Page 105 of The Singing Trees
The Annalisa of her youth would never have imagined she would be here. Her entire family might never believe her until they put eyes on it themselves, which was all she could think about. She wanted every Mancuso in Maine to come visit. This wasn’t only her and Nonna’s place, Annalisa thought. This was the Mancusos’ Graystone, the Little Italy of Bar Harbor.
“I want to see the water,” she told Glen, rushing past him with Celia in her arms. Nonna leaned on her cane, taking in the house, possibly thinking about the life Walt lived before she’d met him. Annalisa wondered if it was hard for her to imagine Walt loving Gertrude so much that he’d been unable to visit this place again—or even talk about it—after she’d died.
The yard was well kept. A patch of grass wrapped around the house. As she rounded the side, the vast Atlantic came into view, disappearing into the horizon like blue sky into the atmosphere. Past the grass was the rock shelf that cascaded down into the water. Like tiny islands, a few rocks protruded from the water farther out, causing little stirs of white foam. The wind blew cold, and Annalisa held Celia tight. She saw a setof steps carved into the rocks that led down to a little beach to the left. Without another look at the house, she felt pulled to the ocean.
“Can you believe this, Celia? This is ours. I don’t even...” She didn’t know whether to cry or shout. Who needed a Catholic church with such close proximity to God right here in their backyard?
Down the steps, she reached the patch of gray sand where tiny waves rolled in, gently shuffling the shells, a piece of calm amid the otherwise fierce shoreline.
She strolled along the sand to the water and looked east. Blue for as far as she could see, pure calm today, an oil slick all the way to the edge. A flock of seagulls chased a school of fish fifty yards out.
This was where the photo of Walt and Gertrude had been taken, she realized. Breathing the image in with the salty air, she choked up, feeling them both and wishing he could be there, wishing she could have met Gertrude. She squeezed Celia, knowing they were both probably not too far away.
She turned back and looked up past the granite shelf to the house. Taking in this surreal moment, she crossed herself.
Nonna had worked her way to the backyard and was gazing out. If Annalisa wasn’t mistaken, she was smiling.
“Not bad, right?” Glen asked, coming down the last step.
“I could get used to this.” She set down Celia and let her play on the sand.
“It’s my favorite house on the island,” Glen admitted. “All of them have their charm, but there’s something about this place.”
“Where do you live?” she asked, watching Celia’s curiosity lead her toward the water.
“I’m back in town. A little house on West Street near the water, but I’ve lived all over Bar Harbor.”
The wind had knocked her hair into her eyes, so she pulled it back. “You never left?”
They both turned when they heard Celia’s giggle as she raced away from the water inching toward her after a tiny wave. “I left for four years to go to Harvard, but came right back up.” He took a long breath. “Boston was nice, but I missed being up here.”
Annalisa locked eyes with him. “I can imagine.”
“Then you might stay?” Hope showed all over his face.
For a fleeting few moments, she saw all kinds of possibilities in his eyes—her own possibilities. Maybe there was life on the other side of Thomas. Maybe all she needed was to get out of Portland.
“I think I’m ready for a change,” she finally said. “That’s for sure.”
He grinned, as if he knew her future was here. “Let’s go see the house.”
“What’s it like in the off-season?” Annalisa asked during the house tour. “The locals must love it.”
Glen switched on a lamp. “Oh, we do, but it’s not as quiet as you might think. Cold, but plenty to do.”
The living room was the center and soul of the home, and Annalisa wondered if that was where she might set up her easel. Several beautiful windows, perfectly polished, looked out at the sea. He told them Gertrude used to play the Baldwin piano in the corner. A fireplace with a neat stack of logs waited for fall. The furniture was colorful and elegant, and Annalisa was quite sure that it had been Walt’s wife who’d been in charge of decorating.
“And the kitchen, oh my God,” Annalisa said. “What do you think, Nonna. Could you manage? How about that dining-room table? The Mancusos couldn’t even fill it on a Saturday night.”
Nonna nodded, and Annalisa could sense her grandmother’s wheels spinning. Maybe she would leave the Mills if Annalisa pushed hard enough.
Annalisa could only imagine how much inspiration she’d find here.
The master bedroom took Annalisa’s breath away. There was a four-poster bed, a beautiful antique dresser, and a matching vanity. The bathroom featured a claw-foot tub that Annalisa could soak in while looking out the windows to the water—that was, unless Nonna wanted this room, in which case Annalisa would happily go down the hall.
“How are the schools?” she asked, peeking inside of a giant closet full of empty hangers.
He unrolled a hand. “Great schools and great teachers. Celia can ride the bus. It’s all very safe.”
