“Already packed,” he said. “Maris’s mother sent one over, along with a watermelon and juice boxes for the kids, as well as a case of mini water bottles. I added some sandwiches and snacks, and when we get to my house, we can fill what’s left with beer.”
“Beer?”
“You can’t go to the sandbar without beer—I don’t think that’s allowed. I’ve got some margarita mix, too, if you’d prefer.”
“Beer is fine,” I said, trying to remember the last time I’d had one, realizing it was probably when Cal and I were dating. I’d found soon after we were married that I needed my senses to be sharp, my reflexes quick.
“Good. And I’ve got some beach chairs we can bring, too. No room for my volleyball net, but if you want to play, there will be a lot of people looking for teammates.”
“What kind of a place is this?” I asked, picturing a large playground in the middle of the river.
“It’s about a mile-long strip of sand that’s this side of heaven, and a Beaufort tradition. Sundays are usually family day, but since we’re going today, just be prepared to see lots of tiny bikinis and muscled torsos.”
“I’ll try to prepare myself,” I said, attempting to smile, but the image of all that water was quietly terrifying me. “Do you go there often?”
“Not so much anymore. After my mother died, Deborah Fuller used to take me out there on the weekends, and Cal would sometimes come, too. But since he was ten years older, he got tired of having me hanging around, so he started going with his friends. I’d come out a lot with the Williamses, too—although usually without Mrs. Williams. I’m guessing she looked forward to having a bit of peace and quiet with three boys at home—and usually four, since I spent more time there than I did here.”
A shadow darkened his eyes, and I found myself leaning toward him, wanting to know more. “Was that your choice?”
He shook his head. “Not at first. I thought for a long time that my grandmother didn’t want me around and was just trying to get rid of me. It’s only recently—since I’ve been coming back to this house, actually—that I’ve started thinking about it differently.” He drummed his fingers on the counter. “I’ve been remembering things—little snatches.”
Gibbes looked out the window over the sink, where the light wiggled its way through the sea glass and spilled, blue and green, into the kitchen. “I remembered my grandmother making a wind chime to honor my mother, saying I’d hear her voice whenever the wind blew.” He continued to look out the window, his thoughts distant. “She told me that people who don’t know they’re broken can’t be fixed. She was talking about my mother, I think.”
Facing me again, he said, “There was always so much shouting in this house, so much noise. I think that’s why I loved books so much—because it gave me an escape. Cal tried it, too, but he could never block it out. He protected me . . .” He paused, as if the thought had just emerged from years of fog and shadow. “From our father. He wasn’t a nice man when he drank.”
I shivered, imagining a small Gibbes in that house, surrounded by unhappiness and broken people. And Cal, protecting his little brother.
“The last time my father laid a hand on me was about a month before he died, when Cal hit him back. He never touched me after that. And then things sort of calmed down, and I spent most of my time here, because my grandmother almost seemed to need me. She said I was her last hope, although I can’t say I ever knew what she meant by that. Then Cal left so suddenly, and my grandmother just sort of closed up. Wouldn’t talk about it. And the letters I received from Cal never mentioned it.”
He tilted his head. “When I heard that Cal’s wife had inherited the house and planned to move in, I’d hoped you’d be able to fill in the missing pieces. I have to admit that I’m more confused than ever.” He studied me closely, waiting for me to speak, as if I could maneuver those sections of the puzzle that evaded placement. But all I had to give him was a shoe box holding a Civil War bullet and a charred bolt from a plane.
“I wish I could help you. I do. But I’m just as confused as you—especially after meeting Sandy Beach. It’s like the Cal who lived here with you and dated women like Sandy bore no resemblance to the man who moved to Maine and married me.” I swallowed, trying to understand my nervousness. “None of it makes any sense.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
I pointed to the folder. “Did you find anything new?”
He stared at me for a long moment before picking up the passenger list. “No. Still wondering why your grandfather’s name is on it, assuming it’s actually him. But his being from Bangor makes me think it is.” He tapped his finger on the top of the file, thinking. “You said you never knew him, that your grandmother never spoke of him.”