The Sound of Glass Read online

  Instead of answering, Gibbes nodded, and without directing his words toward anybody in particular, he said, “It was a pleasure to meet you all.”

  Everybody watched as he walked back toward his truck while Loralee slowly backed into one of the chairs and sank down into it, sighing quietly so no one would hear her. The sun had begun to dip, casting long shadows onto the porch, and she rocked back into one of them, happy to be able to take cover for a moment, thankful for the distraction of the departing truck to hide how very, very tired she was.

  She felt something beneath her leg and pulled out the picture that Merritt had dropped in the chair. It was a crayon drawing of a table with two people, a boy and a girl, sharing a glass of milk and a bag of cookies that looked like Oreos. The both appeared to be twisting the Oreos apart to eat the cream first. Loralee smiled, glad Owen had thought to bring it, and feeling hopeful for the first time. She focused on holding on to her smile, knowing that if she lost it, she might never find it again.

  chapter 4

  MERRITT

  The sea-glass chimes crashed against one another outside on the porch as I attempted one more time to press a pillow over my head without suffocating. Although as I lay wide-eyed and sleepless, suffocation seemed like a good alternative. But then I thought of Cal, and how they said he’d died, and I felt guilty just for the thought.

  I added another item to my mental shopping list right under earplugs: a ladder. Those damned wind chimes were coming down or I would be known as the second crazy lady who lived in the Heyward house.

  After dinner with the Williamses, Loralee and I had driven to a grocery store with the improbable name of Piggly Wiggly to pick up supplies, and I remembered her putting a gallon of milk for Owen—or Rocky, as he seemed to want to be called—in the cart. I’d never tried it before, but I’d heard that warmed milk helped a person sleep. I’d have to find a pot to heat it on the ancient stove, because I didn’t recall seeing a microwave.

  The grocery-shopping trip had been an oddly silent one. Owen had slept in the car to and from the store, then walked like a zombie along the fluorescent-lit aisles. Loralee had been unusually silent, and I wondered if it was because she was tired, too, or because she’d realized that her heavy Alabama accent and nonstop chattering were giving me a headache. There could have been another reason, but I’d been too tired and my mind too full with the day’s events to care enough to ask.

  I threw off the covers—all freshly laundered and put on the beds by Kathy Williams’s cleaning lady—and slid from the tall four-poster bed. This had been Edith’s room, and her bed, and the only reason I’d been persuaded to use this bedroom was because Mr. Williams had told me that she had died in the downstairs parlor.

  But her presence was everywhere. Her clothes remained in the tall antique armoire against the wall and in the closet; her silver-backed hairbrush, with long gray hair still wound around the bristles, rested on the dresser. I hadn’t unpacked yet, because I was unsure I would remain in this room, with its view of the river from the front windows, and that of the garden from the side. I wasn’t sure I wanted to wake up each morning and see the water. Even at this distance it made me uneasy. But I imagined that during cooler weather in the spring, when everything was blooming, the scents from the garden would rise up to this corner bedroom. For now, this was Edith’s room and her house, and before I could start claiming space in it, I needed to convince myself that it was actually mine—something I hadn’t really considered until I’d met Dr. Gibbes Heyward.

  I heard a sound from inside the house and I stilled, straining my ears. I heard it again, like metal against glass, and I froze, thinking only of Edith and how she’d lived alone in this house for so long, and died within its old plastered walls. I relaxed only a little when I remembered that there were two other living, breathing people in the house with me who were capable of making noise.

  It was a tall bed, and I had to slide off the side a bit until my feet touched the floor, my oversize New York Giants jersey reaching to my knees. I’d bought it for Cal our first Christmas together, but he’d told me to keep it, saying he preferred the Atlanta Falcons. His rejection had hurt my feelings, but I’d felt better after realizing that it made the perfect nightgown for me. All these years later, I couldn’t bear to part with it, clinging to it like a child might cling to a security blanket. If only it had made me feel secure.

  Barefoot, I crossed the wood floor and pulled open my door, sticking my head out into the corridor. A plastic Darth Vader night-light had been stuck in a baseboard outlet, looking ridiculously out of place in the elegant yet shabby decor of the hallway. But Loralee had insisted, saying that all three of us might need it if we woke up disoriented. She’d said “we,” but she’d shifted her eyes to Owen. Apparently my half brother and I shared more than a love for eating Oreos cream-first.

  I’d learned to compensate for my fear of the dark since my marriage to Cal. He didn’t like any show of weakness and had banned night-lights not just from our bedroom and bathroom, but from our house. He’d been right, of course. No adult should harbor childish fears, no matter how justified their source.

  The noise came again, and I was pretty sure it was from the kitchen. I peered down the hallway, seeing that Owen’s bedroom door, to what had been Cal’s room, was closed, but that the door to the room next to his was open.

  I made my way down to the first level, then toward the back of the house to the kitchen. The swinging door had been left propped open, and I stopped right before the light of the kitchen hit me to observe.

  Loralee, wearing a ridiculous long silk leopard-print peignoir set with matching kitten-heel slippers, stood at the peeling Formica counter stirring a light brown liquid in a large Tupperware pitcher with a wooden spoon. A bag of sugar—from our trip to the store—sat open in front of her, and as I watched she picked it up and poured the remainder of the bag into the pitcher, and then the entire thing into a large pot on the stove. I hoped that meant the stove was working.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, forgetting my plan to back away and head back upstairs before she spotted me.

  She jerked a little in surprise, then widened her perfect mouth into a genuine smile. “I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to make sweet tea so that we have some tomorrow. I hope I didn’t wake you. I was trying to be real quiet.”

  I didn’t return her smile, as I was too focused on what she was doing. “Do you need a measuring cup? Because I can’t believe you just poured that much sugar in the pot.”

  She waved a hand at me like I’d just made a joke and began dragging the wooden spoon through the pot. Grinning even more broadly, she said, “There’s no such thing as too much sugar in your sweet tea. My mama said that when I was a girl she’d take my little finger and dip it in her glass to make it just a little bit sweeter.” Her smile softened. “I told that to your daddy, and he did the same thing with Owen. I have it on a DVD if you ever want to see it.”

  I looked away, and not just because I was uncomfortable with her mention of the man who connected us, but because of the absurdity of this woman standing in my kitchen. Loralee looked like she was dressed to appear in a television commercial, complete with shiny, thick hair tumbling down the leopard-print silk, and what looked like full makeup. Even the way she was posed by the counter, with a slender knee peeking out from the opening of her robe, seemed staged.

  I thought of my mother in her flannel pajamas and fluffy robe, with brown hair that frizzed in the summer and flattened against her head while she slept. She had died when I was twelve, but when I thought of her now I knew the word sexy had never been used to describe her. She was the kind of mother who baked cookies and volunteered for the PTA, packed your lunch and made sure you had a sweater if she thought it was too cool outside. She would never make a drink that had more than the month’s allotment of sugar, or wear something low-cut that would make her stand out from your friends’ mothers. She didn’t wear makeup, and her hair was always worn s
hort, because it was easier to take care of. She was the kind of mother I was proud of—the kind of mother who saved her child even when it meant there was no time to save herself.

  I began opening cabinets, looking for a pan to heat my milk, eager to keep myself occupied so Loralee wouldn’t see my anger. “Do you sleep in makeup?” I asked, unable to resist.

  She laughed. “No—but it looks like I do, doesn’t it? I had my eyebrows and eyeliner tattooed so that when I woke up in the morning, Robert would still think I was beautiful.”

  I gritted my teeth at the mention of my father’s name, but she didn’t seem to notice, because she continued. “He always said I didn’t need any makeup, but that’s because he never saw me without it. My mama always said that everybody could use a little help.”

  I didn’t look up, but I felt her looking at me, and my irritation grew. Finding a warped pan with scald marks on the bottom, I slammed the cabinet door a little too loudly. I faced her, ready to tell her bluntly that I didn’t need any help from her about makeup or anything else, but stopped with the words still in my throat.

  She was gripping the edge of the counter, and her face was screwed up as if she had eaten something that didn’t agree with her. Her porcelain skin seemed even a shade lighter.

  “Are you all right?” I asked, keeping my distance, unsure what I should do.

  She remained where she was for a few more moments before opening her eyes and meeting mine. Her smile was shaky. “I think I just had a sugar rush—been tasting this tea too much.” With her back to me, she turned off the stove and placed a lid over it so the contents could cool. With a washcloth, she began wiping up the counter, her movements slow and deliberate, while the bell-shaped sleeves of her robe billowed out like the arms of a conductor conducting a symphony.

  Trying to avoid her as much as I could in the small kitchen, I placed the pan on the stove before reaching into the refrigerator for the milk. Somehow my hand slipped from the handle of the gallon jug, sending the entire thing crashing to the floor and spewing milk on the black and white checked linoleum, the cabinets, the stove, me, and the leopard-print silk peignoir.

  We both stared wide-eyed at the milk pooling on the floor and dripping off the cabinets and refrigerator drawer. I had the oddest sensation that I needed to laugh, but I held back, unable to find the energy to utter any sound at all. Loralee quickly started opening various drawers until she found one full of faded and frayed dish towels. She tossed a handful to me and took more for herself. Without a word, she slipped off her robe, leaving only the skimpy nightie that was too short to get milk on the hem, and began mopping up the white liquid.

  I knelt on the floor opposite her and began to do the same thing. Without looking at me, she said, “Were you making warm milk to help you sleep? My mama always said that an herbal tea and a warm bath—”

  I didn’t let her finish. “You know, Loralee, I don’t really care what your mama used to tell you. None of it pertains to me or how I want to live my life. And right now, I’ve chosen to move to South Carolina to live by myself while I figure out what I’m supposed to do next. Forgive me if I’m not overjoyed with your sudden visit. And regardless of what you might have told Owen, this is a visit. A short one. I have no idea what you were thinking, just showing up on my doorstep expecting to stay with me.”

  She blinked her eyes at me several times, her long black lashes fanning her cheeks. I couldn’t help but wonder whether those had been artificially implanted, too. Sitting back on her legs, she said, “When I called your office to find you, they told me that you’d inherited your husband’s family home in Beaufort and that’s why you were moving here. I kind of put two and two together and figured out your husband must have died. With us being widows, I thought maybe we had something in common besides your father. It’s a hard thing to deal with, and I thought we could help each other. I thought we could be friends.”

  “How can we be friends, Loralee? You were married to my father for eleven years, and I saw you maybe three times before you got engaged and not once after the wedding. There’s a reason for that. So, no, I don’t think we can be friends. We’re practically strangers, and I’m happy to leave it at that.”

  Her smile dimmed. “My mama used to say that strangers are only friends we haven’t yet met.” She put her hand over her mouth. “Sorry. That just popped out.”

  I sighed. “I’m not good at relationships—family or otherwise. I’m glad you brought Owen—I am. He seems like a great kid. I’ll make sure that I send him a birthday and Christmas present every year. But I can’t pretend that I want either one of you in my life—there’s no room.”

  “What are you talking about? This house is huge. You’ve got plenty of room—and you’ll need help taking care of all this space.” She held up her long, slender hands, my father’s huge engagement ring sparkling on her finger, nestled against a simple gold wedding band. “And you’ve got an extra pair of hands to help right here.”

  She smiled again, but there was a brightness missing, as if she was aware that we both knew that my having no room had nothing to do with the size of the house.

  The strong breezes of the afternoon and evening had given way to a full-blown storm, and a gust of wind and rain struck the house, making the wind chimes shriek.

  “Did you hear that?” Loralee asked, her voice full of expectation.

  “I’ve been hearing it all night—I think you’d have to be dead or a ten-year-old boy not to. As soon as I can find a ladder, they’re coming down.”

  Loralee looked stricken. “Oh, no. Don’t do that—they’re so beautiful. When I was a little girl, I really believed they were mermaid’s tears. I think I still do. Maybe that’s why I like them so much—because they remind me of what it was like to be a child and believe in magic.”

  I had another memory, of my mother planting the lima bean I’d brought home from school. I told her that it was a magic bean that would grow to be huge and I could climb all the way up to the clouds on it. She hadn’t said anything as we’d planted it together, and I had watered it religiously, staking it with a Popsicle stick. But it had never gotten any bigger than a lima bean plant no matter how much care I gave it. In a fit of anger and frustration, I’d ripped it out by the roots and run to my mother, who’d comforted me with her arms around me and a gentle pat on the back. As the years passed, I began to understand that as a mother she’d just been trying to ease me into the reality of what life was, to help me understand that magic wasn’t real no matter how we wished differently.

  “It’s just broken glass, Loralee.”

  She tilted her head. “I know that, Merritt. But I think sometimes even adults—especially adults—need to believe in magic. Do you know the legend of the mermaid’s tears?”

  “No, and I really—”

  As if I hadn’t spoken, she continued. “The story goes way, way back, and is about a beautiful mermaid who fell in love with a sailor. To save his life she calmed a storm, which was forbidden. As her punishment, she was banned to the bottom of the ocean, where she is to this day, crying her heart out for her lost love, and we’re reminded of her every time we find a bit of sea glass on the shore.”

  I wanted to tell her she was being ridiculous, that mermaids weren’t real. But the softness in her face, and what she’d said about us needing to believe in a little bit of magic, stopped me.

  I took a deep breath. “You can stay a week. That should be plenty of time for me to get to know Owen before you head back to Georgia.”

  “We’re not going back to Georgia. We were thinking that since you’re here, this might be a good place to settle down.” She smiled, but it was different somehow. Like she was holding two conversations and I could hear only one of them.

  “Why don’t you go back to Gulf Shores? I’m sure your mother would be happy to see you.”

  “Mama died when I was twenty. I’ve been on my own ever since. Robert and Owen are the only real family I’ve ever had. And now you.”<
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  She didn’t say it with self-pity, and I respected her for that. But it didn’t make me want to like her any better. She was still an over-made-up, underdressed, big-haired woman who’d snared herself a man nearly twice her age despite the fact that he had a daughter just five years younger than she was who didn’t approve. I couldn’t bring myself to care too much where she went next.

  Throwing my towels in the sink, I said, “I’ll mop this up in the morning—I’m too tired to deal with it right now. I’m going to bed—see you tomorrow.” I turned to go.

  “Good night, Merritt. Sleep tight, and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  I stopped and turned around, then took another deep breath, wearier than I’d been when I’d come downstairs. “Let me guess—that’s something your mother used to say.”

  She gave me a wide grin. “Uh-huh. But I say it to Owen every night now, too. I guess you could say it’s sort of a family tradition.”

  I nodded, then headed toward the stairs, remembering how my mother had always said, “Sweet dreams,” before she closed my bedroom door, and how it had been a long, long time since I remembered how to dream.

  chapter 5

  LORALEE

  The smell of frying bacon filled the small kitchen, reminding Loralee of the tiny trailer she’d shared with her mother all those years ago. Loralee had never been allowed to go anywhere before she’d had a home-cooked breakfast, and it was something she’d continued to do for Owen. Her mama had always smelled like bacon grease from the diner where she worked two shifts every day. She was always there for Loralee when she came home from school, and each morning ready and dressed in her uniform and apron. She’d be standing at the two-burner oven in the corner of the trailer they called the kitchen, frying up bacon or flipping flapjacks from batter that the diner’s cook had slipped Desiree in a small Tupperware bowl.