She stood another moment, just watching, enjoying. Then, as the afterglow of sunset began to disappear, she turned to go back inside. Which was when she noticed that something (a shadow?) or someone (a man?) was slowly moving up the hill, walking toward . . . her. Trespassing on her land.
Her senses went on alert. Her shoulders squared; her jaw tightened. Could it be the same someone she’d thought had been watching her? Then, as her fight-or-flight instinct began to kick in, the man (yes, it was a man) drew close enough for her to see: it was Brandon J. Morgan, Esq. And he was holding what looked like a briefcase.
“Hey, Maddie,” he said jovially. “You’re just the person I was looking for. I thought I might see you on the beach.”
“Is it something urgent?” Her voice sounded professor-stern, which hadn’t been her intention. She was still a bit shaken.
“Not at all. Sometimes I come here with my mother to watch the sunset. She’s still down there with the rest of the holders-on. As if they can’t come back tomorrow and watch it happen all over again.”
Maddie finally relaxed. She laughed.
“Anyway,” he continued, “you left this morning before I could give you these.” He unzipped his briefcase and pulled out several papers. “The parcel maps of Nancy’s Aquinnah properties. They’re yours now. Well, almost. They will be once we’ve wrapped up the legalities.”
Staring at a neat pile of paper as if assessing whether touching them would sting, Maddie hesitated. Then, because she felt she did not have a choice, she took them from him.
“Thank you.” It took effort for her to sound pleased. “It was nice of you to bring them. I’m sorry I ran off earlier—I guess it was all too much for me. . . .” She tucked the maps under her arm. “I’d invite you in for a glass of wine or something, but I’m afraid all I have is a bowl of chowder that I picked up earlier.” She didn’t know why she thought offering her attorney a drink would be expected. Or appropriate.
“Thanks for the offer,” he replied with a friendly smile, “but I’ll have to take a rain check.” He glanced back toward the beach. “My mother likes to get home in time to settle in and watchAmanpour and Company. It’s not on until midnight; I keep telling her I can record it so she can see it in the morning, but she gives me one of those annoyed-mother looks—you might know the type—and tells me to go to bed and let her watch it in peace. So I do.” Then, as if realizing what he’d just said, he grimaced. “Oh, Maddie. I’m sorry. When I said ‘those annoyed-mother looks’ I forgot that . . .”
She brushed it off. “It’s fine, Brandon. I’m sure my mother looked at me that way once or twice. I know my father has. And still does.”
“My father did, too. It must have been in a parents’ manual in the 1980s, though you might think they’d have tossed it out once we came of age.” He rezipped the briefcase. “Speaking of parents, I’d better brave the crowd and find my remaining one. I’ll give you a buzz when we’re ready to proceed with the paperwork. And you can decide when you want to scatter the ashes. If you want to, that is.”
The ashes. Right.
“I was thinking I might want to have a small service on the beach. Though my grandmother didn’t want, as you called it, a full-blown funeral, I wondered if a few people might like to attend?” She hadn’t thought about that until right now. After all, Lisa might like to be there. Maybe Brandon’s mother, too. And others, who Maddie didn’t know. If, as Brandon had said in his letter, Nancy had been one of the island’s beloved characters, it only seemed fair to invite her neighbors and friends. As long as it could happen soon.
“It makes sense, yes. But I’ll double-check with my mother and let you know about that, too.” He waved and headed back toward the beach.
And Maddie was left feeling as if the magical embers of the sunset were smoldering in her stomach the way the remnants of the burrito had done last night. She wondered if her intuition for something unpleasant—or at least, unknown—was rearing its head again.
* * *
As badly as she wanted to dismiss it, Maddie genuinely felt that something was wrong. If not wrong, maybe off-kilter. Though her intuition—her “gift,” her father called it—sometimes had been real, other times it hadn’t. After her divorce, when she’d gone back to college, she hadn’t known what to major in. One day, while scrolling through the college catalog, she read a three-sentence course description on archaeology—and had one of those electrical-current zaps. The description said that the class explored cultures of ancient civilizations through excavated pottery and petroglyphs that depicted horses, birds, and godlike creatures in the netherworld, and were found on the walls of caves. It sounded fascinating. Almost as if it was calling to her.
Her father had said archaeology was interesting, as long as she stuck to the facts and didn’t get caught up in romanticizing it. She knew he often thought her intuitions were solely a product of her imagination; sometimes, he’d been right. Now, however, she remembered that when he’d told her Grandma Nancy died, a strange foreboding had enveloped her. But she’d never questioned the validity of what he said. Because her father would not lie to her.
“Pick a subject you can live with,” he’d recommended about her choice of study. “Because you’ll be teaching it for a long time.”
Maddie then considered art history—she loved exploring art museums, partly because original paintings reminded her of her mother. But thinking about her mother every day into the future felt like an invitation for depression.
So Maddie chose the history, processes, and effects of journalism, all of which were important in learning how to craft in-depth, honest (not opinionated) stories. She felt strongly that responsible journalism was past due for a resurgence as a viable career—one for which she could help her students prepare. Most likely, her choice had been influenced by her father’s penchant for political science.
Sitting on the lumpy, faded sofa, staring out the window at the starry night sky, she wondered why she was thinking about all that now. She supposed she should disregard a hunch that Brandon was omitting, or perhaps sidestepping, the truth. Why wouldn’t a woman who’d been nearly ninety want to have her friends gather to say goodbye? Why would he have to ask his mother? Maybe Grandma Nancy hadn’t had as many friends as he’d suggested in the letter and he’d been trying to spare Maddie’s feelings.
She might never know the answer because she didn’t really know him. And he was an attorney. She’d seen enough late-night comedy to know what that could mean.
But because it was illogical for her to give her intuition credence when her job was teaching the importance of sticking to facts, Maddie dismissed her wariness as unfounded. Then she got up, went into the kitchen, and heated the chowder. After that, maybe she’d sit outside and count fireflies, the way she, her mother, and Grandma Nancy liked to do.
Hmmm . . ., she thought. Another lovely memory had reappeared. She decided to allow that one to quiet her mind.
* * *
Having discovered that the cot in her hobbit house wouldn’t afford her adult body a good night’s sleep, Maddie spent the night on her mother’s old bed again. She awoke early the next morning, ready for a run. Outside the front window, a fuzzy gray mist draped its dreamlike haze across the dunes. The beach would be quiet: sunbathers weren’t likely to show up until the fog had lifted, so she headed down to the water. Maybe it was low tide and the sand would be wet but slightly firm, perfect for running.
Changing into shorts, a T-shirt, and her Nikes, she left the cottage, locking the door behind her.
Once outside, she followed a path that circumvented the road; along the way, she was astounded by a tall bronze sculpture rising high above the beach grass and shimmering with dew. The piece depicted a man who stood poised, his harpoon aimed at a large swordfish that curved upward toward the sky. She didn’t remember it; maybe it was installed at some point in the past forty years. She laughed at the notion that so much time had passed since she had been there.
