Read Online On Little Wings by Regina Sirois - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Regina Sirois
Tags: Fiction
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know grandma was a teacher. I know she met your dad when she took a job in Smithport.” I let my words out slowly, monitoring them carefully. I didn’t want to hurt Sarah more by reminding her that my mother never even hinted at her existence.
“That’s something,” Sarah conceded with relief. “Have you ever seen the ocean?”
“Yes,” I answered, thankful I could give her one answer that pleased her. “We went to San Diego when I was ten. My dad has a cousin there that he really likes.”
Sarah wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I mean our ocean. The Northern Atlantic.” The way she said it one would think that all other oceans were second class citizens in the kingdom of Poseidon.
“No, never,” I answered reluctantly.
“Well,” she said with a strange thrill in her voice. “You will soon. I think you will love her.” The highway careened through hills covered in dense trees, taking us away from the airport until signs of humanity grew sparser. A few farm houses peeked out from intermittent clearings, showing advanced age in their sagging roofs and bowed walls. “Shelter Cove is just off the beach. Though it probably isn’t like any beach you’ve ever seen. Our bay is wild.”
A tiny shiver ran down my arms in anticipation. “What is Shelter Cove?” I asked her, picturing a park or a marina.
“Home,” she answered. “Shelter Cove is the name of my home.”
“You named it?”
“Heavens, no. Herman Miller named it Shelter Cove when he built it in 1901. It has been in our family for a hundred and ten years. All the homes have names around here.”
“I can’t imagine naming my house in Nebraska. It’s a nice house, but just a house.” I pictured my two story stucco sitting pleasantly on our small, ordinary yard with a plaque that read Fred in gilded letters.
“Well, houses here earn it. When something stands up to the sea’s temper for that long it garners a certain respect. Our homes deserve names because they fight the elements with us, beside us.” She pointed to a two story home covered in silvery grey wooden shingles. A clothesline bravely flapped unmentionables for all to see, including men’s long, white underwear I thought ceased to exist fifty years ago.
“Does shelter cove look like those?” I asked pointing to it, “covered in roof shingles? Are they all like that?”
Sarah laughed. “It’s called shake shingle. Surely you’ve seen it?”
“I’ve never seen a house quite like that,” I said. In truth, I found them unsightly. The thick, uneven shingles ran from the roof’s peak to the ground, stopping only to shaggily outline the windows and door.
“No, Shelter Cove is clapboard. White-washed. Beautiful.” She spoke of it tenderly. “Are you ready to see it?” I pictured a clean, white home overlooking the topaz ocean and the hunger in my stomach turned into a longing. I needed to touch the water more than I needed food.
“Let’s go home,” I answered wholeheartedly.
CHAPTER 9
Sarah ignored my claim that I could wait for dinner to eat and stopped at a small… I wanted to say restaurant, but that conjures the wrong image entirely. Shack is the nearest description I can find. It was a long, metal trailer with a tacky plastic sign almost too small to see from the road that read Phish and Chips. We had to park and walk up to a hole in the wall where a woman’s taciturn face appeared to take our order. The establishment was seedy at best and I earnestly doubted the safety and cleanliness of the food, but in all fairness, my hamburger was excellent. Similar ‘establishments’ littered our drive home, their names growing successively more creative until one entrepreneur gave up and simply advertised, “Same old, same old – But I fry it better!” I almost wished we had waited and stopped there, if for no other reason, to reward his honesty.
It is a tribute to the scenery that it could distract my attention away from Sarah. The trees grew
“That’s something,” Sarah conceded with relief. “Have you ever seen the ocean?”
“Yes,” I answered, thankful I could give her one answer that pleased her. “We went to San Diego when I was ten. My dad has a cousin there that he really likes.”
Sarah wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I mean our ocean. The Northern Atlantic.” The way she said it one would think that all other oceans were second class citizens in the kingdom of Poseidon.
“No, never,” I answered reluctantly.
“Well,” she said with a strange thrill in her voice. “You will soon. I think you will love her.” The highway careened through hills covered in dense trees, taking us away from the airport until signs of humanity grew sparser. A few farm houses peeked out from intermittent clearings, showing advanced age in their sagging roofs and bowed walls. “Shelter Cove is just off the beach. Though it probably isn’t like any beach you’ve ever seen. Our bay is wild.”
A tiny shiver ran down my arms in anticipation. “What is Shelter Cove?” I asked her, picturing a park or a marina.
“Home,” she answered. “Shelter Cove is the name of my home.”
“You named it?”
“Heavens, no. Herman Miller named it Shelter Cove when he built it in 1901. It has been in our family for a hundred and ten years. All the homes have names around here.”
“I can’t imagine naming my house in Nebraska. It’s a nice house, but just a house.” I pictured my two story stucco sitting pleasantly on our small, ordinary yard with a plaque that read Fred in gilded letters.
“Well, houses here earn it. When something stands up to the sea’s temper for that long it garners a certain respect. Our homes deserve names because they fight the elements with us, beside us.” She pointed to a two story home covered in silvery grey wooden shingles. A clothesline bravely flapped unmentionables for all to see, including men’s long, white underwear I thought ceased to exist fifty years ago.
“Does shelter cove look like those?” I asked pointing to it, “covered in roof shingles? Are they all like that?”
Sarah laughed. “It’s called shake shingle. Surely you’ve seen it?”
“I’ve never seen a house quite like that,” I said. In truth, I found them unsightly. The thick, uneven shingles ran from the roof’s peak to the ground, stopping only to shaggily outline the windows and door.
“No, Shelter Cove is clapboard. White-washed. Beautiful.” She spoke of it tenderly. “Are you ready to see it?” I pictured a clean, white home overlooking the topaz ocean and the hunger in my stomach turned into a longing. I needed to touch the water more than I needed food.
“Let’s go home,” I answered wholeheartedly.
CHAPTER 9
Sarah ignored my claim that I could wait for dinner to eat and stopped at a small… I wanted to say restaurant, but that conjures the wrong image entirely. Shack is the nearest description I can find. It was a long, metal trailer with a tacky plastic sign almost too small to see from the road that read Phish and Chips. We had to park and walk up to a hole in the wall where a woman’s taciturn face appeared to take our order. The establishment was seedy at best and I earnestly doubted the safety and cleanliness of the food, but in all fairness, my hamburger was excellent. Similar ‘establishments’ littered our drive home, their names growing successively more creative until one entrepreneur gave up and simply advertised, “Same old, same old – But I fry it better!” I almost wished we had waited and stopped there, if for no other reason, to reward his honesty.
It is a tribute to the scenery that it could distract my attention away from Sarah. The trees grew
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