Later, downstairs in the hold, they sat in the Volvo, watching the approaching pilings through the front of the ferry. The boat weaved. Ropes tightened. Doors slid back. The girls pressed forward in their seats (to see it again, the harbor, the boats, the gulls!). Engines started. Cars began moving. Seat belts! Laura screamed. We can’t go anywhere until you’re in your seat! But Isabel refused to get into the child’s seat, and Olivia was chewing again on her braid.

On the island the leaves were just sprouting from trees, tiny lime green flags, so far behind Montreal, where summer had already begun in earnest. The cold hung over the island like an ice cube. There were military trucks parked along the roadsides. Mark had warned Laura: Things might be different. Laura was keyed up as it was; she’d never opened the house for the season alone. The hot water heater gave her the most anxiety; Mark had always done it (the gas frightened her). And she didn’t want to bother Rupert Quinn with a call (why had he not sent a bill?). The islanders could be so contrary, so proud. She’d probably have to beg Kevin Gearns to come over and help.

Outside the house the purple tulips were blooming. The shutters all in place. So Rupert had been there after all. The girls bolted from the car. Laura unlocked the door, took boards off their hinges, opened the windows. She ordered the girls outside. Mice had gotten into the silverware, the soap dish (a cake of Ivory half consumed, a mound of black turds in its stead). There were nests of insulation in the drawers. The house needed a thorough scrubbing, but the girls kept getting in the way.

Off with you, she commanded. Olivia, you look after Isabel, okay?

Olivia nodded her head.

Come, Izzie, she said, let’s go to the beach.

First your coats.

But, Mommy!

No buts.

Finally, she watched them go, down through the neighbor’s yard, bundled in jackets, even though it was almost June. Olivia led the way.

The morning stirred. Tree Swallows hovered and chirped overhead. Isabel lagged behind, swinging an orange bucket, a stick in one hand; she poked at everything.

Izzie, come on!

But what about the merman? she asked. Was he here?

Where?

In the house, during the winter?

I doubt it, Olivia said.

Will we see him on the beach?

Shut up, Izzie.

The ocean was emerald, opalescent by the shore. The bluffs a rich cinnamon red. Olivia scrabbled down to the strand, Isabel followed. Olivia warned her to take it slow. Isabel picked up a mussel shell and deposited it in her bucket. Olivia found the dried carapace of a horseshoe crab and picked it up by its tail.

Izzie, look.

Is it a helmet?

It’s the merman’s hat.

She held it by the rim above her head.