North Haven by Sarah Moriarty
PROLOGUE
The mud came early this year and has stayed late. It pools in the ruts of the drive; it eddies under the open mouth of the drainpipe by the side door. A truck comes jumping down the lane, heralded by the scratch of overgrown brambles. The caretaker is coming to wake his charge, which has been waiting here hunched and quiet through winter, covered in snow. The gray shingles have flayed out as they thawed. They curl at the edges, snaggled and striated like teeth. Parked under the oak sits a pollen-caked jeep; the truck stops behind it. The caretaker is a local, employed by the family. They call him Remy, he calls them Willoughby.
He goes to the pump house first, unlocks the padlock with a tiny key, the smallest on his key ring. He kicks over a bucket and sends robins up from their nest under the small eave. Then the whir of the pump brings water up from the well. This is the third house he has opened this week. He walks across the sodden meadow toward the back of the main house. The toes of his boots turn black. The three steps of the back porch sag beneath his feet. They should fix that. The bolt in the door is reluctant to turn, a rusty joint. Once he is in and the foundation settles a bit, the shingles bloat out further. When the mud goes the lichen will grow, moist fissures will dry and crack, then the frost will come again, go deeper into those spaces, work them wider with the leverage of winter.
The wet comes inside too, through loose seams, under eaves. It sends rivulets down the chimney, leaching into the plaster. Even their mother and the children, no matter how grown, don’t realize that there is more to fend off than fog. They have never seen snow here. To them weather is cause for a fire in the rug room, an excuse to turn the dock light on early. Their father was better, mending loose porch boards each summer, caulking window casements. He taught the children to watch the wind, to move the boats. But even he let the big things go too long. Now he is gone too long.
And she has followed him.
Down the back hall, the caretaker flips in loud clicks the circuits in the fuse box, and the windows seem wider, the sun brighter. He opens the side door, stands on the little sunny landing just outside. He steps onto the soft earth and faces the wall, stoops to turn the valve and let the water back into the pipes. Now the blood is flowing. Now the dry mouths of faucets are quenched as he goes around first to the downstairs bathroom sink and then the kitchen to open spouts. He runs the air through, makes sure the water is running clear. It is. It is a flood of gratitude. Awake, awake. The dust in the basins is washed down the drains; spattered drops will stay on the porcelain rims for hours after he has left. He opens and closes the empty refrigerator, twists some cans on the pantry shelves. He walks slowly through the first floor, looks at the ceiling, shakes his head at the water stains. He would do more if he could; if they asked; if it were his place. But he doesn’t like to think that way.
The vultures are starting to circle, he thinks. Just the other day some mainlander asked about it. The guy stood on the ferry landing, his foul-weather gear stiff and shiny as a taxicab.
“How much you think that place is worth?” asked the taxicab, all casual.
“About as much as you’re willing to spend, I’d guess,” said the caretaker.
“Could you introduce me to the owners?”
“They ain’t here ’til summer.”
“Maybe you could give them something for me,” he said, holding out a note.
“Post office’s right over there.” Vultures.
The Willoughbys will be back soon. But not their parents. Now the kids are in charge; God help us, he thinks. He doesn’t know that something is better than nothing.
They will throw up sashes and put in screens; they will sweep out the poison from under the kitchen sink, and the bodies of a few desiccated mice. They will leave windows open when it rains. They will tire the plumbing. They will wear holes in the elbows of this place. But they will light the stove, and steam will rise from kettles, from baths, from bowls of soup. They will hang wet towels on porch rails. They will light candles and pick wax off the dining room table. They will chatter the silver in its velvet-lined drawer. They will build fires and warm the very spine of these old bones. But not until the mud dries. Not until the lobsters return, and the ferry changes its schedule. Soon.
PART I
ONE
LIBBY
July 1
Libby had woken up early, knowing they’d be on the first boat. When she tied up the Misdemeanor at the town dock and climbed the gangway, the ferry was still a ways off. She headed up the road to the post office.
“They’re coming in today,” Libby shouted to Bev, the stationmaster.
“’Bout time. Gwen owes me money.”
“She still thinks she won,” Libby called across the parking lot.
Bev rolled her eyes.
Libby tossed a wave to Smitty at Bigalow’s Boatyard. He pointed at the incoming ferry. She gave a thumbs-up.
After a quick stop at their PO box, Libby stood in the middle of Main Street between Anne’s Gift Shop & Gallery and the post office, sorting through her mail. Addressed mostly to “occupant” or either of her dead parents, the mail wasn’t, strictly speaking, hers. But it was hers to open and answer: a bill from Remy for an unspecified boating issue (“Misdemeanor $72,” handwritten on an invoice form, which looked remarkably like a restaurant check from Schooner’s), a large envelope that declared she might already be a winner, and a note with no envelope. She stared at the small piece of paper creased at the center. Had Patricia sent her a love letter? Libby looked over her shoulder, wondering if Patricia could be staying at The Casino. But she wouldn’t be. Patricia had made that abundantly clear.
The note was small, written in an unfamiliar, tight cursive. As she read, Libby held the small piece of paper tighter and tighter. Libby had the urge to eat the note, chew it apart like a beast, like the mother of beasts. To keep this secret in her belly. Thank God I found it, she thought. She had no intention of showing it to anyone. As long as she kept it to herself, it was her decision to make. And it was made.
“You send Gwen my way when she’s got time.”
“What?” Libby looked up to see Anne standing in the doorway of her store.
“We need to talk about her next show,” said Anne.
“They’re on the early boat.” Libby shoved the paper in her breast pocket. “I can send her up.”
“No, no. Let the poor girl settle in.”