Beachcombers. Part 1

Beachcombers.

Nancy Thayer.

Acknowledgments.

I would like to thank: Karol Lindquist, lights.h.i.+p basket virtuoso, for the many things she teaches; Libby Oldham, who knows about Nantucket history; Dionis Gauvin, who knows about fas.h.i.+on; 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, ac.u.men, and friends.h.i.+p. Enormous thanks to those at Ballantine: Junessa Viloria, Kim Hovey, Katie Rudkin, Sarina Evans, Libby McGuire, and Gina Centrello, and especially that G.o.ddess 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. c.u.mmings, "maggie and milly and molly and may"

Look," 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 sh.o.r.e 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 s.h.i.+ne, 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 sh.e.l.l or gla.s.s 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 gla.s.ses. Their mother would sit at the head of the table--she was the ultimate judge--and the girls would present their discoveries: a mussel sh.e.l.l 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 gla.s.s 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 sh.e.l.ls. 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 gla.s.s, and her favorite of colors was a deep cobalt blue. Sometimes her mother glued colored yarn to a sh.e.l.l to make a bracelet or necklace.

Now Emma called out triumphantly to the others. She'd found a bottle, complete, unbroken, an old-fas.h.i.+oned, long-necked thing of pale, clear turquoise. Lily and Abbie cl.u.s.tered 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 s.h.i.+vered. 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.

1.

Abbie, Lily, and Emma, Sort of.

SUBJECT: HELP!.

FROM: Lily.

DATE: June 5, 2009.

TO: Abbie.

Oh, Crabapple, I hate it when I can't reach you by phone. Where are you? Why isn't your cell phone on? Would you please please email me right away? We're all in a mess here and we need you to come home.

SUBJECT: But don't panic.

FROM: Lily.

DATE: June 5, 2009.

TO: Abbie.

Disregard that last email. Well, don't disregard it completely, but no one is dead or anything. It's just that Dad's in financial trouble, plus a s.e.xy woman's after him, and Emma lost her job AND Duncan broke off their engagement. Emma came home from Boston and just lies on her bed, crying all day long. She's so thin, I'm kind of scared for her. I'm trying to keep up with the house and everything, but my crazy busy season's started with the magazine. And I guess you'd better not call me, because you're six hours ahead or behind or whatever and I probably can't talk when you can plus I know you hate the expense of a transatlantic call. Just please, please, come home.

SUBJECT: Help.

FROM: Abbie.

DATE: June 5, 2009.

TO: Lily.

I'll email Emma today. But honey, isn't it about time Dad had a girlfriend? Mom's been gone for fifteen years. He's probably lonely. And maybe you're overestimating Dad's money problems. I mean, everyone's having trouble this year. Has he told you he's worried about money?

FROM: Abbie.

DATE: June 5, 2009.

TO: Emma.

Hi, Emma, what's going on? Lily tells me you're back home. G.o.d, you must be desperate. Email me, let me know you're okay, okay?

SUBJECT: The Playhouse

FROM: Lily

DATE: June 5, 2009

TO: Abbie

Dad hasn't said he's worried, but he acts worried, and he's rented the Playhouse (to that woman, wait till you see her!), plus he said he might put the boat up for sale. And I know a lot of the people who'd hired him to renovate their houses have canceled. I can see with my own eyes how little work there is for him this summer. I think if you were here, he'd talk about it. I know he thinks I'm still a baby.