Carolyn felt as if she was moving back through time as the aged taxi bumped and swerved over what had once been asphalt but was now a rutted gravel road. They were only a few minutes outside of the town of Schooner Bay, which was a quaint conglomerate of old and new, but they were now solidly in the old.
Along the road lay evidence that this area had once been inhabited, but they were all in rough condition–a small house with the roof caving in, broken fences, posts that were the remains of a pier, and old wooden signs too faded and peeling to discern what they had once advertised–the quintessential jetsom of once upon a time. It seemed the trait ran deep in all humanity, to take old furniture, appliances and mattresses and dump them on the outskirts of town.
They bumped past an old washing machine tilted into a ditch, a caved-in rowboat, and what looked likes some sort of old farm equipment. She didn't know there were farms this close to the sea. There were so many rusting meshes of what had once been mattresses. ..The stories they could tell, she thought. People slept, dreamed, made love, gave birth, laid ill, and died on mattresses.
The taxi swerved around a tight corner, the driver laying on the horn as they passed two goats on the side of the road. She swiveled her head and there was the sea, shocking and sudden. There was a stone cliff on one side and the endless ocean on the other. Like a small child, she sat forward and nearly pressed her forehead to the glass.
"What made you choose Gull Cottage?" the reticent driver surprised her by asking. He hadn't said a word other than "I'll get that" when she had moved to lift her suitcase into the trunk of the taxi. He'd only nodded when she had told him her destination.
"I'm a writer," she offered in explanation, though it wasn't the primary reason she was here.
The driver nodded dolefully.
"Writing a book of ghost stories are you?" Again with a nod.
She wasn't really, but it made a good cover story. She would rather be known in town as that woman writing ghost stories than that poor widow, who was a loose ends.
"Yes, that's right." Carolyn met his eye in the rearview mirror and jutted her chin up. She'd chosen Gull Cottage because it was remote and cheap. She'd heard some nonsense about it being haunted, but ghosts be damned. She had needed an escape, or a change, or...something.
Robert had been gone–dead–for 7 months. She guessed that she had a year, give or take, during which she had carte Blanc to act as oddly as she pleased and have it all chalked up to grieving. She'd been "strong for the children", as her family and friends had told her she must be. Now she was taking some time for herself.
The children. She felt a small pang of guilt, leaving them behind for a month, and so soon after they'd lost their father. But at 5 and 7 losing a father didn't have the same effect as it did for a woman with two small children to lose a husband. The children had been entertained and cosseted by family nonstop since the death of their father. They'd bounced from one aunt or uncle's, and associated cousins, to another all summer. They'd gone to the beach, camping, amusement parks, day camps, and were finally back in Philidephia staying with her parents, just as she had been.
School had started the previous week and the children were busy and excited, making new friends, and being spoiled by their grandparents. She doubted they would even miss her. Did she miss them? Had she missed them all summer long? Yes–in fits and spurts. Most days she hadn't, but sometimes the urge to hug them would overwhelm her to the point of tears.
After some of the phone calls when, chattering and breathless, they'd shared about all the fun they were having, she would sob, overcome by a sense of helplessness.
How resilient children were. How easily they could forget, and move on. How oblivious of the depth to which their lives had been changed.
She was glad they were busy and happy, but angry too. Why couldn't she bounce back to life, embrace it with gusto, the way the children did? Why did she have to bear this loneliness and ache all by herself? She needed their hugs, and grubby hands, and sweaty foreheads and silly stories to help her heal, to help her believe that it was all going to be alright.
But at the same time she was glad she didn't have to worry about them, or be strong for them every single day. She was grateful for family who had stepped in to help without her needing to ask. Her mother was a born organizer and she had gone into action immediately following the funeral, arranging for the children to go on the grand tour of relatives, and a summer of fun. Carolyn hadn't had to lift a finger.
Her mother had even provided a lawyer to help Caroline with the reams of paperwork following Robert's death.
"There are people who take care of these things." Her mother had reminded her. "Let them do their job, Dear. Your responsibility is to the children." But even that had been taken away from her.
"Wellll…" The driver drew out the word. "Don't know that you'll see any ghosts while your here. Seems that he only shows himself to certain people, but if you want stories…"
The taxi changed gears to pull itself up the grade.
"You just come to town and ask any of the old folk. There's plenty of stories." He nodded at her.
"Why thank you, that's a wonderful idea!" She was surprised at the brightness of her own voice. It would help break the ice with the people in town–she guessed–having a reason for being there. She felt certain that the cab driver would get word around about the lady staying in the haunted house who was writing a book.
She had worried, when she'd seen just how small the town was, that she'd be the object of stares, whispers and speculation. Now she would be someone people wanted to talk to, because people liked nothing better than to share their stories.
The taxi slowed then drew to an abrupt stop. She wondered if there was another goat in the road, but no, the driver was opening his door. She didn't see a cottage, just a tangle of bushes, piles of stones, and far below-a beach and the sea. The Sun spangled on the water so brightly she had to turn her eyes away. She opened the taxi door and was hit in the face by the salty breeze.
Turning around she noticed that past the piles of stones was a brick walkway set into the ground and half grown over with scrubby grass and weeds.
The driver was retrieving her suitcase and she waited for him, uncertain of where to go. With her bag in one hand, he lifted a sagging gate of weathered wood and pushed it to the side. The hinges shrieked as if they were in pain; the gate fell apart when the driver released it.
"Have to talk to Claymore about that," he said with a sigh, and she hoped he meant HE would talk to Claymore (whoever that was) and that he wasn't expecting that she would.
She was renting the cottage for a month, and if the gate didn't work–well, it wasn't as if there was anyone around to keep out. It was nothing to her.
Now, looking up, past and above the trees and bushes, Carolyn saw the roof of the cottage. She was surprised, she thought of cottages as small, just above a cabin in size and comfort, certainly not having an upper floor, and balcony.
"Widow's walk." The driver had followed her eyes.
"Excuse me!" How did he know? She hadn't said a word.
He pointed to the balcony with its peeling railing. "It's called a widow's walk. S'where the women would stand at night and look to the sea, wondering if their men were coming home."
She was surprised he'd managed to string so many words together. Her dander settled, now that it was clear he hadn't been referencing her state in life, but simply pointing out a feature of her temporary refuge.
"The sea is a wonderful place to process feelings." Her mother had said encouragingly, fully supportive of Carolyn taking some time away. "It's big enough to handle anything a person can go through. You can scream and cry and kick the waves and not do it a bit of harm."
Her mother had given her a shoulder squeeze and side hug. "It'll do you good."
Carolyn hated that she had felt she needed her mother's permission to go, but she had. "You don't think I'm abandoning the children?" Her voice had sounded so like a little girl when she'd asked that question.
"Of course not!" Her mother had taken both of her hands and sat her down. "Darling, you've lost more than just Robert; you've lost your dreams, your plans for the future, your security...and income. That's a lot to process at once. The children are fine, thriving."
Carolyn had smiled at her mother, through her tears, nodding, the lump in her throat too large to allow her to answer. She felt a similar lump now.
She caught up to the driver, who had walked past the bushes crowding in on either side and was now standing on the sandy porch.
"It certainly looks like a haunted house." She managed to force the words out. They came out strained, as if she was frightened, though she wasn't.
"I can take you back to town if you don't care to stay," he offered kindly. He glanced around and shook his head. "Would have thought Claymore would've done something with the place, seeing as he's charging money for it."
She guessed Claymore must be the Mr. Gregg she'd made arrangements to rent the cottage from., She had met him when she arrived in town. He'd been very busy. He'd given her the keys, and rushed her out of his office as soon as he had her check in his hand.
"Oh, I don't mind." Carolyn rolled her shoulders back bravely. She wasn't afraid of any ghost, hopefully, the rumors would keep people from bothering her at the cottage, solitude was what she craved. She hoped the water ran, the electricity was on, and that the house was more comfortable inside than it looked from the outside.
"I'll leave you to it then." The driver bobbed his head.
"How much do I owe you?" She opened her purse.
He shook his head. "Claymore arranged for me to take you out here. Do you have food?"
Caroline's face must have registered shock because the man shook his head again.
She hadn't realized that Gull Cottage would be quite so far out of town. She had a few packs of crackers, a banana, and an apple, but that was all.
"You can call the grocery store, they'll deliver." He drawled calmly.
She nodded vigorously, angry with herself for overlooking something so obvious. It's just that she'd been so eager to get here and start her...whatever this was.
"Thank you Mr…?
"Deke." He supplied. "Tuttle. But people call me Deke."
"Thank you, Deke." She smiled and offered her hand. "I'm Carolyn Muir."
He shook her hand. "Well now, you have a nice night Mrs. Muir."
Mrs. Muir? Of course; her ring was still on her hand. The Mrs. part bit into her heart. Their wedding vows had said, "till death do us part." With Robert gone, was she still Mrs. Muir?
She stood waiting until the cab pulled away before she placed the old fashioned key in the lock and turned. Then she took out the modern key and unlocked the chain, yes chain, that held the double door handles together. She stepped into the house.
"Cottage," she reminded herself, in a stern tone, then laughed at herself. No need to be proper, she was out here all alone; she could do, say, feel, think anything she liked with no reprimand and no worried eyes watching her for signs that she was going "dotty", the way her Aunt Mable had after losing her son Jeremy to menengitis.
She knew that every family had that one relative that served as a cautionary tale. She didn't want to inherit that position and be the Aunt Mable of her generation.
She set her suitcase down and wondered what in the world she was supposed to do now. Draw a hot bath? Go down to the sea? How? Where? The ocean was right there, sprawled down below but she had no clue how to reach it. She really hadn't thought this through.
"You're a big girl, Mrs. Muir," she reminded herself aloud. But she felt like an orphan with nothing but her suitcase and a smile–albeit forced–between her and whatever lay beyond.
She peered into the rooms on either side of the main hall. One appeared to be a library, and the other what she guessed people had once referred to as a sitting room. There was a bay window, that looked out into the brambles, a large fireplace and dusty, old fashioned and very uncomfortable looking furniture.
She walked down the hall, past the staircase and into a kitchen that looked exactly like the ones she'd seen at the living museum. Exposed pipes ran along the wall. There was a ridiculously deep sink, a big chopping block-style table, and an ancient iron stove. Not a hot plate or microwave in sight.
"Quaint," she said to no one. She wondered how she would manage to survive here for one entire month! Was she really expected to cook on that thing? And where was the refrigerator? There was an ice box, an actual ice box beside the deep sink!
"That's not quaint, it's obsolete!" she said somewhat indignantly. Claymore Gregg had clearly not been forthcoming about the condition and accouterments of Gull Cottage. She had understood that it was old, and yes, possibly haunted, but this was ridiculous!
"More like Gullible Cottage," she said with a defeated sigh. The sky grew dark outside the dirty, cobweb-coated windows.
"Here's hoping the electricity works." She actually crossed her fingers as she went to the wall and pushed the upper button of an old-fashioned switch plate. Nothing happened.
"I can't stay here!" she hissed, walking to the sink to try the water.
It took a minute and a good bit of strength to get the tap turned on, but she finally did and a trickle of rusty water came out. "Oh brother." What had she gotten herself into? The only thing this place was haunted with was an utter lack of upkeep. "Crackers with no water for dinner." Her shoulders fell, and all the exhaustion of the past seven months settled onto her.
This cottage was a fairly apt parallel of how she felt inside–worn out, outdated, tired, unkempt and impossible. There was no one there to hear her tears, no one to try (but fail) to comfort her. No one to tell her, absurdly, that everything was going to be alright. She let the tears flow; she let the sobs come.
Carolyn settled to the stone floor in a woebegone heap, ugly crying, not paying the least attention to the dust, sand, and dried bugs all around her. "Damn you Robert!" she cried out angrily. It was all so stupid, so ridiculously stupid! He had a safe job, an office job. He designed buildings; he didn't build them himself. Yet–for some unaccountable reason–(at least as far as she could see) he'd gone to a job site, fallen from some scaffolding and broke his neck.
People had had the audacity to tell her that it was "better this way"; had he lived he'd have been an invalid, confined to a chair, unable to even feed himself.
Why were those her only two choices? Why hadn't he gone to work at 8, like he always did, and come home at 6:30, still wearing a dress shirt?
Why, instead, had she gotten a phone call telling her to come to the hospital; there had been an accident.
There he'd been, broken, blue, and dead. It made no sense. No sense at all. And since then nothing had made sense, not one single thing made any sense.
Why was her heart still beating? Why did her lungs still draw in air? Why? What was she supposed to do now? What. Was. She. Supposed. To. Do?
Robert's mother had been no help, she practically acted like Carolyn was somehow responsible for her son's death. His mother might become their family's Aunt Mable, she was so bitter and piteous. What she had to complain about Carolyn didn't know; she'd received half of Robert's life insurance policy.
That was money Carolyn could use right now. After all, Robert's mother had money from when her own husband had passed away, as well as a pension. She lived comfortably enough. So why had Robert left her so much of his money? Carolyn knew–the woman had guilted him into it.
She'd made such a stink about them getting married (it was one of the reasons they'd chosen to elope), and even more of a fuss when Robert said they were moving to Pittsburg, where he'd gotten a good position at an architectural firm. His mother behaved like he'd stabbed her in the heart.
Robert had wanted to assure his mother that she would be taken care of no matter what happened. He'd shown her that he'd made her a beneficiary on his insurance policy. It was supposed to have been a gesture. No one imagined Robert would pass on before his mother had.
Her mother-in-law had softened a little when the children came along; telling them to call her Grandmama, and spoiling them.
The only plus was that the woman disliked Carolyn enough that she didn't expect or want her to live with her, or keep up the monthly visits that she'd guilted her son into doing. As much as she had tried to hang onto Robert, she seemed just as eager now to let Carolyn go. She called to speak to the children but didn't ask Carolyn how she was doing, or offer any help.
Carolyn cried harder when she thought about the cruise her mother-in-law had taken–no doubt with some of the insurance money–while Carolyn herself wondered how she was going to keep the kids fed, clothed and with a roof over their heads.
"At least there weren't hospital bills," Robert's mother had said to her. As if that was a silver lining.
Carolyn would have gladly paid hospital bills and fed Robert, and done whatever it would have taken, if only he hadn't died.
She sobbed and sobbed, wondering if like Alice in Wonderland she had cried so much that she was sitting in a pool of tears. She heard water flowing and felt the cool wetness under her hands.
It wasn't tears, it was the tap which was now running, full force. Above her head a light came on. Perhaps the old house wasn't as bad as she had feared; it was slow, but not dead.
She stood up, washed her hands and face in the cool water and turned off the tap. She looked around for a towel, and found one in a nearby drawer.
The drain was dripping under the sink, the source of the puddle she'd felt, but it wasn't a terrible leak.
She guessed she should inspect the rest of the cottage. If nothing else she'd be spending tonight here. She was too tired to do anything else, and she didn't want the cab driver to think the ghost had scared her off in just a matter of minutes.
"It's primitive–like camping," She told herself, blowing her nose in the towel because there was nothing else at hand. She looked about the place, Robert would have liked it, would have found it interesting. He would have studied the architecture and talked about its "bones". He could have dated the various improvements...such as they were.
Maybe it was him, looking down on her from heaven, who had caused the tap to work and the light to go on. Maybe she wasn't as alone as she felt. Maybe things would be alright, and someone was looking out for her.
Carolyn found an ancient tin of tea in a cabinet. She was pleased that when she opened it it wasn't disintegrated into dust, or pale and odorless. It may not be tea room quality, but it was better than straight water to go with her crackers.
She found sugar, that had hardened into a block in spite of it being stored in a mason jar; it wasn't off-colored so she decided to take a chance on it.
"Not such a bad old place," she said, looking around, hoping beyond hope that she could get the ancient stove to light. She couldn't. She could hear a hiss of gas when she turned the knob, but after a second or two it fizzled out before she could get it lit.
"Add, blow out the gas lines, to the list," she said to no one in particular, or she guessed to Mr. Claymore Gregg, real estate agent.
She felt like crying all over again, but then she noticed a cabinet door that was open and an old electric tea kettle sitting on the shelf. She pulled it out and checked the inside for corrosion, spider webs or any other nasty surprises. It looked serviceable, so she rinsed it in the tap, filled it and plugged it in. To her relief a little orange indicator light came on. At least she could have tea.
She rinsed out a mug, and when she turned back to check on the kettle, she noticed a soup can on the counter. She was certain it hadn't been there before. The top was dusty, but not overly so. She wiped the top and checked the date, it was a good two years in the future, so the soup was good to eat. She guessed she could drop the can into the tea kettle to heat...soup, crackers, and tea would make a perfectly adequate meal.
She looked around the counter and noticed a path in the dust from the back of the counter to where she'd found the can as if it had slid forward. But that was silly. The counter was level, this wasn't earthquake territory and no one was in the house except herself. Maybe she had absentmindedly moved it herself.
The story of the ghost flitted through her mind, but ghosts spent their time clumping about in attics, and making doors creak and windows go up and down, they didn't offer soup and tea to the unwelcome inhabitants of their happily haunted home.
No one would be frightened of a ghost that was welcoming! No self-respecting ghost would be caught dead–she had to giggle to herself–a ghost caught dead–(and the fact that she was entertaining the idea of a ghost at all! ) feeding the person they were supposed to be scaring away.
Just then the cabinet door, behind which she had found the teakettle, slowly shut. No slam, no creaky hinge, it just slowly–yet decidedly– shut itself. A tiny shiver went up her spine. She wasn't frightened, but it was odd behavior for a cabinet.
"Thank you, whoever you are." She nodded to the air and after a moment she swore she did hear footsteps quietly retreat from the room.
She ate her meal sitting on the stone wall, across the road from the cottage, overlooking the sea. After drinking her tea she poured the soup into the mug and sipped it between bites of cracker. She was so high above the beach that it seemed more like watching a film than being by the actual ocean. She could only hear the surf if she turned her head and held it a certain way. She could see gulls flying low over the water, but she couldn't hear them cry.
Instead, she heard cicadas in the trees surrounding the cottage, the scurry of some tiny critter in the brush, and the tweets of songbirds in the overgrown bushes. She needed to find the way down to the beach, and she must get to town for food. She could worry about food tomorrow. The soup and crackers would get her through the night, but her feet longed to feel the sand beneath them. She wanted to feel the sea breeze on her face and the foam of the ocean rushing about her ankles.
She looked back at the cottage. "Home sweet home," she said with a satisfied sigh, for all its issues, she somehow felt this was the perfect place for her to be at this moment. Solitude. She didn't have to be strong for the children or put on a brave face because she couldn't stand to see the pity and worry in her family's eyes. She could just be–whatever that meant–in the moment.
Carolyn realized that she didn't even know how she felt, not really. She had been assigning names to her emotions based on what she thought she should feel in such a situation, or what others clearly expected her to be feeling, but she wasn't sure those feelings were actually hers.
No one had told her she would feel angry with Robert for leaving. They had told her it was normal to be angry with God, or the Universe for taking her husband so young, but was it normal to be angry at him?
Was it normal to want to reinvent herself now that her dreams and plans were shattered? She had become accustomed to, and comfortable with being Mrs. Robert Muir. She had enjoyed entertaining her husband's colleagues and occasionally his clients as well. She had gotten a real satisfaction baking cupcakes for the school bake sales, and helping out at field day.
She had enjoyed the perks of Robert's position and income–her regular appointments at the salon, and shopping to keep her wardrobe smart and up to date. It had all felt so affirming, so American! Living the dream, with two children, a dog, and recently, a housekeeper.
Dear Martha...Carolyn felt a little sheepish now as she poured the last of the cracker crumbs into her mouth from their cellophane wrapper. Martha, who was a regular whiz in the kitchen, would never approve of such a meal. She could hear the woman's deep voice in her mind. "Now, now Mrs. Muir, you sit down and let me fix you something."
Martha was wonderful at fixing things–meals, crafts with the children, even helping the kids make costumes for Scruffy when they decided to do their own Thanksgiving parade on the sidewalk in front of the house.
Martha had been teaching Candy to play piano, and Jonathan to separate eggs and beat the whites for her famous baked pancake.
She'd had to let Martha go. There was no need for her, and money had become a concern. With the children staying with this or that relative, well, it made little sense for Carolyn to keep a housekeeper just for herself. She had little to do and could certainly manage any little mess she made around the place. She did miss Martha's baked pancakes.
She set down her mug and drew her knees up, feeling a slight chill as the Sun fell behind the house. If she was going to go to the beach she had better do it. She knew that once the Sun was this low in the sky dusk was not far away.
She set her mug and spoon on the wall and walked a little farther down the road. It wasn't more than a hundred feet past the fence marking the end of the property that there was a faded, sagging wooden sign that read "beach access", and a surprisingly distinct path heading into the tall grass.
She could see a few chimneys farther down the road; maybe she wasn't as isolated as she thought. At any rate, the well-worn path looked like it received a fair bit of use. She thought of how Scruffy, the family's feisty wire-haired terrier would love to run here. He was always keen for an adventure and loved to run yapping ahead of her and the children, urging them to keep up. How he would love to chase gulls on the beach and race to fetch driftwood sticks thrown into the shallow surf.
After a short walk through weeds and small brush, the path dropped away and Carolyn had to pick her way back and forth down uneven steps set into the side of the hill. Some stone, some wood and some seemingly no more than a knot of grassroots, but they seemed sound enough.
She could hear the surf now, and the gulls. The breeze picked up, blowing her hair from its coiffed bob and turning its carefully sprayed bowl inside out. She reached up trying to smooth it back into place, but it was no use. The wind seemed set on making a wreck of it, she'd have to remember to wear a scarf over it from now on.
As she approached the water, the clouds above thinned changing the light and in an instant, the dull grey-green waves turned a milky blue. Her throat tightened, it was the exact shade of Robert's eyes. She wondered if he was looking down on her, watching over her.
"Robert!" she called to the waves. "Robert!" Her voice lifted as she called into the wind. Was it selfish of her to want a sign; to want to feel that in some way he was still keeping his promise to her from the other side? His promise to love and cherish her and the kids–till death do us part. Oh, right. Her throat closed up now, hot anger rising. "It's not fair."
How many times had she screamed, cried, muttered, breathed and sobbed those words since he had passed? Till death do us part, she was on her own now, Robert owed her nothing, and likewise, she owed him nothing. She was free...whether she wanted to be or not.
Free felt ok right now, in this instant, since freedom looked like the endless restless ocean and ever-changing sky and shifting sand beneath her feet. She took off her sneakers and dug her toes into the sand, already cool as twilight was settling in. She ran first one way, then another along the edge of the surf, kicking at a mat of seaweed, scaring the gulls up into a shrieking cloud.
"Go on!" She waved her arms. "Get out of here!"
"This is MY beach!" And in the moment it felt true. Tomorrow there might be bathers here, or people fishing, or sunning themselves before winter stole the opportunity from them. But for now, it was hers, as her thoughts and feelings were hers, and there was no one to tell her any different.