North Haven Read online

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2017 Sarah Moriarty

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Little A, New York

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Little A are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503941519 (hardcover)

  ISBN-10: 1503941515 (hardcover)

  ISBN-13: 9781503941526 (paperback)

  ISBN-10: 1503941523 (paperback)

  Cover design by PEPE nymi

  First edition

  To my sister, Cally, and my brother, Brad, and to my second mom, Priscilla

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  PART II

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  PART III

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  PART IV

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  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 inte
ntion 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.”

  “Alright.” Libby waved the mail over her head and walked down the small hill to the ferry landing.

  The ferry bumped and jockeyed its way into the landing. Libby watched the passengers head below for their bags and heard the whoosh of car ignitions. The ramp was lowered, and as the cars clunked their way ashore the ferry bobbed ever lighter. Once the cars were off, the passengers came next in small, red-cheeked groups. The hour at sea had done them good.

  Gwen stepped off the ferry first. Libby felt her chest contract for a moment. At thirty-six, Gwen looked just like their mother had when Danny was a baby. Beauty swelled over her. Her hair had grown darker; what was once sandy had become chestnut and then deeper, like wet earth, the same color as their father’s. Gwen had grown it long and kept it tucked behind her ears, as their mother had. This summer there was a different flavor to her. Libby noticed it right away. Like a song she couldn’t place. There was something slippery and new about her sister.

  “What have you been drinking?” said Libby as she hugged her. “You look great.”

  “I’m on a frappé diet at the moment, calcium.”

  “And I’ve been wasting my time on soft serve, bummer. Where are the Y chromosomes?” The two of them turned to look back at the ferry. Danny and Tom were each pulling a small handcart stacked with coolers and duffel bags. Libby walked down the ramp and took the cart from Danny and hugged him. He sort of leaned against her, his arms by his sides. Still acting like a sullen teenager even when he was almost done with college. Still her baby brother.

  “How was the drive?” Libby noticed the three of them exchanged a look.

  “Long,” said Tom. He took the cart from Libby.

  Libby looked at Gwen, who opened her eyes wide, which meant, I’ll tell you later.

  On the town dock Tom and Libby made a small luggage brigade, passing coolers and duffels from the dock into the boat. Gwen sat in the stern. Danny hadn’t even gotten into the boat. He still wobbled around on the planks of the float as if he were surfing.

  “That’s everything,” said Tom. Libby started the engine. Danny stepped into the boat and pushed them away from the float. The smell of diesel came up strong as the water bubbled behind them. Tom pulled in the bumpers.

  Libby steered them across the wakes of other boats, weaving between buoys. She loved this part, picking them up, the ride to the house, the first expectant moments of their visit. Later, she would miss being alone, sitting on the porch in quiet, listening for the soft purr of motors on the water.

  From out in the thoroughfare that ran between the two islands, the house seemed disguised at first, like a gray boulder alone on a point standing guard over the busy waterway. But as she drew the boat closer, the house, as always, revealed itself. Its two halves, each with their covered porches and peaked roofs, were connected by a column of bay windows. A long, low side wing wended its way through the pines, windows and chimneys peeking out from behind treetops. As with all the old houses here, the front of the house faced the water, reminding her always that it was meant to be approached by boat, like an undiscovered continent.

  Libby pulled up to their mooring and let the boat idle in place. Danny sidled passed the cabin roof to the bow. Down on all fours, Danny slapped the water repeatedly with the boat hook, trying to fish out the mooring line. His brown hair flapped long in his face with his effort.

  “Dan, stop smacking,” shouted Tom, leaning over the side. “Slice at it. Pick it out of the water.”

  It begins, Libby thought, before we even set foot on the island. Tom, always acting like the authority on any given subject. True, the line was nearly impossible to see, obscured by the mooring and the bow, but did being two years shy of forty give him some specialized degree? They were all old now, all of them over thirty, except Danny. Danny, still with youth in his cheeks, still savoring the legality of drinking, still red-eyed over their mother. He didn’t need this.

  Tom braced his thighs tight against the rail and leaned further, pantomiming with both hands, one as a rigid hook, the other as a limp line.

  “He can handle it, Tom,” Libby chided. “Don’t backseat drive.” Her eyes on the water, she watched for a shift in wind. She had to keep them from being blown back toward the float, while keeping the bow steady for Danny’s slippery hands.

  Gwen sat with her feet propped up on a pile of life jackets, her arms resting open and wide along the back of the seat. Like she’s sitting in the back of a water taxi, thought Libby. Libby saw Gwen as all Riviera and Grand Canal, and herself as rocky coastlines, channels marked with rusting nuns. Now, with the glinting sun, the water shone like the Adriatic, the scrubbed evergreens like the parasol pines of the Italian coast, but stronger, taller, more timeless, almost prehistoric. It was a place where a divine hand touched earth, where gods could mingle with mortals. Libby would not have been surprised to see a swan stand at the edge of the woods or drift past their float with an eye on her older sister. She was sure that Gwen had the power to draw gods down from their mountains.

  Libby, who had never missed a summer here, was not the object of any swan’s gaze. She was just a mortal living at the edge of something, which seemed about right to her. Someone needed to tend the track, to keep this world from disappearing into so much mist.

  “You could’ve just dropped me with the bags on the float,” Gwen said to Libby. “I don’t think we all ought to squeeze into the dinghy.” Libby ignored her.

  “G, just pull Little Devil in. Dan’s got it now.” Libby turned off the engine and locked the cabin door.

  Gwen took off her sunglasses, folded them, and hooked them on her shirt, lenses on the inside. Over her lifetime Gwen had dropped a dozen pairs overboard. As a little girl, Libby had wondered how things like glasses became more important than toys. Watching her sister stand teary at the edges of boats and floats, staring into the green water as each pair drifted out of sight, had taught Libby to avoid sunglasses altogether.

  With the boat moored, each of them stepped or slid from the stern into the Little Devil. Shaped like a large bathtub, the dinghy was named for its notorious tendency to dump its passengers into the sea. Gwen sat in the bow, a hand trailing in the water, while Libby did the rowing, and Tom and Danny sat side by side in the stern. Danny stared back toward town as if he’d forgotten something. Tom looked over Libby’s head, hands pressed together, fingers pointing toward the house. If Libby drifted off course, Tom’s hands shifted. He was the compass needle, and the house was north.

  “I can navigate the forty feet between the mooring and the float, Tom,” said Libby.

  “You want to strain your neck turning around every other stroke? Fine.” Tom let his hands hang between his knees.

  “When are Melissa and the kids coming?” said Libby.

  “Tomorrow. Kerry and Buster couldn’t tear themselves away from their busy social lives before then.” Tom rolled his eyes, a good impression of his teenage children. Libby began to mentally revise that day’s menu. Tom’s hands were pointing at the house again.

  “Tom, did you see those dolphins swimming with the ferry?” said Gwen.

  “They’re porpoises,” said Danny.

  “Those ferry windows are so scratched you can barely see out. They should really be replaced,” said Tom. He always spent the majority of the ferry ride in the cabin working. Libby was surprised he wasn’t on his phone right now.

  “I don’t know how you can sit below without getting sick,” said Libby.

  “Porpoises or porpoi?”
said Gwen absently.

  Libby’s knuckles kept knocking against Danny’s knees. “You got to put those somewhere.”

  “Maybe I should just get out and kick,” said Danny, paddling the water with one hand. “We might get there faster.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, would you like to row the five-hundred-plus pounds of Willoughby around the thoroughfare?” said Libby. “Actually, I’d love some help; why don’t you just dive right in and give us a tow? The water’s so refreshing.” Refreshing. That was their word for freezing.

  “Forget it, you’re doing great. I like the scenic route,” said Danny.

  On her next stroke she gave his knees a particularly powerful knock.

  “It’s porpoises,” said Tom.

  “Porpoi, sounds like pork pie.” Gwen.

  “Pork pie.” Danny sighed. “When’s lunch?” Up here eating was a sport, and Danny was a champion, his teenage appetite yet to abate. Though Gwen was capable of giving him some stiff competition, at least when lobster was involved. The dinghy squawked against the rubber bumper of the float.

  “Pork pie is a hat,” said Gwen. “You’re thinking of pork buns.” She hopped out of the boat and knelt on the float, holding the boat close so the others could get out.

  Libby couldn’t remember the last time they had been up there just the four of them, no friends, no spouses. Just the kids. That’s what their parents would’ve said. But now there wasn’t even one parent left to say that, to remind them of the intimacy that they all came from that bound them together in ways that went beyond ferry schedules and Christmas cards.

  Three summers ago, their father died. Only their mother had been there. She had watched him walk through that screen door, as he had every summer since 1972, and collapse on the porch. He had seemed never to age to Libby, still able to pick her up in a hug, still sailing the sloop by himself, still climbing on the roof with a hammer in hand. “I can smell a leak,” he’d say. She had watched him push her dead car down her long, narrow driveway so that he could jump it. He had waved away her help, as if she might hurt herself. When she was little she had thought someone that tall could never die. But since the summer she turned ten, Libby had watched for it. Once she knew what to look for. She tried to stay close, to be sure he didn’t slip away from her. And then he did, on a Tuesday, when she wasn’t even there. She hadn’t been able to stop it at all.