Nancy Thayer - Beachcombers

For
Martha Foshee
The best sister in the world!

Contents

Part 1

Part 2

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6 - Chapter 7 - Chapter 8 - Chapter 9 - Chapter 10 - Chapter 11 - Chapter 12 - Chapter 13 - Chapter 14 - Chapter 15 - Chapter 16 - Chapter 17 - Chapter 18 - Chapter 19 - Chapter 20 - Chapter 21 - Chapter 22 - Chapter 23 - Chapter 24 - Chapter 25 - Chapter 26 - Chapter 27 - Chapter 28 - Chapter 29 - Chapter 30 - Chapter 31 - Chapter 32 - Chapter 33 - Chapter 34 - Chapter 35 - Chapter 36 - Chapter 37 - Chapter 38 - Chapter 39 - Chapter 40 - Chapter 41 - Chapter 42 - Chapter 43 - Chapter 44 - Chapter 45 - Chapter 46 - Chapter 47 - Chapter 48 - Chapter 49 - Chapter 50 - Chapter 51 - Chapter 52 - Chapter 53 - Chapter 54 - Chapter 55 - Chapter 56 - Chapter 57 - Chapter 58 - Chapter 59 - Chapter 60 - Chapter 61 - Chapter 62 - Acknowledgments I would like to thank: Karol Lindquist, lightship basket virtuoso, for the many things she teaches; Libby Oldham, who knows about Nantucket history; Dionis Gauvin, who knows about fashion; Tricia Patterson, who knows about everything; Josh Thayer and Sam Wilde Forbes, who make me proud and make me laugh; Adeline and Ellias Forbes, who make my heart do cartwheels; David Gillum and Neil Forbes, beloved of those I love--I love you, too. Thank you, my friends, for being there, and Charley, for being here.I also want to thank Meg Ruley, for her guidance, acumen, and friendship. Enormous thanks to those at Ballantine: Junessa Viloria, Kim Hovey, Katie Rudkin, Sarina Evans, Libby McGuire, and Gina Centrello, and especially that goddess of editing, Linda Marrow. For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea --e. e. cummings, "maggie and milly and molly and may"

L ook," their mother said to them. It was late October, and Danielle had brought her daughters here to Surfside, the beach that faced, unprotected by bulkhead or harbor or jetties, the immense sweep of the Atlantic Ocean.The water was sulky today, deep blue and aloof, the erratic autumn wind stirring its surface into restless waves. By now the girls knew how the ocean had its moods. On summer days it would be playful, sparkling, seductive, tossing up its lacy foam with sounds like kisses. In November, it would hiss as the tides spat and sank into the sand, dragging cold nets of froth back into its hungry depths, as if the sea itself were hunting. Winter made it warlike, hurling its waves toward the shore in battalions that rose up and thundered down, carrying the shrieking wind on its back. And when the skies were blue and the wind was mild, the ocean would shine, as if deep within, its own blue sun glowed.Whatever the weather, the surf always brought treasures; their mother had taught them that. It was their mother who started the Beachcombers Club.The universe is always speaking to us, Danielle told her daughters. Sending us little messages, causing coincidences and serendipities, reminding us to stop, to look around, to believe in something else, something more. And those of us who are lucky enough to live surrounded by the ocean have more opportunities than many to see, to know. You have to be willing to step away from what we consider normal life. You have to have imagination. You have to be aware that we're all part of a wonderful, mysterious game.They came to the beach at least once a week, no matter the season or weather. They stalked the edge of the beach, the mother and her three daughters, heads bent forward as they scanned the sand, stopping when someone discovered a prize, and usually they tossed their finds back into the watching waters, but occasionally they slipped the rock or shell or glass into their bags to take back to their house on Fair Street.At home, they'd gather around the kitchen table and wait until their mother had set out cups of hot chocolate frothy with marshmallows or lemonade tinkling in icy glasses. Their mother would sit at the head of the table--she was the ultimate judge--and the girls would present their discoveries: a mussel shell with the glossy indigo iridescence of a starling's head. A broken whelk, its interior twisted into a perfect spiral staircase, as smooth as bone. A flat square of blue glass like a pane of summer sky fallen to earth. Sometimes a human object: the handle of a translucent china teacup, a bracelet or hair clip or key chain, a bottle.They'd hand their treasures around, then vote to see which one was the best, and the winning find was proudly placed between the cookbooks--on the lowest shelf so little Lily could see--until a new find was brought in. The unchosen ones were usually returned to the beach the next week, but a surprising number of them remained in the house. The windowsills of each girl's bedroom were littered with ocean trophies.Abbie, who was the oldest and wisest, might go into a tidying fit and decide to clean her room and toss it all out, and then she would spot a rock, thinking, this is only a funny old rock, there are zillions of them on the beach. But when she picked up the rock, she would suddenly remember why she kept it, because of the way it fit into her hand like a secret promise or the weight of safety, and she kept another rock, the white one, because it was marked with a crooked blue-gray vein like a scribbled message she was sure to interpret someday, if only she had patience.Emma liked slipper shells. Turned upside down, they became cradles for her many babies. Twisted bits of driftwood became sofas, chairs, bureaus, and beds for the dollhouse her mother had helped her create out of several packing boxes.Little Lily liked the pretty things best. The fluting of a snow-white angel's wing or the twist of deep coral from a channeled whelk pleased her, but best of all was the discovery of sea glass, and her favorite of colors was a deep cobalt blue. Sometimes her mother glued colored yarn to a shell to make a bracelet or necklace.Now Emma called out triumphantly to the others. She'd found a bottle, complete, unbroken, an old-fashioned, long-necked thing of pale, clear turquoise. Lily and Abbie clustered around to scrutinize the object, checking first of all, of course, for a letter rolled up and tucked inside. But the bottle was empty. They inspected it for writing, because sometimes on this beach they found items inscribed in Portuguese or French. No writing on this one. They held it up, trying to guess what it once contained.Only Abbie was aware that while they concentrated on the bottle, their mother, standing near them, gazed out at the sea, her longing so extreme it hurt Abbie to see it."Mom," Abbie said, calling her back to them.Their mother immediately focused her attention on Abbie. "I'm here."She dropped to her knees. She put her arm around Lily's waist and held her close as she said, "Girls. Look." She wet the tip of her finger, pressed it into the sand, and held her finger up for them to see. She blew gently and most of the grains fell back down. "See this grain of sand? This one, here. Now look at the ocean. Think of the size of the ocean compared to the size of this grain of sand. This is what we are in the universe. Think of it. How enormous the universe is. How tiny we are."Emma shivered. She didn't like it when her mother talked like this."Think of the creatures swimming in the ocean depths," their mother continued. She was beautiful, with long auburn hair she allowed the wind to toss into tangles. "Whales and mermaids and monsters and long squirming eels and fish striped with gold and silver. We haven't even discovered all that hides in the deepest parts of the ocean." She looked out at the water. "So many mysteries," she told them. "Never think that there is only here.""Mommy, I'm cold!" Lily, bored and hungry and chilled, pulled away from her mother.Their mother kissed the top of Lily's head. She stood up. "Okay, kids, let's race for the car. The winner gets the front seat.""Yay!" Lily yelled and took off running down the beach.Abbie and Emma followed, pacing themselves, letting little Lily win, because it meant so much to her.Abbie turned to look back at their mother. She was standing very still, facing the ocean, yearning for its depths.