“I loved that island when I was your age. My favorite memories are there and it’s important to me that we spend time together so you can see what a wonderful place it is.”
They continued to look at her, then turned in unison to look at the island ahead of them.
“There are no houses,” Dana said in a voice that implied it was the very ends of the earth.
“There are summer houses, a few cabins and a village on the other side of the island. You can’t see them on this side. It’s more isolated. The island has always been a place where people go to get away.” She paused, then added, “Like us.”
They turned back around. From the looks on their faces you’d think she had just spoken Greek.
“The first houses were summer homes built late in the nineteenth century. Those hills are parkland and there are hiking trails.”
Dana frowned at her. “You hate hiking. You said you’d rather chew on foil than traipse up some mountain.”
“Yeah,” Aly said, siding with her sister. “You said smart people leave mountain climbing to the goats.”
Catherine realized she would never have to worry about losing her memory. She had her daughters to remind her of every single thing she had ever said.
“Fine. Forget about hiking. As I was saying, the house is on a cove on the western side of the island. There’s a private dock and a mooring. The rental agent said the owners still keep a sailboat. We’re free to use it. There are supposed to be bikes, too. When we used to come here there was a handyman’s cabin on a nearby inlet and a small harbor where boats from the mainland could moor. Other than that the island is pretty isolated.”
Twenty minutes later they stood at the end of a gray weathered dock, their bags and supplies stacked like building blocks and Harold whining in his cat carrier. There was nothing before them but silvery water. Catherine watched the boat turn around in a wide swath and head back for the mainland.
For just one moment she looked around her and was a little scared. It was secluded, and they were three women alone.
She raised a hand to her forehead and scanned the island. The large house was partially hidden by cedar and maple trees, but Catherine could see the sharp roofline. The old shingles were green with algae and moss, the way everything grew green in the dampness of the islands.
She took a deep breath, bent down, picked up a duffel and two plastic bags of groceries, then she marched bravely down the dock toward the rocky beach. Over her shoulder she called out, “Grab something and let’s go, girls. It’s getting dark.”
Five
It wasn’t dark enough.
Not to hide what time and weather had done to the old house. It was painted the same color yellow with the same white trim. Catherine walked toward the house and the closer she got the more she realized that the house looked the same because it was probably the same coat of paint as in 1966. It certainly looked about thirty years old.
Behind her she heard Dana’s shoes crunching on the gravel. A second later she heard a gasp.
“Mo-ther!”
“What?” Catherine snapped and turned around. She wasn’t ready for a confrontation.
“What are those?” With her horrified expression, Dana stood pointing at the ground. Next to her Aly clutched the cat carrier to her chest the way one holds a child after a close call.
Catherine looked at the ground. “They’re slugs.”
“Ugh!” Both girls shivered and stepped back.
“Oh God! I stepped on one!” Dana dropped her backpack and jumped around, shrieking.
It was the most life she’d shown since Catherine told the girls about the trip and she’d given her best Mother-you are-going-to-ruin-my-life act.
“Get it off! Get it off!”
“Stop hopping all over the place. You’ll step on another one.”
Dana froze.
“Just wipe your shoe off on the grass.”
Dana moaned, then hobbled over to a patch of wet grass and made a big to-do about wiping off her shoe.
Aly had shifted her cat carrier and was scanning the ground. “Do they travel with a mate?”
“I have no idea. They’re just like the snails we have at home only without the shells.” Catherine quickly checked the ground for slugs, then set down her bags. She had for gotten about those huge slugs that slithered all over the place whenever it rained.
“This place is awful,” Dana muttered from behind her.
“It’s not awful. It’s rustic and quaint,” Catherine told her, trying to keep her voice light but not feeling light at all.
Dana snorted.
“Follow me.” She could hear the girls whispering behind her and Harold began to whine. She didn’t really blame them. She had a bad feeling about this. She opened the screen door and held it with her shoulder while she pulled the rental envelope with the key out of her pocket and unlocked the front door.
Please, she thought, please let the inside be better than the outside.
Better was a relative term.
The inside wasn’t the Four Seasons. Catherine looked around the room. It was clean and neat and furnished in an odd mishmash of styles. There was an eastlake style sofa upholstered in a brown and red western print with bronco-riding cowboys, red and black lariats, and a smattering of green horseshoes. There were throw pillows scattered across it—one was yellow gingham, one was needlepoint bulldogs, and the other was black and white and shaped like a soccer ball. A Blackwatch plaid stadium blanket with the Mariners emblem embroidered in the corner was thrown over the edge of a brown recliner. Next to it was a white French provincial chair that looked exactly like one her grandmother had in front of her bedroom dressing table.
The coffee table was a huge wooden piece with burned edges, something you see in a roadside stand next to the velvet paintings of Elvis. In the center of the table was a monkeypod bowl with a silver nut cracker and a chrome and black leather ashtray. The end tables weren’t end tables at all, but small dressers. One was painted aqua and the other canary yellow. The aqua dresser had a white milkglass lamp with a beige ruffled shade. The only other light in the room was a red and orange lava lamp.
“Who decorated this place?” Dana said with a disgusted voice.
“Dale Evans and Barbara Cartland,” Catherine said as she set down the bags.
“Who?”
“James Bond and the Monkees?”
“James Bond and the Monkees?” Aly repeated. “Was that a rock group in the olden days?”
“Hey, hey, we’re the mon-kees,” Catherine sang, bopping her head as she did the Pony across the linoleum in the kitchen.
Her daughters looked at each other and rolled their eyes. She sighed. Her children had their father’s sense of humor.
“Yes, the Monkees were a rock group and surely you know who James Bond is.”
“Oh yeah. I forgot. Pierce Brosnan, huh?”
“Sean Connery.”
“The old guy? Uh-uh,” Aly shook her head. “He was Indiana Jones’s dad.”
Catherine felt ancient.
Aly dropped the grocery bags on a rag rug and plopped down on the cowboy sofa. She switched on the lamp. “I love lava lamps.” She rested her chin in her hands and watched the lamp