The Singing Trees by Boo Walker
Chapter 38
GRAYSTONE
Poor Italians from Bangor and Payton Mills don’t have second houses in Bar Harbor. In fact, they don’t have second homes. Many of them have never even gone to Bar Harbor, only knowing it as a haven for the rich and famous that might as well be a thousand miles away.
Annalisa and her parents used to visit Acadia National Park for a picnic and hike, and then they’d pass through the town for a late lunch before returning home. She remembered it feeling so untouchable, so far away, even when she was standing on Main Street.
So for Annalisa, Celia, and Elena Mancuso, to drive their Plymouth Belvedere up the coast of Maine to their house on the water in Bar Harbor was a surreal experience. Annalisa didn’t feel worthy of such a gift, and she definitely hadn’t earned it, but she’d once told Walt that one must be just as good at receiving gifts as they were at giving them. Leaving Nonna and Annalisa his full inheritance had brought Walt tremendous joy, and Annalisa was determined not only to accept his gift with open arms, but to live each day with a vitality that would have made him proud.
That was why she’d rolled down her window and worn a smile that rose from the core of her soul as they rode north through the late spring air that had dried up the mud, making way for the reward of summer.
Weeks after first hearing that she and her grandmother owned a place with a name, she still couldn’t get over it. Other than the picture of Walt and Gertrude on the shore there, she hadn’t even seen pictures, but she’d heard through the managing real estate agency that Graystone was one of the true gems of the Mount Desert coastline.
More than once on the drive, Annalisa faked holding a phone to her ear and said in a high-society Boston accent, “Sorry, we can’t make Paris this year. We’ll be summering at Graystone again.” Every time she said “Graystone,” the word turned into fireworks as it left her mouth.
Nonna was still heartbroken over losing Walt, too, but let out a subtle smile whenever Annalisa attempted such silliness. Turning to the little one in the car seat behind her, Nonna said, “Tua mamma é pazza.”
Having been in the city for so long, Annalisa found it incredible to drive through the mountains, surrounded by tall trees. They exited Route 1 and dropped south to cross over the Trenton Bridge into Bar Harbor. As she drove through town, following the light traffic downhill toward the water, she had a strange sense that she was entering a new era in her life.
They parked on the pier and watched sailboats with crisp white sails full of the ocean wind race past each other in the harbor. Annalisa and Celia swung on the swings in Agamont Park, and then the three of them meandered up Main Street. With Nonna inching behind, using her cane, Annalisa pushed Celia up the hill in her stroller, finding herself in awe of this slice of heaven. Nature had never played a strong part in her work, and in this moment she wondered why. It felt like the great outdoors was missing now, as if she had to get up here and immerse herself in it, just as this town was so immersed in it.
They passed men and women in global fashions, dipping into the shops and galleries to find a rare book or to have their shoes polished or to buy a new purse or piece of art. She couldn’t get over how fancy the town felt, while at the same time being so quaint and away from it all.
She saw a lot of families, too, generations together, laughing and horsing around. It made Annalisa chuckle to herself, thinking that she sure had come a long way from the disgruntled teenager who hated the Mills, because she had a sudden craving for small-town life again. The city could be exhausting, that urgency serving as one cup of coffee too many, almost out of balance, whereas this place felt even-keeled yet full of energy. Bar Harbor was exactly what she’d never wanted until now.
“What do you think, baby? Wanna grow up here? I have a good feeling.” Annalisa wished she’d brought her paints and brushes. What was she thinking? At least she always carried her sketch pad.
Celia stumbled through an incoherent sentence as ice cream dripped down her chin, and Annalisa was pretty sure that her daughter would be happy anywhere.
Annalisa jumped back into her silly accent, impersonating her daughter in the future. “Oh, I grew up at Graystone on the shore. Married a banker from Manhattan and sailed with the Vanderbilts.” Celia didn’t understand a word, but that was okay.
When Nonna caught up, Annalisa turned. “Isn’t this the most beautiful place in the world, Nonna? What if we moved here?”
Nonna rolled her eyes, the knob of her cane striking the sidewalk like a hand of a clock ticking toward their destiny. “Here we go again.”
“I’m serious,” Annalisa insisted, her creativity simmering from within. “I feel so inspired here. Don’t you? Everyone in the Mills could come see us all the time. I wouldn’t want to do it without you. Celia needs her great-grandmother now.”
After all these years of trying to get Nonna out of the Mills, Annalisa found a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “We’ll see.”
“Really?” Annalisa imagined being with Nonna again, having Nonna’s presence around Celia. Nothing could be better. “I’m sure there’s a good Catholic church. I could open up a gallery. Lord knows there’s potential to make money here, at least in the summer.”
“We haven’t even seen the house,” Nonna said, keeping along well. “One thing at a time.”
Following a map, Annalisa led them up the hill to find the real estate office, which was in a converted old house with a roof that needed repairs. A green awning read: STEWART REALTY.
After a brief wait, a striking man with slightly disheveled brown hair appeared. He was dressed like he’d just hopped off a yacht and had this slightly rebellious look to him, as if he’d been up to no good in a far-off port.
“Welcome to Bar Harbor,” he said. She heard Bah-hah-bah and thought this was truly another world up here. “My name’s Glen Stewart.” After a reverent pause, he said, “I’m sad to hear about Walt.”
The ladies thanked him, and then he directed his attention to Celia in the stroller. “Who is this little one? Let me guess. A year and a half?”
“Close,” Annalisa said, thinking he had a refined charm. “Fifteen months.”
“Well, look at that. She must be eating her spinach.”
Glen was tall—not as tall as Nino—but tall enough to make Nonna look half his size. Annalisa guessed he was a year or two older than her.
“You’re as beautiful as your mother and your aunt,” he said to Celia, offering a sweet smile.
Nonna caught his meaning quickly and shook her head. She never liked to be wooed. Or did she? Was that a smile hiding in there?
Annalisa corrected him. “This is my grandmother Elena.”
He feigned great shock at his mistake and leaned down to make her acquaintance. “We’re so happy to have you all here. I’m excited to show you the place. Walt and Gertrude were longtime family friends, though we hadn’t seen Walt in years. He stopped coming up after she died. I was pretty young, but I remember him well. Have you driven by yet?”
Celia looked restless, so Annalisa picked her up and rested her on her shoulder. “No, this is our first time up here, to Bar Harbor.”
“It’s just starting to wake up, as you can see. We do weekly rentals for the main house, which typically pick up in May. A writer rents the apartment above the garage for a few months every summer.”
Annalisa shifted Celia to her other hip while nodding to Glen. Walt’s lawyer had shared these details.
“We can continue to help manage the property, or you can take it over,” he said. “Do you know what you’re thinking yet? Will you come up during season? I hope you’re not planning on selling.” He blushed. “We could help you sell; there’d be plenty of takers, it’s just . . . I’d like to see more of you up here.” An inviting smile eased out of him.
Annalisa almost rolled her eyes at his not-so-subtle advance but spared him the embarrassment. Who knew? Maybe she was ready to take the leap again.
“I don’t know what we’re thinking,” she said, swaying to keep Celia settled. “I don’t even know what we’re getting into.”
Glen adjusted his early sixties Oysterdate Rolex, glancing at the time. Annalisa had learned a lot about watches over the years and liked his taste. She didn’t tell him as much.
“Let me grab the keys,” he said, pivoting and disappearing down the hall.
She watched him walk away and then turned to Nonna, who chuckled silently.
“Is this funny to you?” Annalisa whispered, thinking of Walt’s last request.
When Glen returned, Annalisa let out, “You’ll have to come over for dinner while we’re here.” She wondered if Walt had heard her from up in heaven.
Annalisa followed Glen to Sols Cliff Road. As they left town, the Maine wilderness came alive. The house was two miles south of town, down a secluded gravel driveway that cut through a thick forest. Though the lawyer had told her it was on the water, she didn’t believe it until she pulled in and saw the one-hundred-and-eighty-degree views of the Atlantic.
Graystone was a New England paradise, a cedar-shingle-style house with stone accents perched over a rock shelf that dropped down into the sea. Two tall stone chimneys rose from the sharply angled roof. A small balcony protruded out on the second floor on the street-facing side, a vantage point that surely offered a glorious inland view of the forest. A rooster weathervane on the roof indicated an easterly wind. Off to the right, down a short drive, separated from the main house by a patch of wild shrubs and sea oats, there was a detached garage with the apartment Glen had mentioned.
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 set of 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.”
This life seemed too perfect, Annalisa thought, when a loud whistle filled the air. “What in the world is that?” she asked, glancing at Celia and Nonna, whose ears had perked up too.
“Ah, it must be lunchtime,” Glen replied, glancing at his Rolex. “That’s the fire station whistle. It goes off every noon and nine p.m.”
“You’re kidding?” Annalisa thought about Walt’s shop and those noon and midnight bells.
“That’s how you know the tourists from the locals,” Glen said. “The tourists are the ones who jump at noon.”
Tears filled Annalisa’s eyes, and she said to Nonna, “What are the odds . . . ?” Was this Walt saying hello from his spot in heaven? Was this why he’d fallen in love with Bar Harbor in the first place, Graystone being as connected to time as his shop in Portland?
Annalisa felt the hairs rise on her arms, and she went and put an arm around Nonna. “We’re moving here, all three of us. I’m not taking no for an answer.”