I hold still. I love dogs. But this one is really, really big. And she’s making a lot of noise.
She takes a step toward me, showing her teeth. Making noise.
I take a step back.
I’m not going to run away, but I don’t want to make her angrier than she already is.
I remember that line from my father’s second email:Don’t be afraid of glum.
“Could you be Glum?” I ask the dog, speaking sweetly.
Her ears perk. The barking stops.
“Glum. Hello, baby. I’m Matilda.”
She steps tentatively toward me.
“You’re very pretty, Glum. So special and huge.”
A wag.
Oh, I love her. “It’s you. Glum, baby. You’re a good protector of your home, aren’t you? So brave and true.”
I set my duffel down so I can kneel and extend my hand. Glum comes forward and sniffs. We are friends now. She lets me pet her ears and the bony ridge of her skull.
When I start walking again, Glum trots ahead of me, looking back now and again to assure herself that I’m still there.
After a turn, the road opens into a clearing, made for parking cars. Beyond the clearing is an archway of graying wood, a garage. In it stands a butter-colored Mercedes convertible, some kind of collector’s item with curving fenders and camel-colored seats. But it’s dotted with dust and pollen, and it’s missing a headlight.
Through the arch of the garage and out the other side is acastle—but not a castle like I’ve seen in Kingsley’s paintings. This one is made of wood, like a beach house, covered with weathered shingles. Many of the ground-floor walls are glass. Four huge, cylindrical towers rise from the ground, broadly windowed. The door is a curved arch that echoes the arch of the garage.
Around the castle, the property extends in unmowed lawns. In the distance to the right is another building, with another deck. A ways away on the left is a chaotic-looking vegetable garden inside a fence of wood and chicken wire.
Beyond all that, the Atlantic Ocean reveals itself, sparkling and menacing.
I have arrived at HiddenBeach.
Part Three
HiddenBeach
12
“Matilda?” A boyrounds the side of the castle, pushing a lawn mower that looks rusted out. He’s maybe eighteen. Asian heritage, with a round face, sunburned on the nose and cheekbones. His black hair, long and wavy, is tied in a knot on top of his head. He wears no shoes. His T-shirt readsShirley’s Hardware.
“Yes, I’m Matilda.”
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he says. “June is deep in the indigopot.”
“Excuse me?”
“I have been here all day,” the boy says as he abandons his lawn mower to come toward me. “In case you arrived. And now you’re here. So stoked.”
“I told Kingsley my plane time,” I say.
“Kingsley’s off-island.”
“Really?” Disappointment washes over me.
