The Village by the Sea Read Online Free PDF

grandmother. Emma wondered if the girl was the one with the blazing talent. Then a tall run-down looking house where, he told her, two ancient sisters lived with an elderly gardener who cooked their meals and did their shopping. It was rumored they had a little roulette wheel, and every night the three of them gambled until dawn.
    They sat down on a damp log that had washed up on the shore. Uncle Crispin explained that a small Coast Guard cutter flying across the water was probably on a rescue mission. “Someone has got into trouble, no doubt,” he said. People often came out from the city and rented sailboats without knowing the least thing about sailing.
    â€œLook how the water changes,” he went on. “Its color tells you what time of day it is.”
    Emma realized the water was a deeper blue than when she had first looked at the bay. A faint rosy blush touched the distant shores of the islands on the horizon.
    â€œI can’t always come down to the beach with you,” he went on. “I give private violin lessons in the summer. But you can wade in the water and play on the beach.”
    â€œWhen we go to the country, I go out a lot by myself,” she said.
    He looked at her curiously a moment. “I said play on the beach—but I don’t know how children play. I think my childhood was very serious. I can recall reading and the rooms where I read. I suppose I must have played, too. I never cared for sports.”
    Grown-ups had been telling Emma to go and play all her life. She hadn’t thought about what it meant until this moment. You played games, of course, but there was something else the word “play” didn’t seem to fit.
    â€œYou make up things,” she said, “and part of it is like a kind of dream. You don’t know what time it is. When you pretend you’re somebody else, or you dress up a stuffed animal in baby clothes, you’re really thinking in a way that’s hard to explain.”
    â€œI remember thinking a lot,” Uncle Crispin said, “but I don’t believe the adults around me suspected it.”
    Emma grinned. “My math teacher told me I don’t think at all,” she said.
    â€œMath is different from what we’re talking about. Music is a special way of thinking, too. What we’re talking about is imagining.”
    While they spoke, Emma drew a circle in the sand with a stick. She chose two pebbles for eyes and a piece of dried seaweed for a mouth and placed them inside the circle. “That’s my math teacher,” she said. Uncle Crispin laughed. “A startling resemblance, I’m sure,” he said. “I guess we’d best go back. I hope you like roast chicken. I’m not bad at that.”
    They had walked a good distance from the stairs, Emma realized. She had been happy for a while. Every step that brought them closer to the big log house pressed the happiness further into the sand. It was like walking to the place where you would get bad news.
    â€œYour Aunt Bea is a smashing cook,” Uncle Crispin said. “The trouble is she puts too much effort into it and wears herself out. She won’t settle for ordinary cooking. I’m sure she will do you a fine dinner before you go home. Then you’ll see.…”
    What she saw was the way Uncle Crispin’s forehead wrinkled when he spoke of his wife.
    They reached the stairs. Emma started up very slowly. Uncle Crispin put his hand on her shoulder. It was a light touch. But then, everything he did was light and quick. He was like a grasshopper hiding in tall grass, suddenly leaping into sight for a brief moment, she thought.
    â€œPhilip is young,” he told her. “That is the great thing. Youth and strength make a great difference.”
    She realized she hadn’t given a thought to her father for the last hour or so. How could you forget someone in trouble for even a moment if that someone was one of the