Chapter 1: Of Grief and Gratitude

"How come Candy gets to be a pilgrim and I have to be an ear of corn?" Jonathan Muir complained to his mother, tugging at the collar of an oversized wool sweater.

Carolyn Muir was helping her children put together their costumes for the Thanksgiving pageant at church. Candy was wearing one of her father's black suitcoats, cinched in the middle with a wide belt, and a pair of black pants.

Jonathan was clad in green tights and a long yellow sweater that would later have green paper husks pinned to it. He wasn't happy with his role, or any part of his costume. "Tights are for girls," he grumped.

"That's not true; tights are for dancers and you're going to dance," his mother explained diplomatically. "And corn was critical for the first Thanksgiving. If the pilgrims had no corn, they wouldn't have had much to be thankful for."

"Yeah," Candy agreed, wanting to be helpful, "instead of being a happy pilgrim, I'd be playing a skinny dead one with no corn to eat." She made what she considered to be a dead face, closing her eyes and letting her head fall to the side while sticking out her tongue.

Jonathan considered what his mother and sister were telling him. "I guess corn is important," he allowed. "But I hate this old sweater. It's scratchy."

"That's just the cornsilk," Candy said knowingly.

"I'll find you a shirt to wear under it," his mother promised. "Then it won't scratch as badly."

"I wanted to be the turkey, but Phillip got that part," Jonathan said with a frown.

"That's because he's fat like a turkey should be," Candy reasoned.

Carolyn smiled but stifled her laugh. She didn't want the kids to think she was laughing at Phillip's size. It was just funny the way kids made sense of the world around them.

"I can gobble way better than Phillip," Jonathan went on, "but I guess he can't dance so good."

"What's important," Carolyn reminded the kids of the lesson that they had learned in Sunday School, "is that whatever role we have, we do our very best and that we help those around us do their best as well."

"Yes, Ma'am." Jonathan hung his head. "But next year, I'm going to be the turkey. I'm going to eat extra all year so I'm big enough for the part," he declared with conviction.

Candy shook her head and rolled her eyes. "We need to work on my hat." She met eyes with her mother as if to say, "kids…so silly."

She wasn't even a full two years older than her brother, but she took her role as big sister very seriously, and her status as a second-grader more seriously still. "He's just in kindergarten, Phillip is in third grade. Jonathan will never catch up by next year." Candace spoke quietly to her mother as she slipped out of the jacket.

"You never know," Carolyn said.

"Yeah, I could have a growth spurt," Jonathan told his sister as his mother helped him pull the sweater over his head.

"But for now, what's important is to do your very best in your role as corn. Then next year, they'll know they can count on you no matter what part you're given," Carolyn said encouragingly.

"Next year?" Candy clarified, "next week more like it; that's when they assign parts for the Christmas pageant."

Before Jonathan could claim a role for that Carolyn yanked the sweater free and put an end to that line of thinking. "One pageant at a time! I don't want to hear any more about Christmas or next year. We need to be focusing on what we're grateful for now."

She helped her son take off the tights and she sent him off to play while she helped Candy work on her hat.

"What are you grateful for mom?" the girl asked as she watched her mother fold the sweater and tights.

Carolyn thought for a moment. She had the standard answers ready on the tip of her tongue, and at the front of her mind–her kids, her parents, their health–and all of that was true. But she was still struggling inside with deeper issues of gratitude. Her husband had passed away less than a year ago, and with him, her plans for the future, the house they had shared, and many of her friends and acquaintances.

They had been living in Pittsburg, but after his death, she found that she had too few reasons to stay in a city she'd only spent a handful of years and more reasons to return to Philadelphia where she had grown up, and where she had family. She was in the process of selling the home she had owned with Robert and was currently living with her parents until she decided what the next step was.

Truth was, she didn't even know what the next direction was. Her parents had told her she was welcome to stay as long as she wanted and she was grateful for that. Their home was roomy enough that she didn't feel cramped or that she was pushing her parents out of their own space. Her mother had decades of experience with children and creating a schedule, or rather a rhythm, that they easily fell into. Carolyn appreciated not having to figure everything out just yet.

In Pittsburg, she and Robert had attended a Presbyterian church because that was the church his colleagues and other professionals in their income bracket attended. Carolyn wasn't especially religious, and Robert had been less so, but she liked having a faith community, and it was good for the kids. She had grown up attending church and had happy memories of participating in pageants, singing in the youth choir, and helping with the annual food and coat drives.

Now that she was back in Philly, she and the kids attended the Episcopal church she had been raised in. The services were more formal than what the children had been used to, and the hymns less child friendly. But they enjoyed Sunday school and children's church and it was something that kept them busy one more day out of the week. Carolyn appreciated the structure.

She was still finding her feet as a widow. Filling her own time was something of a task, finding things for the kids to do on top of that felt beyond her. The swing set that had been in the backyard as a girl had long since rusted to pieces, but her father promised to have a new modern play structure and sandbox built in the Springtime.

She knew she should be grateful for THAT, but instead she felt misgiving. It seemed to imply that she and the kids would be staying there indefinitely. She wasn't in a hurry to leave, but she didn't like the idea of getting too comfortable here either. It felt good to be taken care of, but she felt that it would be easy to become infantilized. She didn't want to fall into the role of needing to be taken care of, or people thinking she needed to be taken care of.

She liked to think that this time was a healing time, as well as a stepping stone. But for it to be a stepping stone, she needed to have an idea about where she was headed. That still felt beyond her grasp.

"I'm thankful that we're all together here working on this pageant, and that Jonathan not being able to play turkey is the biggest problem we have today," she finally answered her daughter. Widowhood wasn't a problem, it was a situation. She missed Robert for sure, but she recalled what the pastor had told her. "You have proven that you have the desire and ability to love deeply and be loved. You haven't lost that, and the Lord will surely see that you have people to love and people who will love you."

"We need another buckle for my hat. Do you think Grandpa will let me use one of his belts?" Candy called her mother's attention back to the project at hand.

"I think a real buckle would be far too heavy for a paper hat. I think we'll just cut one out of paper." She smoothed her hand over her daughter's short pixie-cut hair. The pageant director had cast Candy as a male pilgrim because of her haircut, which Carolyn thought preposterous. Hadn't men worn their hair long back then?

Candy didn't mind, because she had lines to speak; most of the kids had to stand silently or merely walk across the stage–or dance in the case of the corn, squash, and fish who danced with the Native Americans.

Carolyn had mentioned to her mother that she needed to find a place for herself and the children, but her mother had poo-pooed the suggestion. "But why dear? The children are happy here. They love school and church. You shouldn't even think of moving before the end of the school year. And don't even suggest it to them, what with Christmas coming up!"

Carolyn had felt slightly guilty for bringing it up, as if perhaps she should have recognized that it would be bad for the children, who had just lost their father, to be pulled out of school and Sunday school after just getting settled. Of course, they must have Christmas here, where the grandparents could provide lots of presents and all the bells and whistles which Carolyn, as yet, could not.

She had backed down, telling her mother she was right, and half hating herself for being glad to have a reason to push the issue further into the future. She wanted to create a good life for herself and the kids, she truly did–she just wasn't certain of how to go about it. It was easier to wait, easier to go with the flow, but she also didn't want to look back one day with regret.

Luckily, the pageant director had sent home a pattern for the pilgrim's hat. It served two purposes: one, Carolyn didn't have to try and figure out how to create one from scratch, and two, Candy didn't argue about how to do it, because the pattern had been provided and she felt proud of herself for following directions.

Carolyn wondered if Candy was hoping that if she did well she'd end up with a better part in the Christmas pageant than shepherd or sheep. She was too young to play the part of Mary, which would go to one of the older girls, but she could play an angel or a king.

Carolyn wished she had a bigger role to play in the pageant than simply a parent. In their previous church, she had always been in the middle of things. But here everyone knew she'd recently lost her husband; they probably thought she wouldn't want to be involved, or that she might flake out.

She had helped with the bake sale, selling, not baking. Martha, her old housekeeper/cook had been locally famous for her secret recipe chocolate chip cookies and oatmeal scotchies. Carolyn was not an accomplished cook. Instead, she accepted dollar bills in exchange for sandwich baggies of goodies and said "thank you" approximately 300 times.

She had never felt insecure about who she was or her capabilities, and until now no one had ever treated her as if she was anything but capable, but since Robert's passing, people treated her differently, as if they assumed that she'd lost her mind and talents along with him.

"Why did they wear such silly hats?" Candy's voice broke her reverie.

"Maybe they doubled as buckets," Carolyn offered. She was certain that wasn't the reason, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

"And why did they have buckles on them. It wasn't like they were going to keep them from falling off their heads." The girl wasn't the least bit impressed with the Pilgrims who she believed should have put more effort into farming and less into the creation of silly outfits.

"You know, I've always wondered the same thing," Carolyn admitted.

"I guess it isn't any sillier than Indians wearing all those bird feathers," Candy allowed.

"I guess there are silly trends in fashion in every era," Carolyn said with a laugh. She recalled when she was young and begged her mother for the latest style of boots and the popular haircut. It wasn't a case of whether or not they were functional or comfortable. She had simply wanted to fit in, or better yet, stand out, but for the right reasons.

"I wish Daddy could see the pageant," Candy said suddenly.

Carolyn was surprised. It wasn't that the children didn't mention their father, it just seemed that they mentioned him at the oddest times. Never when she would expect, like on a birthday.

"Well…maybe he can. Maybe he can watch from heaven."

Candy shook her head. "I don't think so. I mean, if I was in heaven, and had everything I could ever want, I doubt I'd stop having fun to watch a church play."

"You don't think it's important?" Carolyn was surprised. Both kids seemed to be taking it quite seriously.

"Yeah, it is, just not, stop what you're doing in heaven and watch a bunch of kids dressed up, kind of important."

"Daddy loves you very much. And when you love someone, if something is important to them, it's important to you," she explained.

Candy seemed unconvinced. "I love Jonathan, but I wouldn't care if he lost BunBun forever and I never had to see that ratty old thing," she said of her brother's well-worn plush toy.

"Maybe, but it's different with parents. I would be very sad if anything happened to BunBun." Carolyn thought she had better tuck her daughter's disdain for the toy into the back of her mind, just in case BunBun went missing; she would know who to interrogate first. "I'm excited about the things you and Jonathan do because they are important to you, and I want you to be happy."

"Do you think Daddy is happy? Do you think he misses us?"

Her first instinct was to assure her daughter that he did, but she didn't know if that was true. If he was in heaven, then that meant he was in paradise, perfectly happy. "I don't think he has to miss us. I think that whenever he wants to check and see how we're doing, he can."

Candy seemed to consider that. "Jonathan talks to him. Last time he lost BunBun, he asked Daddy to show him where he was."

Carolyn had heard Jonathan talking aloud as he played as if there was someone with him. She just assumed it was an imaginary friend, or that he was making voices for his action figures and cars. She didn't realize he kept in touch with his father.

"When you were gone. BunBun got lost and Jonathan cried and cried, and he asked Daddy where he was. Then that night he had a dream and woke up hollering. He said that BunBun was in the garage behind the rakes and things."

"And was he?" She eyed her daughter suspiciously.

"Yeah. But Jonathan made Grandpa and Grandma go out there right away, even though it was in the middle of the night and cold." Candy hurried on, eager to prove how silly her brother was.

"I wonder how BunBun got into such an odd place," Carolyn spoke slowly.

"Hard to say. I mean, Jonathan says BunBun can do all kinds of stuff, so I guess he could play hide and seek in the garage if he wanted to."

"Well, I'll bet BunBun was scared and doesn't ever want to play hide and seek and get lost again," she said pointedly.

"Yes ma'am," Candy said with no hint of regret.

"Candy, you know, this is a hard time for all of us. We're all learning how to live without your father here. If talking to Daddy or sleeping with BunBun helps Jonathan, don't you think we should let him have that?"

"But it's not fair! Daddy doesn't talk to me. Daddy doesn't tell me the answers for my spelling tests. Daddy didn't remind me to bring my favorite Barbie back from the beach and she got washed away in the tide." Candy's tone was full of anger and hurt.

Carolyn wrapped her arms around her daughter and kissed the top of her head. "I know darling, it doesn't feel fair to me either. I miss him so much, and I talk to him too, but so far, he hasn't answered. At least not in words."

"Do you think he loves Jonathan more than he loves us?" Candy's voice was small and sad.

"No darling, I don't. In fact, I'm certain of it. Sometimes very young children, well, they seem to have a closer contact with–" She didn't want to say ghosts, or imaginary people, because she didn't believe that Robert was either of those things. "Sometimes they can't always tell what's real and what's in their mind. And when they want something to very much be true, it can seem like it is."

"Then you don't think he really talks to daddy?" Candy sounded a bit triumphant.

"I'm certain that he talks to daddy. And maybe, because Jonathan is still such a very little boy, daddy does check in on him. Not because he loves him better, but because he needs him too." Carolyn felt her heart grow heavy. She hated that she was trying to appeal to Candy's pride in being older and wiser to keep her from hurting, but she wasn't sure what else to do.

"You can talk to your father too." She wanted that to be very clear.

"I guess I shouldn't mind so much. I had Daddy longer than Jonathan did." Candy reasoned.

"That's true." Carolyn wished she had thought of it herself.

"Maybe Daddy is just letting Jonathan catch up." Apparently, Candy was feeling more generous now.

Carolyn nodded. "I think you're probably right. Maybe he knows Jonathan needs just a little more time and help. Now, we had better get this finished. It's almost time to get ready for bed." She pointed to the hat. "Let's cover the buckle in tin foil and see how it looks."

"That's not on the directions," Candy said gravely.

"Oh, I know, but it's a good idea. Don't you think? And besides, I'm sure all the Pilgrims' hats didn't look exactly the same. It's ok to be a little different."

"Yeah, and if I was a Pilgrim, I know that I would make sure my buckles were shiny."

"I know that you would."

After they had everyone's approval of the hat and its shiny buckle, Carolyn sent her daughter to get ready for bed. She checked on Jonathan, who was in the kids' room, with BunBun, picking out a bedtime story.

'

"You brushed your teeth?" she asked.

He made a big grimace pulling his lips back to expose as much of his teeth as possible. "Grandma helped me to make sure I didn't miss the back ones."

"And BunBun brushed his teeth too?"

"Mom, he's a toy, he doesn't have to brush his teeth." Jonathan thought she was being silly.

"Well, I'm a mother, it's my job to worry about those things." She smiled and walked over to where he was kneeling in front of the bookcase.

"Are these the books Grandpa and Grandma read to you when you were little?" he asked.

"Some of them. And some of them are from your cousins when they were little, and some Grandpa and Grandma bought just for you."

He studied the bookshelf carefully then turned to look up at her. "I don't think I'm going to stay little long enough to read all these books," he said solemnly.

"That's ok. You grow up just as quickly or as slowly as you need to. There will always be plenty of books that are just right for where you are," she promised him.

"I guess there are more grown-up books than kid books because people are usually grown up longer than they are kids," he said thoughtfully.

"I think you might be right."

"I don't think it's fair that Candy gets to have two shiny buckles and I have to wear a scratchy sweater." He was studying BunBun's face as he spoke.

"Well, have you ever heard the term "paying your dues"?"

Jonathan shook his head.

"It means that before you can do something special, you have to do what comes before it. Kind of like earning it. When Candy was younger, she didn't get to wear shiny buckles and say lines in the pageant. She had to do things like dress as a sheep, or stand in the background and be a tree."

Jonathan thought awhile. "I guess it's like books. There are right parts to play for every age too."

"It's just like that!" She was pleased he had taken to the idea so quickly.

"And when you get to be a grown-up, it's your part to sit in the audience and clap." He realized.

"Yes, and to help make costumes, and sell tickets and make sure little boys get to bed on time so they can wake up for school tomorrow." She ruffled his hair.

"And write stories so kids can fall asleep better," Jonathan pointed out. He'd been impressed when he had found out that his mother wrote stories. He was disappointed that they didn't have any colorful pictures to go with them but she did have a neat old book with drawings of sea monsters in it that she was using as inspiration. He was allowed to look at it when his hands were clean.

"That's a very important grown-up job," she agreed.

"I was thinking. You know those sea monsters? BunBun would like to have one of those as a friend," he told her.

"You don't think that would be too scary?" Carolyn was surprised. Some of the drawings in the book were quite ferocious.

"No, because he knows those things aren't real. They're 'maginery, and he knows we don't have to be scared of 'maginery things."

"BunBun is very sensible." She tucked the idea of a stuffed sea monster away in her mind as a possible Christmas gift. "Those things can be lots of fun to think about, and they help us make up better stories."

"When I grow up. I think I'll write stories about BunBun so other kids can read about him because he's lots of fun."

"That's very thoughtful of you."

"Knock Knock!" Carolyn's mother Emily was at the door. "Have you picked out a story for us tonight?"

Jonathan held up a book. "It's a new one," he announced.

"Oh, that's a good one. I remember reading that to your mother."

"I guess it's only new to me," Jonathan said with a sigh.

"That's the good thing about good stories. They can be old, and new at the same time. They are so good, that there is always someone new who wants to read them," Carolyn explained.

"I hope your stories are that good, so when I grow up, they'll be around for me to read," he told his mother, then padded over to grandma and handed her the book.

Carolyn smiled. To her little boy, growing up was taken for granted as a matter of course. He had no idea the years and effort it would take, and she hoped when he did get old enough to read her stories, he had the time and interest to do so.

"I guess I'll leave you to it," Carolyn excused herself.

She wondered if her story, such as it was, would be around at all. She couldn't seem to make progress with it. She had begun it when she'd taken four weeks to herself in Maine, back in September. The seaside cottage she had rented was full of antiques and old books, including the one Jonathan had taken an interest in. It had inspired her to begin a story about two sailors who jumped ship and their fight for survival on the sea and escaping from being charged with mutiny.

Since she'd come back, she just couldn't make headway on it. Even during the empty hours when the children were at school and her parents were busy with their own interests. She sat in front of her laptop and nothing came. Sometimes she forced herself to put words down, but they were as flat and motionless as the doldrums her seamen had sought escape from.

Words had come easily at the cottage, typing on an old typewriter she'd found in the attic of the house. She thought maybe that was the problem. Perhaps it was a typewriter kind of story rather than a computer kind of story. She even picked up an old manual typewriter at a thrift store hoping it would send her back in time and put her in the right frame of mind but it did no good.

She had made better progress on her article/research paper about the sea captain who had built, lived in, and died in the cottage she'd rented. It was a case of gathering facts and laying them out in an orderly fashion. She could get her brain to cooperate on that level, where she didn't have to be creative. It seemed that she could manage orderly, just not fresh.

She told herself it was this thing or that thing or a lack of something else that had her story stalled, but somewhere inside of her, she knew exactly what it was; her inspiration hadn't been the sea, or the cottage, or even the book as much as it had been a presence–a spirit. The plain word for it was ghost, but she wasn't yet prepared to accept that was what she'd experienced.

She did know that while she was staying at Gull Cottage, she had sensed the very powerful essence of the man who had once lived there. That would sound perfectly reasonable to anyone she cared to share it with. There was no need to ever explain to anyone that she had spoken with, laughed with, cried with a ghost. She'd been in a vulnerable state, likely no one would fault her for having an overactive imagination, wanting the company of a man, or being overtaken by the power of the sea and the antiques and personal belongings of the long-dead owner of the house.

Everyone in the town of Schooner Bay seemed to take it for granted that Gull Cottage was haunted. If nothing else, the power of suggestion would have led anyone staying there to make the leap from hearing creaks, thumps, and branches knocking at the window to believing someone was in the house with them. The screeching of the gulls down at the beach, when carried on the wind, could be mistaken for voices. The old pipes literally had a voice of their own whenever she had run them full blast.

She had decided that, for now, she would finish the article about Captain Daniel Gregg, the original owner of Gull Cottage, and then she would start a new story, about a subject she was more familiar with. Something that she could relate to right here in the city–or she could help Jonathan write that story about BunBun! He'd likely be too busy when he was grown up to sit and write about a childhood toy, but these winter days were the perfect time for her and her son to snuggle up and write about BunBun's adventures while they were fresh in his mind.

She had enough experience to know that either the seamens' story would come to her or it wouldn't, and there was no point in losing momentum with her writing when it had only just come back to her after a hiatus of nearly a decade. It was much wiser to keep writing and trust that some stories would come than to get hung up on a story that most likely she couldn't continue because it made her homesick. Was it fair to use that term when the cottage had only been home for four short weeks? She didn't know what else to call it, ennui?

She had set herself a deadline for the article. It had to be done by Thanksgiving day, because after that was the full-out holiday rush. She feared that if she waited until after the holidays she would have lost the feeling and mood of Gull Cottage entirely. She would no longer recall the timbre and rhythm of the Captain's voice, or his proud, almost haughty stance–in his painted portrait of course. She may have thought she heard voices but she had definitely not seen a ghost.

Sitting in the guest room, which she was using as her bedroom, she could have kicked herself for not taking a picture of the portrait, or the house itself. She had a few mediocre phone photos of the beach that she had texted to her mother and friends, and one of the big iron stove that she had sent to Martha, her former housekeeper. But somehow it hadn't occurred to her to photo document the cottage. It was almost as if she'd been under a spell there as if she had moved backward in time to an era when people didn't carry a camera with them everywhere they went.

She had grown used to reading by a kerosene lamp, typing on that ancient machine, and listening to the sound of the sea breeze rather than youtube videos and television.

That was one thing the kids loved about staying with their grandparents, her father loved to watch golf and he had a very large screen television set.

"It's like the movies!" the children said.

At home in Pittsburg, they'd had a more modest set. Robert didn't care much for television, sometimes he would go to a friend's to watch a game. That was his "me" time, and she knew he liked being able to kick back, have a few drinks, probably use a few obscenities, and be a boy himself again; and he hadn't particularly wanted the children to see him that way.

Robert had been a great lover of music and they'd had a top-notch stereo system that was connected to the television. The children might have been watching educational tv and cartoons on a small set, but they heard them in surround sound.

After Robert passed, and the children had begun their grand tour of staying with various relatives, Carolyn began the task of going through Robert's things and deciding what to do with them. He'd had a huge collection of vinyl records that he had curated over the years, some he had inherited from his father. Carolyn chose a few that reminded her most of him, and them together, and the rest she had sold, en masse, to the proprietor of a record shop that Robert frequented. She guessed it made sense that the records would return there, where someone else who would treasure them, would find them.

She had similarly sorted his ties, choosing a few that she felt sentimental over, and offering the rest to his coworkers. Robert had liked to wear designer, silk ties, and his colleagues seemed to appreciate the gesture, if not the ties themself.

As a gesture of goodwill, Carolyn had put together a memory box for her mother-in-law. She'd included photos, and a sample of Robert's belongings, as well as some of the items he had saved from his childhood. She guessed they meant more to his grieving mother than they did to her, though she held back a box of his childhood belongings for the children. That was the hardest part–trying to peer into the future and guess what might be meaningful to the children one day.

She didn't want to be accused of throwing away their memories and treasures of their father. She knew that one day they would be curious about him, and would want to have and hold things that had belonged to him. She didn't want to be empty-handed when that happened, but it was impossible to know what they might consider important.

If Candy became a jazz aficionado, she'd likely be angry that Carolyn had sold the record collection. If Jonathan ever had a baseball phase he might want his dad's old mitt, if only for sentimental reasons. But she couldn't keep everything.

Ah well, she supposed that she'd have to endure the wrath of teenagers, and their inevitable disappointment in her the way every parent did. She understood and appreciated how easy these years were compared to what lay ahead. No matter how angry Candy might get with her mother, the tantrum of a seven-year-old was merely annoying, not dangerous.

There was a knock on the door. "Mom, are you going to tuck us in?" Candy's voice materialized as if Carolyn's thoughts had conjured her up.

"Of course darling, I'll be right there," she called. She glanced at her bedside table where the book about sea serpents lay closed, with her place held by a thin, intricately carved blade of ivory.

She would never tell anyone–she hardly owned it as truth in her own mind– but she had, more than once, tried to conjure up the Captain since she'd returned to Philly.

She had laid in her bed, holding the ivory letter opener, and sending thought waves across the miles, hoping to once again hear his voice. It was the silliest thing she'd ever done. Of course, it hadn't worked. She'd been ashamed of herself and after the third try scolded herself and vowed to never do it again.

Captain Daniel Gregg belonged to the sea and the cottage and perhaps to those four weeks when she'd allowed herself to feel and grieve, away from the eyes and concern of her family. The Captain likewise treasured his privacy and his view of the ocean; he would abhor a modern home, large-screen television, and the tumult caused by children and a dog.

She shook her head at her own silliness and went to say goodnight to the kids. "Thanks for helping with my costume," Candy said when Carolyn kissed her on the forehead.

"And don't forget to find me something to wear so my sweater won't itch so much," Jonathan added.

"Aye Aye." Carolyn offered them a mock salute. "Goodnight darlings, I'll see you in the morning." She left the door open four inches so they didn't feel so alone in the dark.

"Are the kids down?" her mother whispered as they passed in the hall.

Carolyn nodded.

"Why don't you get ready for bed and we'll watch a little TV?" her mother said quietly, giving her arm a little squeeze.

Carolyn nodded, though she didn't want to watch TV. She preferred to wind down quietly in the evenings, with her own thoughts, and a few chapters of a book. Sitting in front of that huge screen and hearing a laugh track, or worse yet, the sinister soundtrack of a murder mystery was not conducive to restful sleep, but her mother enjoyed time with her at the end of the day. Often as not, Mrs. Williams would turn the sound down so they could chat, but the huge figures of the TV characters still felt overbearing and disturbing to Carolyn.

"I swear, you can count their nose hairs!" she had said the first time her parents had turned it on.

"I know, isn't it marvelous!" Her mother had beamed. "When I watch a cooking show, I can read the measuring cups."

"Cooking show." Her father had rolled his eyes. "She likes to watch that hot cop, what's his name? Comes on on Thursday nights."

It was when she saw her parents interacting that way, in that familiar, easy, teasing manner, that she most felt her widowhood. All those years she and Robert had spent getting to know one another–and themselves. They'd developed their own shorthand code they spoke in when the kids were around. She missed the seamless way they'd operated much of the time. It felt beyond exhausting to consider the time and effort it would take to build that with another person.

It hadn't felt like work with Robert; she hadn't even realized they were doing it until it was gone–until the well-oiled machine that was their life seized to a halt. She wished she could talk to her mother about it, but she couldn't. Not while her father was alive. She didn't want her mother to think about becoming a widow, or to form a dread inside after hearing what her daughter was going through.

That's what the professionals were for–to talk about the things that were too difficult, or too precious, to discuss with family and friends. Carolyn enjoyed the sessions she had with Ruth, the pastor at the church. The woman was between Carolyn and her mother in age and had experienced enough of life, on top of her training, to be able to intelligently discuss the puzzles of life. That is what she called them, puzzles, not problems.

"I don't see you turning away when a pretty face comes on the screen." Emily Williams shook a finger at her husband.

"Guilty as charged." He accepted defeat with a smile.

Carolyn smiled too, but with tears in her eyes. She was grateful to her parents for teaching her that marriage could be this way, a partnership, dynamic and honest at the same time. What a wonderful gift they had bestowed on her, one she feared she wouldn't have the chance to pass on to her own children.

"Now Carolyn, I've been selfish, what would you like to watch?" Her mother patted her knee.

"I'm sure whatever you choose will be fine."

"Come on dear, it's only fair we play like adults and take turns," her mother insisted.

Carolyn had no idea what was on the television on Sunday nights. She had barely watched anything since the new season had started. "Anything without a laugh track," was all she could think of.

"There's usually a murder mystery on the Public station," her mother said but didn't sound enthusiastic. "And there's always something about vampires or zombies. It seems like every year there are more and more shows about the paranormal. Ghosts and devils and disappearances. You'd think people couldn't get enough of the creepy and spooky." Her distaste was clearly evident.

"You know what? I think I'll just turn in early. Watch whatever you and Dad like best."

"Are you sure? I didn't mean to run you off." Her mother looked penitent.

"I'm sure. Goodnight mom. She leaned in and kissed her mother's cheek, then stood and hugged her father. "See you in the morning."

She stopped in the kitchen for a glass of juice before heading upstairs. She could hear canned laughter coming from the living room. She knew there were a lot of shows about ghosts and the like, and that most of them were atmospheric to put it nicely. Funny how her encounter with a ghost had been anything but spooky. She had felt seen, cared for, and welcome.

Why didn't someone make a television show where the ghost was like her Captain Gregg?

In her room, she picked up the book about sea serpents. She found her place easily because her ivory letter opener was tucked between the pages of the book. She'd been reading a light-hearted novel she'd found on her parent's bookshelves. Though it dated from before she was born, had an actual cloth cover with the edges of the pages dyed red, she knew it didn't date back as far as the letter opener did, and she had the silly notion that the letter opener felt more at home in an older book than a newer one.

She inspected the delicate scrollwork and slid her thumb along the smooth narrow blade. It was truly the work of a bygone age when the world was still mysterious, elephants were numerous, and people communicated via actual written letters. Carolyn had never been one to long for the good old days, or harken to a past that was supposedly simpler and golden.

She liked technology; she liked having easy access to a literal world of information at her fingertips. She did think that it would be nice if people still wrote paper letters. E-mails and texts were convenient, but there was nothing like reading beautiful words written in a loved one's hand. She regretted how few things she had that had been written in Robert's hand.

She had a few signed greeting cards, but he tended to let Hallmark write the sentiments, and he has merely added "With love to my Darling, Robert" Nice, but not a love letter. No tender words that she could get misty-eyed over. She did have a letter he had written her as part of an assignment they completed during the required marriage preparation course at the church they'd been married in.

They had been asked to write a letter to one another highlighting what the other brought into their life and how being partnered with them helped them become a better person. When the minister had assigned it, Robert had groaned like a 5th grader being told to write a "What I Did This Summer" essay on the first day of school, so Carolyn hadn't expected much, but the end result had been quite lovely.

It had begun "To my Darling, Carolyn"; it's what he always called her and what she had adopted to call the children. She suspected Robert had picked it up after hearing her mother call her, Darling. At first, he'd meant it as a tease, but it grew to be special.

She had chafed the first few times he'd used it, feeling that it was more appropriate for children, and she was a smart, talented, educated woman, but love did strange things to a person. Somehow every little thing became precious, and pet names didn't seem silly and cloying the way they once had.

His letter to her had been a tad childish, and there were places where he'd crossed things out and reworded them. He hadn't bothered to draft and edit his letter before writing it out neatly once it was carefully constructed and proofread. She got the first and only draft, warts and all. For all the care and time he put into his work, he could be downright obstinate when asked to do any task he found tiresome, and he definitely found letter writing tiresome.

He'd had Carolyn draft several versions of letters he could use to send to clients because she was, "good at that sort of thing". He gave them to his secretary who would choose the appropriate draft, fill in the pertinent information and send it on his behalf.

That was one of the things he had written in the letter, how his life was better because she helped it run more efficiently, and made him look and sound better than he was. He felt like the luckiest man in the world with her on his arm. He'd written that and underlined it. She had a way of helping him understand himself, by helping him find the words to express what he was feeling.

He'd also written that she was a great cook, which she knew he'd done as a sort of joke between them. Robert hadn't saved her letter to him. She thought she recalled some of what she'd written, but she couldn't be sure. She'd loved how talented he was, and because they were in such different fields, he in architecture and she in writing, how being with him exposed her to new things. She loved that he wanted children, with her specifically. She loved how he was attentive to his mother. That was before the woman had considered Carolyn as competition for her son's attention, or had shown signs of petty jealousy–or at least it was before Carolyn had been aware of it.

She knew that she likely wasn't remembering the letter quite the way she'd written it. Hindsight had a way of touching up reality, giving it a good polish. She'd put a great deal of time and effort into her letter to Robert, but looking back, she was a bit ashamed of herself. She knew she had written it as much to impress the Pastor as to express her love for her fiance'. She had been quite fresh out of school, and the letter was an assignment; she knew the Pastor was going to read it. Her pride and her desire to have her talent noticed had been motivations to polish her prose.

It seemed so silly now, looking back. She had been honest in her letter, but not exactly candid. She wondered how different the letter might have been if she had known she'd only have Robert for a decade. She'd been naive enough in her mid-twenties to believe in forever, happily ever after, and that they certainly would beat the odds and never divorce. She had honestly never considered losing him to death.

This was the man she was going to grow old with, travel the world with, spoil grandchildren with. Of course, she knew that one day one of them would have to go on without the other, but she had pictured them both old and gray long before that happened.

Carolyn did possess a very special handwritten letter. It was tucked away in the top drawer beneath her underthings. It had not been written by Robert, nor had it been written to her, but it was precious just the same.

She loved the thick creamy paper it was written on and she loved the sepia ink–not merely the antique brown in color–but written in actual sepia cuttlefish ink, and sealed with an embossed wax seal. The outside was smudged, waterstained, and grease-stained. It had been halfway around the world before it arrived too late for its intended recipient to read it. Astonishingly, it had never been opened.

She ran her finger over and over the smooth ivory blade, which, like the letter had been intended as a gift but had arrived too late. It only made sense that the letter, be opened with this letter opener, but she had not yet found the nerve to do it. Carolyn wasn't sure if it was a lack of courage or a guilty conscience that kept her from opening and reading the letter. Technically, she had stolen the items and should return them to the Captain's descendants without ever altering the letter by breaking the seal.

The letter could also be considered a historical document and belonged in a museum or university where its proper place in the story of the United States or naval history could be determined. It certainly wasn't hers to do with as she pleased, yet here it was, in her underwear drawer.

If she surrendered it, she would have to explain how she came to have it in the first place, and there were only two possible explanations: that she stole it from the cottage she had rented, or that the ghost of the original owner of the cottage had gifted it to her. Which one was more likely to be believed?

She guessed she could return the letter anonymously, not by sending it to the family in an unmarked envelope, because she was the only recent tenant of the cottage and it would be clear the letter had come from her. Or she could rent the cottage again, and tuck the letter away in the desk it had come from along with the letter opener then return home with a guilt-free conscience.

She desperately wanted to know what was in that letter, but she wasn't comfortable with either of the two explanations for how she came to have it. She didn't want to be a thief, and she didn't want to be a person who had spoken with a ghost and allowed herself to believe he had given her permission to take several items from the rental cottage.

She had also taken a stack of antique deckle-edged paper. She'd attempted to find the value of it on eBay and failed. She supposed nearly two-hundred-year-old unused paper didn't tend to exist and here she had been carelessly using it to type a half-cocked story that had come to her while vacationing. It was as if she'd lost her senses while staying at the cottage. She'd behaved impulsively and as if reality didn't still exist. As if she was trapped in some bygone day like an insect in amber. And now she was holding the proof of it.

Being widowed had left her in an emotional state, but she doubted that would exonerate her from the theft of antiquities, and she could hardly tell people that the Captain had made her do it. She recalled the words to a poem she had read in college and still loved to this day.

"Are we really made of stardust? Set fire by the Sun,

Breathed into being by the wind and waves of a bitter salt sea

Do we hail from volcanoes

Burst forth in heat and ash, the earth wrenched open bleeding then bulging into mountains rising,

Forests pushing up from burned and barren land.

We peer from the highest mountain top,

We plunge into the depths of the seas,

We send our ships of tin and lead to explore the moons and planets,

Yet, we know not from whence we came.

I met you and we danced the dance of galaxies.

I tasted the salt of tears and sweat

And the spawn that brings forth generations.

I felt the rhythm of my heart in the planet's pregnant pauses between breaths of fire and ash.

In the depths of your eyes, and the catch of your breath

I learned what I truly am."

In her twenties, she had believed that she had found the meaning of life in love, in giving birth, in nursing babies–all things that were the direct result of her meeting Robert. Now he was gone, and yet she hadn't lost herself, or her reason for being. It lived on in the children, yes, but in herself as well. She had felt it when she'd been alone walking on the beach, and when she'd been laughing herself silly along with a bad-tempered ghost.

She guessed she would never lose the parts of her that loving Robert had revealed. She had been afraid, at first, that she would lose something of herself without him. She knew that memories would fade and that there had been parts of her personality that he had brought to life, but that merely meant, if she allowed herself to look ahead, that there were more aspects of Carolyn waiting still, to be breathed into life by new love and new experiences.

It made her heart hurt to think of it. She felt slightly disloyal, to be thinking so soon that life went on. Didn't she owe Robert, and even the children, at least a year of mourning? There was something about the sea, so huge and powerful that had planted a seed in her mind. The world goes on. It's all so much bigger than any of our problems, dreams, or fears. And we can let it take us with it, or hopelessly try to hold back the tide and lose ourselves entirely.

"Surf or sink," she said aloud. Or possibly live the rest of my life as a madwoman who thinks she can talk to ghosts.

All she knew is what had happened, had happened. Maybe it would never happen again, and maybe she'd never understand why it happened in the first place, but she couldn't pretend she hadn't spoken to a ghost and that the ghost hadn't spoken back.

She wasn't in the mood to read the humorous novel or the book on sea serpents. She wished she was walking on the beach, the wind blowing her thoughts away, her pain away, and the tide rushing up to meet her exactly where she was.

She placed the slip of ivory against her upper lip. She wished she could smell or somehow sense the stories it had to tell. She had smelled the letter, hoping to catch a whiff of whale oil or some sweet perfume. She knew one of the reasons she had yet to read the letter; what if she read it and it was sophomoric, or the spelling was bad, the thoughts puerile, and it sounded nothing like the man–the ghost of the man–she thought she knew? What if it simply proved that she had hallucinated it after all?

She didn't think that she could bear it. She would rather not know. She would rather hang onto her beautiful memories of Gull Cottage and its cantankerous inhabitant that had welcomed her when she most needed it.