When the Stars Sang Read online

  “Nels will have your breakfast cooked up in a jiffy,” she said, laying a motherly hand on Kathleen’s arm. “Bobby and Fred told me you’re planning on moving here. Living here.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll want to be seeing Rebecca.”

  “Rebecca?”

  Wilma nodded. “Rebecca Ahearn. Bobby’s sister. She’s the island Keeper and historian now. She’ll do your Passing.”

  Kathleen frowned. “My passing.”

  Wilma nodded and patted her arm as a bell dinged from the kitchen. “That’ll be your breakfast.”

  A moment later, she slapped a plate of corned beef hash and fried eggs down on the table as she expertly sloshed more coffee into the half-empty mug. Kathleen had her mouth open to ask more questions, but Wilma dashed off to fill more coffee cups and clear empty dishes.

  Kathleen shook her head and dug into her breakfast. This was a taste she remembered from her summers here on the island with Nanna. She hadn’t had corned beef hash in years, not since—

  “Good morning.”

  Kathleen jumped at the unexpected appearance of a woman at her table. “Good morning,” she said uncertainly.

  “I’m Rebecca,” said the woman, holding out a hand.

  Kathleen shook it, surprised by the firmness of the grip as Rebecca studied her with eyes that were a surprising light blue-green against her black hair and bronze complexion.

  “Kathleen.”

  “I’ll let you finish your breakfast.” Rebecca nodded toward the counter. “When you’re done, I’ll be waiting.”

  She moved away to where Wilma had a cup of coffee waiting for her. They put their heads together, whispering as Wilma glanced over Rebecca’s shoulder in Kathleen’s direction.

  Kathleen’s enjoyment of her breakfast was pretty much gone as she ate the last few bites and gulped what remained of her coffee.

  No sooner had she stood than Rebecca slid off her stool.

  Kathleen motioned toward Wilma. “I just need to settle…”

  “Of course.” Rebecca zipped her jacket. “I’ll be out front.”

  Wilma led the way back out to the lobby of the hotel, which Kathleen hadn’t paid much attention to the evening before. Furnished with comfy-looking sofas and chairs scattered about, with bookshelves lining the walls, it had the feel of a family room. The check-in desk actually had an old-fashioned guest ledger.

  “Would you mind signing?” Wilma said, holding out a pen. “We’ve kept track of the hotel guests going all the way back to the 1880s.”

  Kathleen signed and paid for her room and meals.

  “Thank you so much,” she said. “I was more tired than I realized last night.”

  Wilma came around from behind the desk and surprised Kathleen with a hug. “It’s good to have you back.”

  Startled by the unexpected gesture, Kathleen simply nodded and turned for the door.

  Outside, Rebecca was waiting for her.

  “How far are we going?” Kathleen asked, her breath puffing in the cold air.

  Rebecca pointed vaguely. “Not far.”

  Kathleen stashed her bag inside her car and joined Rebecca, pulling her jacket on as she walked. Everything was washed clean in the clear, cool air of morning. Overhead, not a single cloud littered the blue sky. The trees were still brilliantly colored for autumn. Her head swiveled as she walked, taking in the buildings lining the main street, mostly painted clapboard, but some shingled, weathered to a dove-gray. It was still early, not yet nine, but most of the shops were open and a good many people were out. They waved to Rebecca.

  “Has it changed much?” Rebecca asked.

  “Yes and no.” Kathleen stopped to look down the hill toward the bay and marina where the ferry was still docked, apparently being unloaded, judging from the bustle of activity there. “It all feels familiar, but it’s been so long…”

  “Nothing changes too much here.”

  Rebecca led the way across the street and around a corner to a small clapboard building sheltered among a stand of oak trees. It had a front porch, framed by white railings, with two rocking chairs, empty and inviting.

  A carved and painted sign was fastened to the railing: Little Sister Library.

  Rebecca opened the door and stood back, allowing Kathleen to precede her inside.

  “I remember this,” Kathleen said, her eyes lit up as she took in shelves crammed with books. “Nanna brought us here.”

  “That would have been when Naomi was librarian and Keeper,” Rebecca said.

  Kathleen turned to her. “Keeper of what?”

  Rebecca didn’t answer, just walked around the librarian’s desk into the back room. Kathleen followed her. This room, too, was lined with bookshelves containing row upon row of books, but these books were different. They were bound in leather, very old, with no visible titles that Kathleen could see. Rebecca, however, seemed to know exactly which was which. She went to a shelf and pulled two heavy tomes down, plopping them on the table that occupied the center of the space.

  “Have a seat,” Rebecca said, taking a chair herself.

  Kathleen sat beside her as Rebecca flipped open one of the books. Kathleen leaned closer to see what looked like the lines of a family tree.

  “We just need to verify your line,” Rebecca said, slipping on a pair of reading glasses.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Surely you know the story of Little Sister.”

  “Well, I know there was a shipwreck in the seventeen hundreds, and the Indians rescued—”

  “We’re not Indians,” Rebecca said sharply. “We were the First Ones. We lived on both the island and the sea. When the ship went down in 1760, our ancestors rowed out to save those they could.”

  She frowned at the blank look on Kathleen’s face. “Didn’t your grandmother or your father tell you this story?”

  Kathleen shook her head. “My parents… after my brother died, we never came back here, and they never spoke of the island. Nanna and I wrote a few times, but then she stopped. I hadn’t seen her since that summer.”

  “Oh.” Rebecca’s expression softened. “Of course. We were all saddened by your brother’s death. People still talk about it. We’ve lost others in boating accidents, naturally, but none so young as him.”

  “What does any of that have to do with this?” Kathleen gestured toward the book.

  “The ship’s survivors were all Irish, fleeing poverty and landowners who worked them to death. Most of them settled here, the ones who were willing to live by First Ones’ laws.”

  “What laws?”

  “No one on Little Sister Island owns any land. It’s written into the island’s charter. The houses are leased, and passed down along family lines.” She pointed to the book. “If you don’t come from a lineage that can trace itself back, you can’t live here.”

  Kathleen stared at her for a moment and then gave a little laugh, but Rebecca wasn’t smiling.

  “You’re serious.”

  “That’s why this island has stayed our home. Over at Big Sister, the First Ones’ and early islanders’ descendants have had to move away while strangers came and bought up the land to build bigger and bigger houses, pushing the islanders out. Most of the islanders couldn’t afford to live there any longer. That hasn’t happened here and never will. That’s my job as Keeper of the Records. And why you must go through the Passing if you intend to live here.”

  Kathleen’s mouth opened and closed a couple of times as she considered whether this was worth the trouble. Where else are you going to go? she asked herself.

  Rebecca seemed to sense the internal debate. She waited patiently.

  “Okay,” said Kathleen at last. “What do I have to do?”

  “We need to update your family line.” Rebecca pulled the book closer. “Your father, Michael, married Christine Turnbull. Bryan died at age fifteen?”

  Kathleen nodded. No one in her family discussed Bryan. Ever. It felt weird to be discussing
his death so casually. Rebecca must have felt her discomfort.

  “I’m sorry. I know this must be hard. Are there any other siblings? Anyone after you?”

  Kathleen shook her head.

  “And your father’s sister, Moira? Where is she?”

  “My aunt is in California somewhere.”

  Rebecca sniffed. “Got as far away as she could. Is she married? Any children?”

  “I don’t know. We haven’t heard from her in years.”

  Rebecca gave a small “hmphh” noise and made tiny notations at the bottom of the page. She closed that book and flipped the other one open, leafing through pages until she came to the one she sought. Kathleen leaned closer to see line after line of signatures dating back to 1812.

  “This is the list of lessees of the Halloran cottage,” Rebecca said. “Your ancestors.”

  “The cottage is that old?”

  “More or less. The island council grants permission for remodeling and rebuilding. Houses have burned down over the years or been damaged by storms. And indoor plumbing was a nice thing when it came along. Every now and then a family line dies off or moves away, and then that house is let to someone from another family.”

  Kathleen squinted at the page. “What are these dark blotches?”

  “Blood.” Rebecca’s brow furrowed at the look on Kathleen’s face. “It’s just a drop. This is a blood pact. Signed by your blood before you.”

  She held out a pen and a knife. “Your signature and a drop of blood, please.”

  When Kathleen didn’t take them, Rebecca’s expression went carefully blank. “Of course, if you only want to spend some time visiting with us and then leave, that’s up to you.”

  Kathleen let out a shaky breath and picked up the knife. Biting her lip, she gingerly dragged the blade across the pad of her finger three times without drawing blood before Rebecca huffed and took the knife from her.

  “Here.” Grabbing Kathleen’s hand, she jabbed the point of the blade into her finger.

  Kathleen yelped and yanked her hand away. “How clean is that knife?”

  “Guess we’ll know if your finger falls off. Now squeeze,” Rebecca said unsympathetically.

  Kathleen squeezed her finger until a drop of bright red blood welled up. She pressed her bloody finger to the page.

  Rebecca handed her the pen. “Your signature.”

  Kathleen sucked on her finger and signed.

  “That will be one dollar.”

  Kathleen laughed again. “One dollar?”

  “Your yearly lease payment.”

  “And how long is this lease?”

  “Ninety-nine years, if you live that long.” Rebecca stared with those fascinating eyes. “Welcome back to Little Sister.”

  Chapter 2

  KATHLEEN DROVE SLOWLY. She had nearly gone back into the hotel diner to ask Wilma for directions, but changed her mind.

  “It’s an island; how big can it be?” she said as she got behind the wheel of her Altima. Everything looked familiar and different at the same time. She’d never realized how little attention she’d paid as a child when her father drove them off the ferry to Nanna’s.

  She followed a hard-pack road out of town, climbing so that the glimpses she got of the ocean gave her an incredible view. She passed other houses—neat, painted in cheerful yellows and blues and grays or else clad in weathered shingles. She drove past a stand of trees and caught a glimpse of blue. Slamming on the brakes, she backed up to a winding drive and took it.

  Unexpected tears filled her eyes as her grandmother’s cottage came into view. She sat with her hand pressed to her mouth as memories came flooding back. This had been her refuge—a place of summer magic for the first ten years of her life. Carefree days wandering the trails down to the rocky beach with its narrow strip of sand, nights spent reading or lying curled up with Nanna as she and Bryan watched the stars with her. And then…

  An engine rumbled behind her. In her rearview mirror, she saw a battered SUV pull up. She blotted her eyes on her sleeve and got out of her car as the SUV’s driver also climbed out. Kathleen got a quick impression of a slender figure wearing a baseball cap with faded jeans and T-shirt as the stranger walked to the back of the SUV and opened the tailgate.

  “Wilma said you needed to get your furnace cranked up.”

  “Um, yes.” Kathleen realized the driver’s door had a faded star painted on it. “Wilma said she was sending someone named Mo, not the sheriff.”

  “She did.”

  “She did what?”

  “Both.” The driver stepped back around the vehicle, carrying a toolbox in one hand and a long pole in the other.

  Kathleen found herself staring into blue-green eyes very much like Rebecca’s.

  “I’m Molly Cooper. Part-time sheriff, part-time everything else.”

  “The island has a sheriff?”

  “Part-time. Usually only need one when a tourist gets drunk and does something stupid. The rest of us know how to behave. Hard to live on a rock in the ocean with people who don’t follow the rules.”

  Molly’s gaze swept down to Kathleen’s feet and back up again. “And you’re Katie. Maisie’s granddaughter.”

  “Kathleen. Halloran.”

  “Mmm.” Molly tilted her head, peering hard from under the bill of her cap. “I think I remember you. You used to have redder hair when you were little. Always chasing around after your brother and mine.”

  Kathleen flushed, tucking her hair behind her ear. “You have a good memory.”

  Molly turned to the house. “Let’s see about this furnace. Probably hasn’t been fired up since the cold weather in the spring used up the last of Maisie’s—”

  She stopped so abruptly that Kathleen nearly walked into her. “I’m sorry about Maisie, by the way. She was one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. We all miss her.”

  Kathleen felt the prick of tears again. “Thank you.”

  Molly opened her mouth to say something further, but seemed to think better of it and made for the side of the house. Kathleen followed her to where a large metal tank sat.

  “Kept telling Maisie she should add solar as a backup,” Molly said as she set the toolbox down and unscrewed the cap on the tank. She stuck the pole in until it clunked hollowly against the bottom, echoing a little. She sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of. Empty.”

  She pulled the pole back out.

  “Our supply tank is empty. Everyone filled up over the past month. The tanker won’t be back out here for a week.” She looked Kathleen up and down again. “You sure you can get by a week with no heat? Nights are getting cold.”

  Kathleen drew herself up. “I’m not helpless. I’ll get by. I remember a fireplace.” She pointed to a large stack of firewood wedged between two trees and covered with a tarp. “I’m sure I can light a fire.”

  “Okay.” Molly picked up her toolbox. “I’ll give them a call to make sure they’re coming and then I’ll bring some oil to get the furnace started for you. She’ll belch like a chain-smoker at first, but at least you’ll have heat then.”

  Kathleen went to the porch while Molly put her gear into the back of the SUV. She turned the knob on the front door, but it was locked.

  Behind her, she heard Molly getting into her vehicle and starting it. She’d just declared that she wasn’t helpless, but…

  “Hey!”

  Molly rolled the window down and stuck her head out.

  Kathleen jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward the house. “I don’t have a key.”

  Molly stared. For a moment, Kathleen thought she might just drive away, but she turned the ignition off. “Most folks don’t bother locking up at all. Probably the last ones to leave the house did it when they came to get Maisie.”

  She poked around, tipping over flowerpots and looking under stones near the porch. “Got it.”

  She held up a dirt-encrusted key. She wiped it clean with a rag she pulled out of her back pocket and handed it to Kathl
een.

  The key jammed partway into the slot in the doorknob.

  “Wait here.”

  Molly jogged back to her SUV and rummaged around in the back, returning a few seconds later with a small bottle. “Graphite.” She inserted the bottle’s nozzle into the lock and squeezed, releasing a small cloud of fine black dust. “You’ll want to have a bottle handy. Nothing metal lasts too long in salt air.”

  She slid the key in and out a couple of times to work the graphite into the internal mechanism, and then the key turned with a soft click. “There you go.”

  She twisted the knob and pushed the door open for Kathleen. “See you next week when the tanker gets here. If not before then. It’s a small island.”

  Kathleen bit her lip, peering into the dark interior of the house. Behind her, Molly started the SUV again. Kathleen watched her back out and returned Molly’s wave before stepping inside.

  MOLLY PULLED UP TO a somewhat rambling house, cobbled together over decades of additions jutting out here and there.

  “Miss Louisa, Miss Olivia, anyone home?” she called as she got out of the Toyota.

  She lifted the tailgate of the 4-Runner and loaded the pouch of her tool belt with nails. The screen door slapped.

  “Molly, how are you this morning?”

  She grinned at the prim woman standing on the porch, her housedress wrapped tightly around her bony frame, with big, fuzzy slippers on her feet. Her silver hair was pulled back in the bun she’d worn for as long as Molly could remember. A delicate silver chain looped from the glasses perched halfway down her nose.

  “I’m going to take care of those missing shingles today, Miss Lou,” Molly said, buckling her belt around her waist.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t bother—”

  “Sure it’s no bother,” Molly said, reaching back inside the cargo area for a stack of cedar shingles. “The northers’ll be blowing soon. You and Miss Olivia will have real problems if we don’t get those shingles taken care of.”

  Louisa turned back to peer through the front door’s glass. “But we can’t—”

  “Don’t you worry about paying me.” Molly pulled a ladder off the roof rack of her vehicle. “You just make an extra loaf of your orange cranberry bread for me next time you’re baking. That’ll be payment enough.”