Firefly Beach (6 page)

After a moment, he looked up, acknowledged Beth’s presence with a nod, and walked slowly to the counter. He said nothing but looked at Beth expectantly.

Beth, eager to fill the silence, rattled through her purse. “It’s my mother’s ring,” she stammered, as she dug randomly through an assortment of personal items. “Oh, look. Here it is.” She pulled out a small box.

Beth placed the box on the counter, removed the lid, and carefully freed the ring from the soft blue silk in which it was wrapped. The jeweler picked it up gently, handling it like a newborn chick. He turned it slowly in his hands and nodded with appreciation.

“You would like it appraised?” he asked quietly, so faint Beth could barely make out what he said. She caught a hint of a southern accent. He made her feel uncomfortable for some reason. She shivered subtly.

“Oh, no,” Beth replied. “I would like it resized…to me. I mean, I’d like to have it. I mean, of course, it’s mine. I…I’d like to wear it.” Beth’s stomach turned. She knew she sounded hideous, and she wondered why this man made her feel so flustered. She cleared her throat, determined to take control of the conversation and stop babbling. “Can you resize the ring for my finger?” she asked clearly and assertively.

Kenny McLeary did not respond verbally. Instead he unlocked a drawer behind the counter, reached in, and pulled out a ring-sizing tool – a large silver circle with over thirty loops dangling from it, rings of graduating sizes. He glanced down at Beth’s hand and flipped through the smaller rings. He separated one from the rest and reached for Beth’s right hand. Beth pulled her right hand away and handed him her left hand. If he noticed the awkward movement, he showed no sign of it.

His hands were rough, but his manner gentle. He carefully tried to push the selected ring onto Beth’s left ring finger. It was too small, so he did not force it. He chose the next largest ring. It slid on smoothly.

Kenny pulled a small notebook out of the drawer and began to take notes. Without looking up, he said, “Name?”

“Uh, Beth. Beth LaMonte.”

“Address?”

“Oh my goodness. I should know that, shouldn’t I?” Beth laughed nervously. “I just moved in. I live in Rod Thompson’s cottage,” she said, gesturing in the general direction of her house. “I’m an artist. I painted this picture you purchased.” Beth pointed to the flower painting and smiled awkwardly.

Kenny looked up at the picture, and then he stared at Beth for a moment as if he saw something beyond her physical presence. Beth looked down and away. He unnerved her. The silence was unbearable, and yet she could think of absolutely nothing to say.

Finally, Kenny broke the silence. “Nice painting.”

“Thank you.”

“Phone?” He continued to make notes.

“Area code five-oh-five…”

Kenny looked up at her, suspicious of the non-local area code.

“It’s my cell,” Beth explained. “I don’t have a new number here yet. I’m sorry. I can just drop by if you’d like, so you don’t have to call.”

Kenny did not answer her, but he continued to make several notes in his little book. He looked carefully at the ring that had fit Beth, but he scribbled for well beyond the time it would take to write down a ring size and a phone number. Beth tried to peer over the counter, but Kenny’s right arm, draped oddly across the page, blocked her view.

When he finished making notes, he closed his book quickly and returned it to the drawer, along with the ring-sizing tool. He locked the drawer and returned the key to his apron pocket. Then he carefully rewrapped the ring and placed it in its box, put the box in his apron pocket, and turned toward the workroom. He stopped suddenly, glanced over his shoulder and said, “It will be a day or two. Thank you, Miss LaMonte.”

Beth stared, somewhat befuddled, as the strange man returned to his workbench, adjusted the loupe, and resumed his task. She wanted to say something. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. She turned to leave the store, looking back over her shoulder as the bell jangled. The jeweler did not raise his head, so Beth continued out the door.

Beth walked toward
Kelp Corner
shaking her head.
I’ll just have to trust Mary,
Beth told herself.
If she thought the guy was a lunatic, she would not have recommended him. She said he was weird, but that was just beyond bizarre.
Beth shuddered.
But anyway,
she consoled herself.
It’s not like he’s going to run off with Mom’s ring. If Mary says he’s good, then I’m sure he’s good…I hope.

Beth collected her payment from Bobby Downy and grabbed a sandwich at the café to take home. She climbed into her car, trying to shake the uneasy feeling that the jeweler had aroused in her. Her mind was preoccupied all the way home. As she turned up the drive that led to the cottage, she glanced toward the rocky shore. She remembered her dream about the firefly. Her shoulders quivered with a slight chill.

I am not going to get spooked out again. First the creepy jeweler, now the phantom beach. I really can’t take anymore of this bullshit.
She pulled up in front of the house and slammed the brakes. Then she sprinted to the front door as if someone were following her, slipped inside, and locked the door.

Beth sat at the kitchen table and ate her turkey sandwich. Eventually the uneasy feelings were unbearable. She got out a stool and reached into the cabinet over the microwave oven. A bottle of scotch waited patiently. Beth looked at the clock. 2:19 p.m. Shaking her head in self-reproach, she filled a tumbler with ice and poured herself a generous portion.

She walked over to the fireplace and stared at the picture of her mother for a long time. In the photo, Sophia stood left of center, a few feet away from a tree. The sun was in her eyes, and the shadow of the tree spread out behind her, disappearing from the photo on the right. She laughed joyfully while desperately trying to hold on to a sun hat that longed to blow away in the wind. Sophia must have been about thirty when the picture was taken. Beth would have been five at the time, but she could not recall the location in the photo.

Beth took a sip of scotch and a hot coal seemed to slip down her throat and roll around in her stomach. She grimaced.

“I wish you were here,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t be afraid.” She sighed. “I’m sorry I was so rude about the ring. It looked beautiful on your hand, and I’m sure Dad would have been very happy to see you wearing it.” She touched the photo lightly. Then she turned away and headed for the couch.

Beth bit her lip. She had no intention of crying. She may well be going crazy, but crying was not an option. She had learned that strategy thirty years ago. Crying brought all the feelings to the surface where they had no business being. They were more easily managed when they were kept in their place, tight and secure, deep down where they belonged.

Beth sat on the couch, sipping scotch, and reading a gardening magazine to distract her mind. As she sifted through the pages, she tried to picture some improvements she might make in the cottage garden. She hoped the glass of scotch would last until evening, but she poured another just after 5:00 p.m. At 6:03, she yawned and stretched and looked out over the bay toward the islands.

Although blissfully sedated by alcohol, she remained cautious. The sun would not set until after 8:00, but Beth got up and closed the blinds on the bay window. It was obvious the blinds had rarely been closed. A layer of dust clung to the edges, although the slats themselves were dust free. Beth shrugged. “So what?” she mumbled. “I need my privacy.” She made her rounds and closed all the curtains in the house. She draped a dark sheet over the rod above the window in her bedroom to cover the gap. The cheerful, sunny day was successfully blocked out long before darkness set in.

Beth went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. She was very tired and a little drunk. In a haze, she glanced over at the spice cupboard. Before returning to her room, she grabbed a bottle of garlic salt. She opened the container, placed it near her bedroom window, and laughed. A somewhat playful, without abandon, alcohol-induced laugh echoed throughout the cottage.

But her mood snapped briskly from gaiety to despair. “Leave me alone!” she shrieked.

Then she tumbled into bed in her clothing and fell into a drunken sleep.

* * * *

The hangover was not quite as bad as Beth expected when she pulled herself out of bed on Sunday morning. 8:27 a.m. Again, she had missed dawn at the bed and breakfast. She felt it was critical to capture
The Cove’s
essence when the sun rose. She would need to set an alarm for 4:00 a.m. in order to keep that appointment, and she was not sure why she avoided making the commitment. Of course,
things that go flitting in the night
clearly had something to do with her break in concentration.

Beth stretched and looked toward the sheet-covered window. She saw the container of garlic salt and reached to pick it up. On the bottle it said, “garlic salt, coarse, ground with parsley.” Beth shook her head and chuckled.

“I guess it was the parsley that did the trick. No glowing marble last night.”

Beth was in moderate denial about the potential loss of her sanity. She put the lid on the garlic salt and returned it to the kitchen. There, she opened the curtains and was greeted by a thick fog that enveloped the forest. She could barely see the boulder at the edge of her yard. She felt somewhat comforted by the fact that sleeping in had not caused her to miss anything. She would not have been able to sketch the bed and breakfast after all.

Nonetheless, she resolved to make the best of the day. She decided she would sketch Old Charlie and perhaps do a little painting in the afternoon. She packed a sack lunch, grabbed a blanket and her sketching supplies, and headed out at a little after ten. Beth drove along Lighthouse Road and found an excellent viewing place about a quarter of a mile from Old Charlie. There she sat on the blanket and watched as the lighthouse emerged from the fog, standing proudly on its rocky perch. The Lighthouse Preservation Society had repainted Old Charlie in 2003, a bright white with a red stripe just below the watch room deck. The body of the lighthouse, a gently sloping cone, flattened out near the top where a sturdy railing encircled the hexagonal lens room. The attached house was also painted white with red trim and shutters. It appeared to be somewhat disjointed. The stylistic differences between the original keeper’s house and several additions made over the years were apparent, but it had charm, and it seemed to impart its fascinating past to those who drew near. Beth imagined strong keepers hauling containers of oil up one hundred narrow steps. She lingered for about an hour, sketching several drafts before packing up.

On the way home, she decided to drive back into town and visit the jewelry store. The sooner she got her mother’s ring back, the sooner her apprehension would dissipate. It was possible Kenny finished it. After all, he had said a day or two, hadn’t he?

The shop was closed when Beth arrived. On the door was a picture of Rip Van Winkle, his long beard flowing to the ground, with a caption that said, “Gone Hiking.” Old Van Winkle carried a walking stick, and he was covered with jewelry – rings on all of his fingers, bracelets up his arm, several pendants around his neck, and brooches hidden in his beard. The drawing was quite good. Beth felt a little envious. Sketching people was not her strength. But she appreciated the quirky jeweler’s offbeat sense of humor.

Well, you’d better return before twenty years with
my
ring.

Maybe this goofball is not so bad after all,
she thought as she drove away smiling.

Chapter 6

Acadia

Kenny McLeary rested on the flat surface of a large jagged rock in a grove filled with birches, oaks, aspens and evergreens. Thick trees and saplings mingled among an assortment of wildflowers, while rocks decorated with yellow lichen and a variety of mosses rested in the undergrowth.

It was a perfect day for a hike in Acadia National Park. The fog protected Kenny’s anonymity in the early morning. By the time the fog lifted, he sat safely tucked away in the forest. His dark green backpack lay on the ground by his feet. Moss grew around the base of the rock and along the crevices formed by its sharp angles. About twenty feet from the edge of the grove, Jordan Pond shimmered in the late afternoon sun.

Kenny held a sketchpad and a charcoal pencil in his lap. He stared out over the water for several minutes before returning to the task of sketching what appeared to be designs for a pendant or brooch. At one point he picked up a long stick lying by his feet and began to stir the needles and leaves in a curious looping pattern.

The sounds of laughter and twigs crunching beneath hikers’ feet startled him. He jumped nervously then quickly covered his sketchpad as if someone were looking over his shoulder, but the path was thirty yards behind him and he was essentially invisible to the intruders. They continued on their way, but Kenny closed the sketchpad and stashed it in his backpack protectively.

He walked down to the edge of the pond, picked up a rock, and held it tightly in his left hand. In a sudden flash of rage, he threw the rock as hard and fast as he could into the water. The rock landed with a huge splash, startling the hikers who had passed moments before – a little retribution for their rude interruption of his peaceful afternoon. The lake aggressively spewed out water in the wake of the rock’s impact while ripples gently radiated toward the shoreline. As the ripples drifted closer, a calm washed over Kenny. Embarrassed about his outburst, he wished he could control his anger, but it always seemed to triumph at random, unpredictable moments.

Was he becoming his father?

Since the jeweler vowed to live alone, no child would ever have to learn the answer to that question. Secure in that fact, Kenny found peace.

As the sun fell low in the sky, he packed up his belongings and headed out of the grove toward a trail that ran along the east side of the pond. He walked slowly, taking deep breaths and relishing the smells of the forest.