9 - Maeve
I lay reclined on a rocking chair, under a covered porch where the white paint peeled graciously to reveal an older, creamy-white layer. The place where Kathleen lived was a quaint two-story cottage, in a quiet area.
Two pear trees were scattering white petals on the dandelion-spotted grass, and a bush of tawny roses was trying to climb the gallery’s railing.
I couldn’t see the shore from my position, because the dunes were hidden by a row of tall poplars and willows. But I could hear the rhythmic pounding of the great liquid heart of the sea, a soft crashing of algae-laden waves against the sand and rocks. And, under it, the low rumble of car engines passing on the wide Main Street, music escaping from their open windows.
The house was magnificent in a has-been kind of way,
