” With a soft smile she said, “When she found out we had a beach house on Sullivan’s Island, she asked me to be on the lookout for sea glass and she’d pay me a penny for every piece I could find. I’d pile them in the corner of the porch when I was out riding my bike, and then she’d slip pennies in my pocket when Mother brought me again. I didn’t know why she wanted them—there weren’t any wind chimes back then, only the one hanging from the attic window. I suppose she was working on them up in the attic. All I know is that she didn’t want Mr. Heyward to know what she was doing.”

  “Why?” I asked, my voice suddenly tight.

  Her eyes settled on me, but whatever else she was going to say was interrupted by the kitchen door swinging open again as Loralee, Cynthia, and the little girl, Maris, came toward us. I noticed that Loralee had gone heavy on the blush so it looked like she was trying to hide her skin—something I had yet to see without makeup. My mother had had beautiful skin, creamy in the winter and freckled in the summer, and she’d never worn makeup except for parties and special occasions. That was what mothers were supposed to look like, not Barbie-doll wannabes who wore animal prints and high heels.

  Deborah placed a hand on my arm, the fingers worn with calluses, her touch like rough burlap. I looked again at her floral blouse and saw the sunspots on her cheeks and nose and thought she was probably in a gardening club, too. Maybe she could help Loralee with the garden.

  I stopped my thoughts, seeing them lead in a dangerous direction. My mama always said that to plant a garden meant that you believed in tomorrow. I wasn’t sure I believed enough in the future to even resurrect the garden, and I especially didn’t imagine Loralee there for the long term to see it through.

  Leaning toward me, Deborah spoke softly. “Stop by the Heritage Society offices next Wednesday—they’re on Carteret Street. I work from eleven to four. I have something to show you that you might be interested in.”

  She squeezed my hand and smiled, her warmth bringing a smile to my own face. There was something familiar about the way she spoke that reminded me of home.

  “Are you ready for the grand tour?” Cynthia asked, her blue eyes sparkling. “Deborah here is ashamed to admit that we ladies over at the Heritage Society have been dying to get into this house for years, but it’s the truth. It was built by the same architect who built the John Mark Verdier house, you know. Quite famous back in the day.” She clasped her hands together. “Just look at that cypress paneling and the cast-plaster mantel,” she said, indicating the fireplace in the front parlor. “And the melodeon,” she added with excitement, brushing her hand against a small pianolike instrument between two windows in the front parlor. “Not many of them exist anymore, you know. I have the name of a lovely man who specializes in melodeons if you need any repairs to it.” She pursed her lips and in a hushed whisper added, “He’s been institutionalized, but I’m sure as soon as he’s released he can come look at your melodeon.”

  She walked around the front rooms, touching various pieces of furniture. “I just knew this house would be full of treasures! I’m hoping you’ll allow us to include it on the fall home and garden tour. You wouldn’t have to lift a finger, I promise. We do everything. . . .”

  I caught movement from the corner of my eye and turned in time to see Loralee sway before catching herself on the edge of the hall table. Her skin appeared bleached under her makeup, and I was pretty sure that if the table hadn’t been there, she’d have slid to the floor. I remembered the pill bottles, and her explanation of ulcers and other “pesky problems,” and had the uncharitable thought that if she spent less time spending my father’s money and more taking better care of herself, she wouldn’t currently be looking as if she were trying to blend into the white wall.

  I’m fine, she mouthed.

  I didn’t completely believe her, but I stepped between her and the two women, wanting to keep their prying eyes from Loralee. Despite our differences, I knew too well as a motherless child what it was like to be stared at. “I’m so sorry, but now isn’t a good time for a house tour. I completely forgot, but Loralee and I have an appointment. Can you come back another time? And then we’ll have the attic open, too.”

  Both women looked disappointed as I herded them to the door. “Just call ahead so I can make sure I’m home.”

  They looked back toward Loralee, who managed a smile and a wave before I escorted them out onto the front porch, where Steve Weber joined us. Before closing the door I glanced back to see Loralee reclining on the upholstered settee in the foyer, her color still pale but better than it had been. She gave me a thumbs-up, and I found it oddly reassuring.

  The locksmith’s face was a mottled red, and his hair and khaki uniform looked as if he’d been tossed into a pool. “The attic door’s open, Mrs. Heyward, but I don’t recommend heading up there just yet. It’s hotter than a pepper patch in July, and you should probably get an HVAC guy out here to install an attic fan and probably another window unit or two upstairs before you go anywhere near that attic. I like to have burned my eyebrows off halfway up the steps before I gave up.”

  I nodded, relieved that I could postpone my trip to the attic, even if just for a few days.

  “I’ll add today’s service and parts to the bill after we make the key, if that’s all right with you.” His voice sounded hopeful.

  I got the impression that he couldn’t wait to get into his truck and blast the air-conditioning, and I didn’t want to keep him from it. “That’s fine. I’ll send you an e-mail later.”

  He tipped his hat and headed for his truck.

  “Can I come back to see Owen?”

  I look
ed down to see Maris, noticing again her sparkly blue shoes. When I’d been her age, and even past that—at least until my mother had died—I’d had an affinity for bright shoes, and sparkly headbands, and beautiful fabrics that could be made to do magical things with the right stitches from a sewing machine. The memory made me smile, and Maris smiled back, her freckles dark against her skin.

  “I’m sure he’d love it. He doesn’t know anybody here yet, so maybe you can introduce him to more children your age.”

  She looked relieved, and I recalled Owen running up the stairs and shutting his door, and felt a twinge of remorse.

  I thanked them for the casseroles again before we said our good-byes, and I watched as they piled back into the Cadillac. I stood on the porch for a long moment, acutely aware of the unlocked door of the attic, like an open mouth breathing hot air on my neck.

  I looked up at the wind chimes, remembering what Deborah had told me about hiding the sea glass from Edith’s husband. The chimes were still now, the air stagnant and heavy. I squinted into the sun to see them better, remembering Mr. Williams explaining that the glass was cloudy because the pieces had been tumbled about the ocean for years. Edith said that any glass that could withstand such a beating without crumbling was something to be celebrated.

  I rubbed my arms, feeling goose bumps beneath my fingertips, as if it were November instead of May, then went inside to check on Loralee to make sure she was all right, finding the idea preferable to going upstairs to stare up into the attic and wonder what waited for me there.

  chapter 9

  LORALEE

  Loralee stood at the bottom of the stairs contemplating—just for a moment—taking off her heels before heading up. Gripping the two Coke bottles, she slowly climbed the steps, pausing at the top to catch her breath. Her gaze scanned the upstairs hallway, resting on the attic door, closed until the HVAC man came. Merritt hadn’t been up there, although at night, when it was cooler, Loralee had seen her standing outside the door with her hand on the knob. The first time she’d seen Merritt there, Loralee had quietly gone back into her room and had written in her Journal of Truths. The weight of fear goes away as soon as we face our monsters and realize they weren’t as scary as we thought. Thinking of Owen, she underlined that one, hoping he’d read it first.

  Merritt’s door was half-open, with no sound coming from inside. Thinking she might have gone somewhere, Loralee stuck her head around the corner and saw the closet door wide-open, stacks of clothes and shoes and labeled boxes lined up against the walls. Merritt sat on the high bed thumbing through what looked like an old photo album, the kind where the pictures were stuck onto the pages and then covered with clear plastic. Four more albums were stacked on the bench at the end of the bed, all different sizes and colors, as if they’d never been intended to be part of a set.

  Loralee lifted her hand to tap on the door, but paused when she heard Merritt sniff, then raise a tissue to her eyes. Loralee took a step back and was rewarded with the answering groan of an old floorboard protesting her weight. Merritt’s surprised eyes met hers, and Loralee could think only to smile.

  Pretending she hadn’t heard or seen anything, she said, “I brought you a snack. You’ve been up here most of the day and I figured you could use a perk-me-up.” Without waiting to be asked inside, she walked toward Merritt and handed her one of the Coke bottles.

  Merritt blinked, trying to hide her reddened and wet eyes, and Loralee knew enough not to say anything. Her first instinct was to plop down on the bed beside Merritt and throw her arms around her in a big hug before forcing her stepdaughter to tell her what was wrong. Most people would probably start talking during the hug, but Merritt was different. And it wasn’t just because she was from Maine; it had more to do with a childhood that had ended too early and a life full of more hurts than most people could survive. But Merritt had. With scars, and bruises, and prickly parts as reminders of where she’d been, but she’d survived. Not that Merritt would ever want to hear it, but Loralee admired her for her strength, and prayed every night that Owen was made of the same stuff.

  Merritt took the bottle and stared at it suspiciously. “I usually don’t drink soda.” She tilted the bottle slightly and looked at the label. “And when I do, I drink Moxie.”

  Loralee repressed an involuntary grimace. In her travels as a flight attendant, she’d tried the state drink of Maine, a bitter concoction that tasted like root beer poured over cotton and laced with battery acid. Loralee leaned forward as if she were whispering to her best friend at the desk next to hers in fourth grade. “If I were you, I wouldn’t say that too loud around here. First of all—it’s all Coke. Whether you want a Coke, a Fanta, or a Mountain Dew, you ask for a Coke—and then you tell them what kind. But don’t ever ask for a Pepsi. That’s just wrong.”

  “That’s just odd,” Merritt said, her eyes narrowed as she tried to determine whether Loralee was teasing.

  “It’s just Southern, which is sometimes the same thing as odd, but that’s how we like it. Keeps our Northern brothers and sisters guessing.”

  Closing one eye, Merritt peered into the neck of the pale green bottle, her forehead creased. “What’s floating in there?”

  Loralee brightened. “Peanuts! Haven’t you ever put peanuts in your Coke?”

  “Never.” She looked at Loralee as if her stepmother were trying to poison her.

  “Look,” Loralee said, lifting Owen’s bottle to her lips. “You want to drink it when the Coke is ice-cold and the peanuts are still crunchy and salty. The first couple of sips are always the best.”

  She closed her eyes as the cool, bubbly liquid hit her tongue, quickly followed by the hard, salty taste of peanuts. She was immediately taken back to summer afternoons sitting next to her mother on the cinder-block steps in front of their un-air-conditioned trailer, their faces sticky with sweat, the smell of dry mud and hot grass clinging to the metal sides of the trailer like bread crumbs on chicken.

  It wasn’t a bad memory, but it made her sad for her mama, who never got to meet Owen or see Loralee living in an up-and-down house with a real yard and two nice cars in the attached garage.

  She opened her eyes in time to see Merritt swigging her first sip, awkwardly holding the bottle as if she’d never drunk from anything besides a glass before. Her throat moved as she swallowed before lowering the bottle from her mouth.

  “That wasn’t too bad,” Merritt said, leaving the impression that she would have smacked her lips if Loralee hadn’t been there.

  “It’s a great afternoon snack, too—the Coke gives you the caffeine you need and the peanuts give you the fiber and protein. I had all the Delta pilots I worked with drinking it.”

  At the mention of pilots, Merritt leaned over and placed her bottle on the nightstand before shoving the album off of her lap. “Thank you,” she said, sliding off the bed. “But I need to get back to work. Edith was a bit of a pack rat, so there’s a lot to get through. Gibbes is supposed to come back tomorrow to go through the rest of the house, but I haven’t even made it out of this bedroom.”

  “I could help,” Loralee offered, trying to keep her voice neutral. Merritt didn’t like asking for help, and technically she wasn’t asking. But Merritt would look at it that way just the same.

  After a short pause, Merritt said, “If you’re looking for something to do, there are a lot of boxes in the closet in your room that Gibbes said belong to him. If they’re too heavy, wait until he gets here to remove them. If they’re not, could you stack them in the hallway with the other boxes that are marked with his name? If there are any more with newspapers inside, just stack them on top of the one in the corner of your bedroom. We’ll take them to be recycled, but I’ll wait to make sure that’s all of it.” Merritt looked down at Loralee’s feet. “I found a stepladder in the pantry downstairs you can use. Just make sure you take off those shoes first.”

  Loralee glanced at Merritt’s shoes, the worn house slippers she wore whenever she wasn’t wea
ring her sensible loafers, which didn’t even have tassels for decoration. “All right. I’ll just deliver Owen’s Coke and get started. And since you’re going to throw out those newspapers, is it okay if Owen keeps a few? He’s been reading them and has found a few articles he wants to hang on to.”

  “Sure. He can keep them all if he wants.”

  Loralee’s gaze fell on the open photo album Merritt had pushed off her lap, curious as to what had made her cry. They were photos of two boys in a small metal boat, both of them sandy haired and golden eyed, sitting with their arms slung around each other despite a great difference in height. She looked closer at the photo, recognizing the smaller boy. She’d always found it interesting how some people still looked like their baby pictures into adulthood, while others changed so much you could no longer see the child inside. She wondered whether that was intentional, whether you could bury that person you once were just as easily as you could pack your bags and move away.

  “Is that your husband?” she asked, pointing to the taller boy.

  For a moment Loralee thought Merritt wouldn’t answer. Finally she nodded. “Yes. These are mostly pictures of Cal and Gibbes. I found these albums in a box at the back of the closet. I thought I’d go through them before I gave them to Gibbes.” She reached over and shut the album, blocking the photos from view.

  “I’m sure Gibbes wouldn’t mind if you took some of the photographs to be copied. Then you could frame them. . . .”

  “No. I have enough photos.” She let her hand linger for a moment on the closed album. “I never knew this boy.” She met Loralee’s eyes. “It would be like having photos of Gibbes around the house. Or you.” She looked away, as if the words hadn’t belonged to her at all. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

  “I understand. I do. I’m a widow, too. It’s hard to lose the person you thought would always be with you.” Her chest burned for a moment as she thought of Robert. She forced her smile to be even brighter. “It’s like your life has become some sort of game where they changed all the rules in the middle. But it’s not the end. My mama used to say that when you lose something from your life it just means that you’re making room in your heart for something new.”