Twillyweed by Mary Anne Kelly

yourself. I took it outside and passed up the benches on the square of grass before the library, instead taking the short walk past the shops to the overlook. Benches were placed there, too, jutting out over the blue sound. The air was charged with particles of ozone and silt and though it was cold, it was just warm enough in the steady sunshine so you could sit and eat. But the sea! Oh, it was glorious and navy blue.
    When I finished my sandwich and coffee, I just sat there for a while. You couldn’t read the paper—it was too windy—so I decided I’d make my way down the breathtakingly steep steps to the beach. At the very bottom it was almost still, protected as it was in a cove. I took off Carmela’s shoes and went out to the beach. There was no one in sight. It was cold and the wind blew fiercely, which I enjoyed. I didn’t stay there long, but I could imagine what summers here would be like. Early morning walks. Picnics on the beach. I returned to my shoes and hunched over to put them on, leaning against a sizable boulder. The sound of someone playing piano drizzled from one of the far-off houses. You can always tell if it’s a real piano rather than a tape or the radio. I don’t know how but you can. I thought of Enoch, warmhearted and courtly. I tried to conjure up some melancholy again but, at the risk of sounding frigid—which my sister tells me I am—I didn’t feel it in this early morning change of scene. I didn’t feel anything. If I was honest with myself, I had to admit to a certain coldness on my part as well. For hadn’t sex between Enoch and me been, if friendly, also somewhat utilitarian and singular, like two pals getting off? You can’t be someone’s back unless they are your front. And there’s a safety to that. I wondered for how long I had been this numb. Since I’d seen the light for another woman in my husband’s eyes? Yes, that could have done it. That had hurt. So much so that I’d closed myself off. I looked up at the bright sky with its promise of spring and I remembered that at that moment I felt almost glad. I don’t know what it was—getting away from Queens, maybe just being in such a dramatically pretty place—but I felt free. I heard the tight, intense hum of bees. Bees indicated life, and I was struck by the heady, almost sickening fragrance of hibiscus. Out in the bay, a picturesque little orange boat, empty, bobbed up and down in the fast churning sea.
    I took the steep footpath, stopping to catch my breath, and at the very top, edging over the side, a stab of red wobbling color caught my eye. A For Sale sign, meant to be seen from the beach, had come loose and was wriggling and about to fly off its hook. I leaned out and hitched the sign back up and looked at the tiny house. It was pale blue, no, gray, a pale gray but with a hue of blue and it had peeling white painted sills. An old-fashioned porch stole the show. The house wasn’t in the least bit fancy or beautiful. Except for the porch, it was plain. Tiny. Solid. It had to be, clinging to the edge of the cliff like that. A small bird landed on the front gutter with a gathering of weed in its beak. Just beneath the porch light was a battered plaque, the way some houses announce and portray themselves. It was spelled in an antiquated hand: the great white. I smiled—someone had a sense of humor—and hoisted myself over the steps to the walkway and then something in me turned me back around and I thought what the heck. … I scribbled down the number.
    A gray-haired woman next door on the inland side was hanging a rug over the hedge. She peered at me suspiciously.
    â€œJust taking down the number,” I called.
    She tipped her head in understanding and proceeded to swat her rug with an antiquated beater.
    I ventured a little closer. “I don’t suppose you know what they’re asking?”
    â€œBetter not be much,”