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Overview
Cecil Hargrave lives in a cramped apartment in New York City, hates her job, and has no close friends. She yearns for something more, but what?
When Cecil inherits a beachfront house and a thriving business on picturesque Seal Island in Maine, she jumps at the opportunity to kickstart her life, despite her reservations about moving to New England. But even if stereotypes hold true and New Englanders are standoffish, she'll have a new career and a gorgeous home.
Much to her delight and surprise, Cecil settles rapidly into small-town life. She makes real friends, plays with the seals who live on the beach outside her house, and meets two very different men.
Tom, a darkly sexy novelist, has returned to his hometown to write. He and Cecil hit it off almost immediately, and their chemistry is explosive -- but Cecil can't seem to stay away from the handsome drifter, Ronan, despite his secretive ways. It's like she's under a spell...
At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429910705 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Tor Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2007 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 480 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Kate Brallier is a fiction editor in New York City. She has spent most of her life summering on a Maine island which bears suspicious resemblance to her fictional creation. Seal Island is her first novel.
Kate Brallier is a fiction editor in New York City. She has spent most of her life summering on a Maine island which bears suspicious resemblance to her fictional creation in Seal Island, her first novel. She is also the author of The Boundless Deep.
Read an Excerpt
Seal Island
By Kate Brallier, Anna Genoese
Tom Doherty Associates
Copyright © 2005 Kate BrallierAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4299-1070-5
CHAPTER 1
SOMETIMES ALL IT TAKES to change your life is a single instant; no one knows that better than I. But the last thing I had expected, in early June of what some people might call the new millennium, was to find myself flying to Bangor, Maine, with my stable old life behind me, the bulk of my possessions packed into storage, two suitcases of assorted clothes and mementos between myself and the world, and an unknown future stretching out before me. But that was exactly where I found myself — for reasons I still couldn't quite comprehend or credit.
Aunt Allegra — not even a proper aunt, just my mother's younger cousin — had possessed little impact on my life beyond two brief visits in my youth and a bi-yearly phone call given more out of duty, I suspected, than any sort of family feeling. Not that I disliked her; there was a certain presence about Allegra that had always struck me. I just didn't know her. She had been my mother's friend, and I knew nothing about her background, her history, her habits, her likes, her loves. I knew even less about Seal Island, where she lived. Which was why it seemed odd that I, a city girl, was now headed there for a visit of unspecified length, to tie up Allegra's affairs and determine what to do with the house and business that had been deeded to me at her death.
But where else was I to go? I had no job, no apartment, and the safe, walled place I had built for myself had proved to be founded on sand. So why not Seal Island? What more could it take from me than New York already had? At times, it seemed that my life was a series of losses tempered by brief, intermittent periods of constancy. But a false constancy — one that was snatched away from me the moment I began to feel comfortable with it.
Only. ... That sounded melodramatic and self-pitying, and who was I to complain? I still had my life. Allegra Gordon, at forty-five, had been deprived of hers in an instant.
Part of me still felt numb at the thought. Not that I was a stranger to violent death; my parents had taught me that lesson well, one snowy night in December. But, as with all broken resolutions, Allegra was one of those people I had always wished I knew better, had always planned to acquaint myself with. Tomorrow, next week, when this next crisis was over, when there was time. ... Only there was never time, and now it was too late.
I still wasn't clear how on she had died — something quick and unexpected like a stroke or an embolism, I assumed. The lawyer who had called me had seemed oddly reluctant to discuss it, but by the catch in his voice as he imparted the news, I imagined her passing must have been harder for him, who had known her, than for me, who had not. Yet, she had left me her house, her business, and all that she had acquired in life. To a girl she had met but twice. To a girl who accepted her phone calls happily enough but never quite managed to make one of her own in return.
I stared out the plane window, feeling a sluggish guilt unfurl as I rested my cheek against the cold plastic and watched the scenery of New England stream by below me. Maine. It conjured up images of blueberries, bears and boats, and beloved children's books. Of sea and fog and gulls and, presumably, seals. Perhaps I had heard so much about it as a child that it had taken on almost mystical proportions for me — a place where magic could exist, or dreams could come true. Or perhaps I had just heard one too many people extol its virtues. Regardless, I had always longed to go, someday. But now someday was here, and I was on my way with no more than a few remembered phrases and routes highlighted on a hastily purchased map to guide me.
What, by all that was precious, was I doing?
Panic seized me, sudden as my guilt, and I clutched at my armrests, trying to distract myself with the fields and forests scrolling away below me. I hated change. The last time it had almost destroyed me; how would I weather it again? What was that popular phrase, "that which doesn't kill you can only make you stronger?" Only, I wasn't quite sure I believed it. I don't think I became stronger, just harder. More brittle. Most days I muddled along cheerfully enough, but on others I felt as if a breath of wind might crack me.
I had spent eight years shoring up walls around my world, so that the wind might not penetrate, and now look at me. I was twenty-eight years old and just "downsized," as the popular term would have it. Six years of company loyalty — or, more accurately, mindless and generic office drudgery — and now I was unemployed with three months of severance between myself and the future. And homeless to boot. The lease on the ridiculous box I called an apartment had expired, and a recent bout of "renovations" had skyrocketed the rent beyond my means. So it was either hunt for a new job and a new apartment at the height of the summer crunch, or ... retreat to Maine for a few months. Rest, re-energize, and regroup away from the crushing heat, humidity and stench of a true New York summer, then return in September renewed.
Clearly, I had chosen the latter course.
A coward's act? Perhaps. Then again, maybe it was just what I needed. As the roar of the plane's engines rumbled dully in my ears, I forced myself to evaluate what had become of my life. Or rather, my existence, because gradually — and without my even realizing it — my life had taken on a dull sheen of bare necessity. I had worked six years at a job I didn't care about, and its greatest advantage was that it required no particular talents or ambitions. Anyone could have done it; for me, it was simply biding time. I had scraped together a few friends, but none terribly close — or perhaps none that I let get terribly close. No boyfriends, no lovers — short term or otherwise. No one I really cared about. I lived alone in a box, and my main passions had become cooking and reading. The former half out of necessity, because I was too poor to eat out a lot, and half because it added a surface color to my life and gave me an excuse to invite my acquaintances around for meals. Because then, packed around my cramped table in my even more cramped apartment, while wine and laughter and conversation flowed, I felt a part of something — but a something that departed as naturally as the guests out the door, that cleaned up as tidily as a sink full of dishes.
The reading seemed self-evident.
I clutched the Thomas Moreland paperback on my lap. In times of stress, I retreated to old favorites, and there was something about Moreland's books that had always appealed. They were top-notch legal thrillers, of course — and as such a good distraction — but there was also something in them that went beyond that: a way of portraying characters that seemed intensely honest — and intensely real. Flawed people, struggling to do good. Struggling to uphold their convictions, sometimes against impossible odds. I had sometimes thought that if only I could act that way, then everything would be all right. The spell would be broken, the sleeping princess would come out of her shell, and I would lose my dull fear of the world and its consequences.
On my more cynical days, I even wondered if I had convictions, any more. There were days when not hiding seemed such a monumental task that I couldn't conceive of anyone ever managing it — the books' author included. Because, really, what did anyone know about him? He was as much a mystery to the world as my life was at times to me. No bio beyond the minimal: "Thomas Moreland served as a Boston A.D.A. before turning to writing full-time;" no author photo. So maybe he, too, was hiding — which could be another way to explain the connection I had always felt to his work.
I let a small laugh trickle through my lips and turned my attention back to the scenery below me. The further north we flew, the less it seemed that summer — let along spring — had penetrated the land. There were still large patches of bare, muddy ground, and where I could see the ocean it looked cold and grim. Yet, instead of depressing me, this gave me new heart. Maybe this was exactly what I needed. Maybe, like the coming summer, Maine could wake something in me that would enable me to return to the city with a new energy, a new outlook. And maybe all it took to wake the princess was simply a decent vacation.
I smiled to myself. Besides, the lawyer who had called me — Harry Cameron — had sounded quite attractive on the phone the few times we had spoken. There was a comforting resonance to his voice, tinged ever so faintly with what I had to assume was a New England accent. And as he had gotten over the shock of Allegra's death, a natural sense of humor had begun to assert itself that often had me smiling into my end of the phone. Not that it would be easy, I reminded myself, coming into a small community and claiming the life and possessions of a woman who had only been dead a month; I had no doubt there would be repercussions I was not even aware of now. But if Harry Cameron's demeanor were any indication, there might still be more of a welcome for me on Seal Island than in impersonal, suspicious New York.
Even the weather seemed to support this, for the plane eventually touched down into one of the most welcoming days I had seen in a long time. It was sunny and in the sixties, crisp and cool in the shade, warmer in the sun. The air held a sharp, ineffable freshness and I inhaled wonderingly, amazed how I had existed all these years breathing the choked haze of the city. Everything felt fresh here. Even the potential complications of picking up my leased car did not occur. The clerks were both friendly and courteous, and keys in hand, I loaded my two suitcases and one carry-on into the trunk, laid the map out beside me, and took the wheel, grateful I had not let the drivers' license I had gained in college expire.
THE DRIVE TO SEAL Island was a long one, and could have been tedious had I not been gripped by a continued excitement. But that delightful feeling of newness had not yet faded, so I rolled the windows down and tuned the radio to something joyous, aware beneath the music of the rumble of the engine, the hiss of wheels on asphalt, the rush of wind through the open windows. When it got cold, I turned up the heat, unwilling to lose the freshness of the Maine air. And wondered why I hadn't done this years ago.
As it was, I smelled the ocean before I saw it. But soon it was before me, steel blue and frosted with white-caps in the breeze. At first it was revealed only in pockets, peeping shyly through dips in the hills and gaps in the pines. And later, in glittering stretches, revealing islands slabbed with granite ledges and capped with bristling pines. Sails dotted the water, the boats scudding before the wind. Picture-book perfect, but too much so to be real?
For once, I refused to let my suspicions spoil the moment.
Unerring signs directed me toward Seal Island, amidst markers for such places as Blue Hill, Sedgewick and Brooklin — the latter delighting my New York soul. I was deep in the heart of the country now, and the houses scattered along the side of the road were an odd mixture of tumble-down and gracious. They ranged from gleaming, whitewashed residences to little more than tarpaper shacks, their yards spanning a spectrum from manicured lawns and gardens to piles of rusted-out cars and appliances. Moreover, there seemed to be no rhyme nor reason to their placement — the posh shoulder to shoulder with the impoverished — and this delighted me as well. There was something so egalitarian about it.
I was aware from the signs that I was getting close to my destination, but even I was amazed at the suddenness with which my leased Honda seemed to be swept bodily around a curve and onto the Seal Island causeway. The scent of the ocean increased threefold, the salt stinging my nostrils, and the air grew perceptibly colder. Seal Island, as Harry Cameron had informed me, was a true island, but set close enough to the mainland that it didn't need a bridge to connect it, just this winding stretch of roadway across Jericho Bay. It must have been high tide, for the waves lapped aggressively against the large rocks bordering the causeway, as if given reason they would wash against my tires, driving me back. I imagined the water as a guardian spirit, carefully considering each visitor, choosing to grant or deny them access on the whims of its perception.
Fortunately, I must have passed the test, for four sweeping arcs of causeway later I was on Seal Island.
The houses were more unassuming, here — some clapboard, some shingle: the latter weathered to a ghostly silver-grey, the former painted white and red and pink and green. And once, even, an improbable purple. In the yards were lawn ornaments and more rusted cars; lobster traps and buoys. Quaint signs proclaimed bed-and break fasts, announced craftsmen and artisans. One, Cassel's Woodcrafts, made me laugh, for it advertised itself as a maker of signs, of all things, yet its own sign showed a distinct lack of planning, the letters dribbling off into a crooked heap at the end. Private drives yawned off the main road at intervals, presumably leading to the grander, sea-side dwellings such as I had passed on the mainland.
Then the road curved again and regained the coast, and I could see the smaller islands dotting the bay, giving shape to the view. Larger houses ghosted from clearings by the water: some traditional like the whitewashed Victorians, some more modern, often shingled and more than half glass. Save for a few exceptions — and those strewn with boulders as if from a giant's hand — the beaches seemed to consist of slab-like ledges of pink-and-grey granite. One island, not far off the coast and consisting of no more than barren rock, was scattered with black blots, curved up at both ends like a series of miniature anvils.
The road turned inland again, the houses growing denser, then swept back out into a half-moon cove, around which clustered the town and the public docks. Boats bobbed at anchor — twenty or thirty, as near as I could tell — ranging from tiny motorboats to luxury sailboats, with a handful of what could only be working fishing boats thrown in. There seemed a bustle of activity around the longest of the docks; less so on the streets. A scattering of summer folk — the merest tickle before the seasonal flood, I would later discover — browsed the shops, dressed in outfits from J. Crew, Eddie Bauer, and L.L. Bean.
I had dressed carefully for the occasion — neither too formal nor too fancy, not wanting to either underdress or overwhelm — but now my jeans, boots and green V-necked sweater seemed hopelessly understated.
I pulled my car into parking space, rolled up the windows and locked it out of sheer force of habit, then shrugged into a brown leather jacket as I examined the main street. It stretched about two city blocks, anchored at one end by a brown and green post office, and at the other end by what looked to be an upscale restaurant and inn, backed by a garden that swept down to the water. There were tourist shops and galleries, a hardware store and a supermarket. And, to my delight, a smallish library. About three more streets angled off from the main road, seeming to contain further shops and galleries.
At a glance, none of the establishments seemed to boast a lawyer or house what might pass in these parts as a law office. So I headed for the library, as much to survey their collection as to ask for directions. But on second glance, taking in the darkened windows, I realized it must be closed. I stood uncertainly on the sidewalk for a moment, brushing back hair which the wind seemed determined to disorder, then chose a shop at random.
It was a tourist shop, but tasteful. It was called simply The Gull, and had a welcoming exterior with flower-boxes beneath the windows — though the blooms had been blown somewhat ragged by the breeze. As I opened the door, the wind chimes mounted above it tinkled merrily. Inside was an eclectic collection of cards, books and local crafts, mingled with the inevitable T-shirts and postcards. And, of course, stuffed seals.
Had I been the type to credit premonitions, I might have felt a frisson of inevitability. But as it was, I simply felt at home. Behind the counter, a woman — the shop owner, presumably — was engaged in a sale. She looked about thirty-five, slightly plump, with erratically curled reddish-blond hair and a sparkle in her hazel eyes. Her customer — as pampered and sour-faced as I have ever seen — could not seem to make up her mind between a blue T-shirt and a green sweatshirt, both with "Seal Island" imprinted on them. Judging from her comments, she seemed to dislike both equally.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Seal Island by Kate Brallier, Anna Genoese. Copyright © 2005 Kate Brallier. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
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