The Island Curse

Settling In

I hopped out of the truck and left my dad to gather the bags from the back. Mouth agape, I walked up the drive, doing my best to not stumble on the uneven surface. Grandeur wasn't new to me. My closest friend, Mel, lived in a restored plantation house. It looked like every postcard you'd ever seen of a southern home with great, white columns and sweeping staircases. And while our house wouldn't have made the cut for an episode of MTV cribs, it was solidly upper class. At least where our small community was concerned.

But this was something else entirely. It looked like something out of Jane Austen film adaptation. Gray and imposing, the structure blended into the dreary landscape, but like many of the houses in the city, patches of ivy grew along the walls, adding color and interest. The front door was arched, matching the windows beside it, and covered in what appeared to be fragments of colored glass. I ran my fingers along the rough surface, marveling at the array of color in the pieces.

"What's this?" I asked. "I've never seen a door like this?"

He tossed me my suitcase, a wry smile on his lips. "You can carry that to your room. And those are mermaid tears."

That earned an eye roll. "Try again."

"No, really," he explained, fishing a key out of his pocket. A lock box like realtors used was connecting the double handles together. His tone was indifferent as he spoke. "That's what the Islanders call sea glass. Fiona's son, Jamie, fell in love with a woman they found washed up on the shore after a shipwreck. She was the only survivor and could barely speak. But she loved to gather sea glass and make art out of it. This was one of her projects."

My teenage heart nearly burst from the romance. I imagined my handsome ancestor, looking just like another famous Jamie, rushing to the rocky coast and spying the dying maiden. One look into her pale face, beautiful even so near death, and he was in love and determined he had to save her. The glass rippled, and a narrow face, with wet, black hair and green eyes blinked back at me, disappearing so quickly, I almost thought it was just part of my imaginings.

"Dad, did you see that?"

He pushed open the door and slung his backpack over his shoulder. "See what?"

I stared hard at the glass, willing the image to reappear, but it had returned to its normal, glittering appearance. "Nothing. I just... I just thought I saw something strange in the glass."

"Maybe your reflection?"

"Maybe," I agreed, hoisting my suitcase and wincing. No wonder Dad had tired of carrying it. He'd tried to convince me to pack light since our belongings were supposed to make it to the house before us, but I'd not trusted the international delivery. But from the boxes piled in the entryway, I needn't have worried.

To my left and right, staircases curved up to a second story, meeting in the center of the room where another arched door, this one wood painted white, sat. The stair railing was a mixture of wood and gold, the delicate metal twisted into waves and shells. Straight ahead, was a long hallway, that led through multiple entrances, making me think of shotgun houses in New Orleans.

"What are we going to do with all of this room?" I asked, my voice echoing.

"Make it a home."

"I just can't believe that this is where you grew up, and that Granda gave it up to come to the states."

"None of it matters anymore because we're back. Now, run upstairs and pick out a room. They all have their own bathrooms thanks to a remodel your grandfather did when he I was born."

I took the stairs two at a time, yanking open the door at the top with more gusto than I thought I had in me. It seemed no amount of irritation over being forced to move could dampen my sense of adventure for exploring. The corridor extended before me, dim in the fading bit of weak daylight, and surprisingly fresh smelling. A hint of lemon polish and mint. A pale blue runner covered stone that would be frigid in the depths of winter. For even now, they were cold under my feet as I walked down along the hallway.