The Glass Ocean

by Beatriz Williams

benevolence could ever erase the fact that his money was crisp and shiny, having been earned by Gilbert himself

Greek Revival home of her childhood, a place of creaking wide-plank pine floors and wraparound porches filled with rocking chairs and flowers that spilled over the edges of their pots like rainbows.

Truth is a poor second to a convincing lie.

Miss Caroline Telfair, pampered Southern belle with a pedigree that went back to God. Or, at least, to three or four Founding Fathers.

The master and mistress slept not just in separate rooms, but in separate kingdoms, each with their own staff.

an actual print newspaper, two of them, the Daily Telegraph followed by the Guardian, getting both sides of the story—and

he drank americano. That was interesting. Was he lactose intolerant or did he simply prefer his coffee black?

Shepherd’s Bush!

a very nice voice it was, too, like Guinness, velvet and bitter.

my stomach had lost its connection to the planet’s gravitational field.

Cockney rhyming slang for ‘vomit.’” “Wallace and Gromit,”

A historian.

An historian

“Torquay’s only a few miles away,” he said. “Torquay? Like in Fawlty Towers?”

Lusitania china. With its distinctive cobalt-and-white floral design,

That was the thing with lies: she could almost imagine it were true. She could picture the cottage she’d supposedly left, like something out of a picture book, all thatch and hanging kettles, and a woman with an apron tied over a cotton dress, holding a ladle.

Around the trees, down that gentle slope of spring green, nestled a small, tranquil lake; in the middle of the lake swam an island; in the middle of the island, surrounded by willows weeping and a couple of apple trees uncurling their new green leaves, sat an octagonal building like something the Romans might have left behind, made of crumbling red brick and pale stone. A swath of massive, purpling wisteria climbed up one side and over the crest of the dome, disappearing down the back. From behind us, the sun turned the stone a luminous rose-gold.

An elegant stone bridge came into view, linking the island to the shore,

“There’s an old Russian saying your chap Reagan used to bandy about, back in the Cold War. ‘Trust, but verify.’”

“‘I have wasted time and now time doth waste me.’”

“No one is worth telling the world to go to hell. That’s not love; that’s arson.”

“It’s easy to love someone you can’t have. There’s no risk in it.”

I heard a faint cracking noise, the way a straw sounds when it strikes a camel’s back.

Still, the edge of anxiety never really went away, like a small, dark bird living in my head.

Gilbert was so excruciatingly punctual, something she’d had to learn during their marriage. It simply hadn’t been a priority in Savannah, as the pervasive heat and humidity were more a deterrent to rushing about than being a recipient of a disapproving frown from a hostess. Tardiness was accepted, and most likely encouraged, as nobody wanted to appear in a dining room or ballroom glowing with perspiration or—heaven forbid—smelling like a wet dog.

I would appreciate you not speaking to her again

your correction from you

Words might lie, vows might be false, but a picture was what it was, as long as one had the wit to see it.

Tennessee and Virginia

‘The heart has reasons of which reason knows nothing.’”

Don’t forget, the Irish sided with the Germans in the Great War, if only to spit in the eye of the English.

that one could never appreciate the beauty of a rose without having once been stuck by its thorn.

duel for their lady’s honor, like something out of a film at the cinema.

“Oh, but it’s never a question of what we deserve, Sarah. It’s a question of what we can bear. And John, I’m afraid, happens to be one of those chaps who can bear a great deal. So he does.

“Maple Leaf Rag”—a

but do you think . . . it might be possible . . . to downshift . . . your manic pace . . . just a trifle?”

In the distance, I could just make out the glow of Torquay,

I’m not saying you shouldn’t reach out and help others. Listen and love and support and whatever you can. But you can’t expect to save them. You can’t hold yourself responsible for their choices.”

“There have been stories,” said Robert conversationally, “of survivors being washed ashore far from the site of a wreck. When the Armada smashed on these shores back in the reign of Good Queen Bess, there was many a small town that found a ragged Spaniard in its midst. It’s why so many Irish have dark hair and eyes. Black Irish, they call them.”

Not a passionate marriage, you might say, but a stable and happy one, based on mutual interests and genuine friendship.