Moonglass

it up.
    “This is where your mom and I first met, you know. Right down there on the beach.” He pointed south, suddenly wistful, and I froze. Though I’d known, hearing him say it turned my stomach.
    “Yeah. I know.” I took a breath and went under, pulling myself past him beneath the surface. I didn’t want to go down this path tonight. Actually, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go down this path ever. We didn’t talk about these things. Our comfortable, mostly easy way of getting along with each other depended on not bringing up my mom. And now here we were. Amidst a whole lot of history I didn’t want to dig up.
    I surfaced a few feet away and tried to sound light, but there was an edge to my voice. “Sooo, are we gonna stay out here all night, or do I get to see the place?”
    My dad glanced down the beach, started to say something, and then thought better of it. “Yeah. Let’s go.” With that he looked over his shoulder just in time to catch the next wave in. I waited for another one and pushed off the sand with my toes. The swell lifted me, and I put my arms out in the face of it, gaining speed all the way to the sand.
    As I stood, twisting water out of my hair, my dad strode over the sand below the dirt road in front of our house. I heard a tiny click, and a motion detector light flipped on. When it did, I noticed for the first time what looked like a condemned cottage sitting on the beach, backed up to the cliff. A drooping fence surrounded it, overgrown with ice plant, setting it apart from our row of restored cottages on the hill. I hadn’t even realized it was there. Now, though, in the yellow light, it stood like a piece of history preserved in time. The cracked windows were barely translucent from the mist and sand accumulated on them, and the whole shack leaned precariously, as if the weight of the vines sprawled over it were too much for it to bear. I shivered a little.
    “Anna, you coming?” My dad reached into the bus and grabbed two towels, wrapping one around his waist. He didn’t even glance over at the dilapidated cottage. “Here. Towel for ya.” He held the other one out to me.
    I fumbled with it for a second, then slung it over my shoulder, still unable to look away from the cottage. As we picked our way up the uneven stepping stones in front of our new house, I opened my mouth to ask about it, but changed my mind just as the light clicked off. I paused and squinted at the cottage in the dark, waiting for something. But there was nothing. Just the crash of another wave and the stillness that followed.
    My dad put the key into the dead bolt and nudged the door with his shoulder. We stepped into hot, stale air and darkness. The smell was unfamiliar but not unpleasant—something of the old wood the cottage was built of. The light flipped on, and he went straight to opening the windows.
    “Gets a little stuffy in here all closed up.” He pulled a latch and threw open another window.
    In the dim light I could see that the hardwood floor had been painted over with brick red paint. The pale yellow walls were smudged and cracked. It wasn’t my grandmother’s house, that was for sure. Once my dad had gotten here, he’d called to say it probably was a good idea for me to stay back with her while he came down here to get settled. I could see why. The place wasn’t exactly homey. Not much hung on the walls or softened the emptiness of it. In the few weeks I’d spent with my grandmother, I had grown accustomed to a comfortable life. She doted on me like I pictured her doting on my dad as a kid, complete with a commercial-perfect breakfast every morning and clean sheets every Sunday. Here I could see that wouldn’t be the case.
    He must have seen it on my face. “I know. It needs some help. We’ll have plenty of time for that. I’ve been putting in a lot of hours since I got here.” I nodded skeptically, eyeing his sunburned face. “Plus, I figured maybe you’d have fun decorating.” I was silent. “Hey. I got started.” He gestured to a set of shelves in a little alcove.
    In his own way he had tried. Scattered over the shelves were pictures of us that I knew were his favorites. Almost all were images of us smiling at the camera from a boat or our surfboards, happy and tanned. Between the picture frames were a few seashells—his attempt at decorating. I set my bag down.
    “As long as you’re forcing me to be here, I guess there are a few things I could do with the place.”