EARLY JUNE, AND my days in Newport slowly unravel beneath a generous sun and the fragrance of beach roses and juniper bushes. The early sunrises and late-setting suns are a gift to the tourists and honeymooners, but for me they offer too many hours to feel the strengthening flip and tumble of the secret I hide beneath ever-slackening waistbands and loose-fitting cardigans. A quickening, the doctor calls it as he places his stethoscope against my skin.
“Looks like you’ve a lively little thing in there,” he says as I flinch in response to the cold press of metal. “A real wriggler.”
He could be talking about a new puppy for all that his words affect me. I still can’t emotionally connect the motion I feel with the fact that it is made by a human life. My child. Only once have I wondered what it will look like before I pushed the thought quickly away, afraid to let it linger too long.
As I dress behind the screen, the doctor tells me to make another appointment for around a month from now.
“You’ll be into your third trimester then, Mrs. Collins,” he says, enthusiastically. “Not too much longer to go.”
I wince at my invented name. My fictitious husband would turn in his grave at all the lies I’m telling to stick to Harriet’s cover story. She makes it all sound so plausible I almost feel sad for poor Mr. Collins and his tragic demise in a traffic accident.
I step out from behind the screen. “Thank you again, Doctor.”
He peers at me sympathetically through the black-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his sun-reddened nose. “I know it feels endless right now, Mrs. Collins, but you’ll have your baby in your arms soon enough.” The words prick at my conscience, knowing that it will be some other woman’s arms that hold this baby, not mine. Mistaking my silence for concern, he pats my arm reassuringly. “You’ve nothing to worry about. The child is perfectly healthy and everything is progressing as normal.”
I leave the consulting room in a daze and make my next appointment, ignoring the receptionist who says a friendly goodbye as she lifts the needle that has stuck halfway through an Andrews Sisters record on the turntable beside the counter.
I walk the short distance home, my mind replaying Doctor Miller’s words. “Everything is progressing as normal.” Nothing about this experience feels even remotely normal. I don’t even know what normal is anymore. The physical changes to my body are terrifying, and the seesawing of my emotions is equally alarming. I burst into tears at the slightest thing—happy, or sad—swinging from carefree to desolate at a moment’s notice. Even Harriet has started to bite her tongue.
Despite a testy start to life at the clapboard house on the corner of Cherry Street, Harriet and I have found a way to eat at the same table and share the same bathroom and breathe the same tobacco fumes and be civil to each other. We might look and act as different as a lobster to a clam, but beneath our hard shells I suspect we have more in common than we realize. There’s an energy when we’re together, a friction that makes the somber little house crackle with the force of us.
Harriet feels it, too. I know she does, because for all that she keeps her distance and pretends to be disinterested in me, I know she listens and watches. When I’d casually mentioned that I like the scent of lavender, a tablet of scented soap appeared in the bathroom. When I remarked on a particular flower I’d seen in a neighbor’s garden, a posy of them was left in a vase on the table the next day. When I complained about my skin itching, a tin of powder was left on my bed. When I talked about how I’d loved cycling back home in Ireland, a rusty old bicycle leaned against the gate the following evening. There is never any fuss made, no explanation given or thanks needed. I understand that this is Harriet’s way of letting me know that she does see me, and hear me, and takes notice of me.
And yet for all the weeks we’ve spent together, I know almost as little about Harriet Flaherty as I did before I left Ireland. She occasionally talks about her Da and old Boots and the work of the light keepers, and she constantly complains about the automation of the lights and how things aren’t the same anymore. But there’s still a distance between us. Despite our family connection, despite the fact that we were raised among the same smoky rooms of our grannies’ fires, there is a bridge over which she won’t let me cross. Harriet, I’ve realized, is like an island, and I don’t yet have the right map to reach her.
SINCE MEETING JOSEPH at the lighthouse, I’ve found myself thinking about him more often than I probably should. Finding the incomplete portrait at the bottom of the tea chest gives me the perfect excuse to follow up on his invitation to visit his art gallery.
Kinsella’s Fine Arts stands in the middle of Bellevue Avenue. It is a narrow redbrick building with bottle-green exterior paintwork. A large front window displays gilt-framed seascapes and scenes of the harbor wharfs. The shop sign swings on an ornate iron bracket outside, the wording painted in elaborate swirling lettering: Kinsella’s Fine Arts. Portraits, Commissions etc. Enquire within. With the old portrait wrapped in brown paper tucked under my arm, I push open the door and step inside.
The interior of the gallery is cool and soothing. A record plays quietly on an old gramophone in one corner. Potted plants lend an air of a Victorian glass house. A ceiling fan whirs above as I call out a hesitant hello and wait for a reply.
Joseph appears from a little door at the back of the room, his face breaking into a wide smile when he sees me. “Hey! Wild Irish! Good to see you. Thought you’d gone back to Ireland.”
Captain pushes past Joseph’s legs, her claws clattering against the varnished floorboards as she races to me. I bend down to pet her, laughing as she shoves her wet nose into my hands.
“Sorry. I meant to call in sooner.”
Joseph holds up his hands. “No explanation needed. I’m glad you came.” He smiles. I smile back. “So? What do you think of the place?”
I stand up and turn around, admiring the displays. “It’s very nice. Very . . . elegant.” I walk over to a collection of watercolor paintings of lighthouses. “I like these. Not that I know the first thing about art.”
Joseph walks over to stand beside me. “That’s the great thing about art. Everyone takes something different from it. You’re as qualified to like them as any expert is to not like them. As it happens, you have a good eye. They’re mine.”
“Really?” I turn to look at him, impressed by his talent.
A proud smile crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Lighthouses were last year’s obsession. I’m working on a collection of screen prints this year. A study of crustaceans and mollusks.”
“Mollusks?”
He bursts out laughing. “I guess it sounds a little obscure when you put it like that!”
I push my hair self-consciously behind my ear. “Art isn’t really my thing. I’m sure mollusks are very interesting.”
Joseph hops up onto a desk against the wall and lights a cigarette. “You smoke?” he asks, offering me one. I shake my head and wish I was the type of carefree girl who smoked and drank beer from the bottle and knew how to have fun. “So, what is your thing then if it isn’t mollusks?” Joseph continues. “What does a wild Irish girl do in her spare time?”
It’s a good question and one I don’t readily have an answer for. My mother’s church luncheons and charity events were what I did in my spare time. Being the local politician’s respectable daughter was what I did in my spare time. Drinking whiskey with a British soldier in the back of an army truck was what I did in my spare time.
My eye settles on a copy of Thackeray’s Vanity Fair on the desk. “Reading,” I announce, relieved to have remembered something I enjoy. “I like to read. And walk. On beaches. I used to collect shells when I was a little girl.”
Joseph pulls something from his pocket. “I still do.” He places a scallop shell on the desk. “Picked this one up this morning.”
I take a clam shell from my skirt pocket and place it beside his. “Same.”
He takes a thoughtful drag of his cigarette. “Maybe we could collect shells together sometime. If you’re not too busy reading.”
I say maybe, yes, that would be grand and call Captain over to me, glad of the distraction.
Joseph hops down from the desk and flips the record over on the gramophone. He nods toward my arm. “You brought me something, or do you always walk around with a package under your arm?”
I’d forgotten the picture. “Oh, this. Yes! It’s an old portrait I found in a tea chest over at the lighthouse.” I undo the string and fold back the paper. “I think she’s rather beautiful.”
Joseph takes the picture from me and lays it carefully on the desk, studying the image. He runs his fingers over the frame, pressing a glass to his eye as he peers at the artist’s initials.
“She’s pretty, all right. There’s something about the look in her eyes.”
“I agree. I think she’s lovely. What era do you think it is?”
“Definitely Victorian. You can tell by the clothing, and the style of the shells in the border. Classic Victorian botanical sketches. It would be a nice piece if it was finished.”
“I quite like the fact that it isn’t,” I say, joining him at the counter. “It’s unusual. I feel sorry for her, half in a picture, and half out.”
“Or maybe she’s faded away over time,” Joseph adds. “Her story never told, her name never spoken. Discarded in the bottom of a musty old tea chest.” He puts down the eye glass. “Now there’s a romantic old fool for you! Either way, she’s not going to earn you a fortune, I’m afraid. The artist’s signature isn’t one I recognize.”
“Oh, I don’t want to sell it. I think the artist was a distant relative of mine. I was thinking of having it reframed. Spruce her up a little.”
“Well, I can certainly do that for you. Could be a week or two before I get to it?”
I say two weeks will be grand and can already feel the time dragging ahead as I wonder how many more forgotten paintings and old relics I can find to keep me occupied.
Joseph wraps the picture back up and checks his watch. “I make it elevenses. There’s a diner around the corner if you’ve time for a quick coffee?”
I have all the time in the world and although my head tells me it isn’t a good idea to make too much of a friend of this impossibly charming young man, my heart tells my head to shush.
We head to Bernie’s, where we drink strong coffee and Joseph tells me about a local candy called saltwater taffy and about the Gilded Age mansions on Ocean Drive. An hour passes easily in his company and although I shouldn’t I flirt with him a little, laugh a little too enthusiastically, let my feet knock against his beneath the table. I forget I’m supposed to be grieving for a dead husband and happily ignore the squirming sensation beneath my dress. Twirling the locket at my neck and stirring sugar into my coffee, I enjoy the easy conversation and the chance to relax.
“What’s the locket?” he asks, noticing my habitual fiddling.
“Family heirloom,” I say, opening the clasp. “It belonged to my great-great-granny. Her brother was an artist in England during the Victorian era. I think he painted the portrait I brought for you to reframe. That’s him.” I point to the picture on the left of the locket as we both lean forward so Joseph can see the little portraits better.
“Huh. Handsome fellow. That’s neat.”
“Sarah—my great-great-granny—was rescued from a shipwreck by a lighthouse keeper and his daughter, Grace Darling. We think the other picture is of Grace. But it might be George’s wife.”
Joseph leans right across the table and rests the locket in his hand, studying the miniature portraits for a moment before looking up at me, his eyes so close to mine I can see my reflection in them. “She’s very beautiful,” he says. We stare at each other for a beat before he leans back. “She looks like the girl in your unfinished portrait. Maybe it’s the same person. Maybe he was in love with her.”
“Maybe,” I agree, my heart pounding as I stir the dregs of my coffee and wonder why it’s suddenly very hot in here.
“What are your plans for the rest of the day?” Joseph asks after paying the check, running his hands through his hair and sending it sticking up every which way as we walk outside together.
I’m glad of the fresh air. I feel light-headed from the caffeine. “I don’t really have any plans,” I shrug. “To be honest, I’d hoped Harriet would have more time to show me around, but she’s always busy at the lighthouse.”
“Harriet Flaherty? Your friendly Newport tour guide? That doesn’t sound like the Harriet I know!”
“It doesn’t, does it?” I laugh, realizing now how ridiculous it sounds.
“I could show you around,” Joseph offers. “The gallery’s quiet enough when the weather’s so nice. I’d like to show Newport off to you. Take you to a clambake. Pretend I own half the homes on Ocean Drive.”
“You’re kind to offer, but I’ll be grand. Honestly. I have a bicycle now. I’m getting quite good at finding my way around.”
“Sightseeing on your own isn’t much fun though.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Look, Matilda. I’ll level with you. I don’t know the real reason you’re here and I don’t need to, but that grieving widow story?” He raises an eyebrow. “Even if you have something to prove to your parents, or Harriet, you don’t have to prove anything to me. So, the invitation still stands. No strings.”
The relief of shaking off the pretense is almost physical as I feel my shoulders relax. I want to tell him the truth, desperate to share the burden of my secret. But for all that he is friendly and impossibly charming, I don’t know Joseph well enough to be sure how he’ll react. Joseph Kinsella may be quickly becoming the closest thing I have to a friend here and I certainly don’t want to frighten him away with my shocking secrets.
He holds out a hand. “If you let me show you around, I promise I won’t ask any questions. How about it, Wild Irish? Deal?”
I smile and nod. “Deal.”
And on something as simple as a handshake between friends, so things change.
OVER THE FOLLOWING weeks Joseph and I spend most of his free time together. He takes me on walking tours of the harbor wharfs and the historic colonial buildings of the town. I learn about the Quakers and the taverns that were the favorite drinking haunts of the country’s founding fathers. I see the homes of the first Irish settlers who established their own community in the Fifth Ward in the southern part of town. We watch confusing games of polo and croquet and eat clams and fresh lobster. We cycle along Bellevue Avenue and Ocean Drive, stopping to admire the Breakers, Miramar, Rosecliff, Marble House—the eye-wateringly opulent homes built by the Vanderbilts and the Astors on fortunes made in shipping and the railroads before the crash. We follow the winding trail along Narragansett Bay, Captain lolloping faithfully alongside, and out to Easton’s Beach and Goat Island.
Slowly, steadily this salt-tinged city by the sea begins to wrap itself around my heart, and despite everything telling me it won’t end well, so does a young artist by the name of Joseph Kinsella.