Twillyweed by Mary Anne Kelly Page A

she said in a heavy Italian accent. “She was a clutter bug. Place is a mess.” She gave me the once-over, sizing me up. “Needs new gutters, too. And the boiler’s all the time on the blink.” We both listened to the chirp of the nesting bird.
    How cold could it get? I asked myself. After all, spring was here. Why, it would soon be summer. I asked the woman if she thought they might rent. “I’d love to get a look inside.”
    Swatting abated, she squared her stance and scrunched her face up. “Might have missed your chance. I think the son’s fed up. Said he’s looking to sell. Told me he gave the house to a realtor just the other day.”
    â€œOh.” Acquiring a house on the water, even a paltry one, would be way above my budget. Feeling oddly let down, I thanked her and started to walk away.
    â€œOf course, if you want to go talk to him, he’ll be down the marina. … Still might be there.”
    I hesitated. My better judgment warned me, Don’t you go starting all over again with one of your harebrained schemes .
    â€œHey!” The woman put one hand up to shade her eyes and another heavily on my shoulder and she gasped, “Look there! It’s a blue heron!”
    Just above our heads an impossibly heavy, prehistoric-looking bird flew low above us in a slow-motion, long-stroked way. It looked right at us. “Wow!” I said.
    â€œ Madonna mia ,” the woman said as she grabbed hold of me. “You don’t think it’s a spirit of someone?”
    â€œI’ve never heard that. I’ve never even seen one!” I cried. “And so close!”
    â€œDid you see? She looked right at us!”
    We stood watching the empty sky long after it had passed, both of us enthralled. I looked back at the little house. This whole place would be transformed by summer to a tourist town. Suppose I could think up some sort of business. … Well, what? Stranger things have happened. Let’s face it—nothing wonderful was waiting for me back in Queens. I dug into my purse for a pen. “What’s the man’s name?”
    â€œThe man?” She was still frightened by what seemed to her a mythological apparition.
    â€œWho owns the cottage?” I prompted.
    â€œOh. Donovan,” she said, returning to the real world. “Noola’s son, Morgan Donovan. You ask anyone for Noola’s son’s—Morgan’s—boat. He owns the house now. But I got to warn you. Noola’s ghost”—she thought she’d help me out by adding—“she’s come and go with the fog. Late at night, I hear …” She leaned in, close and garlicky. “… something bad!”
    The first happy aspect of being on my own took shape. No sensible man to put an end to my dream just because of something so provincial as a ghost. After all, I harrumphed to myself, knowing more at that time than I realized, it’s not of the dead we must fear, but the living.
    In no time at all I sat in the Once Upon a Moose and waited for Jenny Rose. You’ve never seen a place like the Moose. There are antiques and white lattices and climbing ivy, glittering curiosities and collectibles, and ladies’ old-fashioned hats along the walls. This afternoon it was practically empty; one elegant couple sat at a wrought-iron table at the other side of the room. The man, I noted, was prosperous looking, gleamingly Rolexed, a certain sort of handsome. Norwegian looking. A scant portly. I couldn’t see his companion as she had her back to me, but she wore a green loden mantle and hat, the sort of thing you’d see in Germany. Very attractive, I thought idly, and then was amused to see him glance furtively to the side and pass her a short stack of bills. She took it without hesitation. At once I turned away discreetly. The young woman in the loden mantle stood, slipped out the door, and hurried up the street. I’d chosen