Love Finds You in Martha's Vineyard Read online

  BY MELODY CARLSON

  Summerside Press™

  Minneapolis 55438

  www.summersidepress.com

  Love Finds You in Martha’s Vineyard

  © 2010 by Melody Carlson

  ISBN 978-1-60936-110-5

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in

  any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.

  The town depicted in this book is a real place, but all characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people or events are purely coincidental.

  Cover Design by Lookout Design | www.lookoutdesign.com

  Interior Design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group | www.mullerhaus.net

  Photos provided by Melody Carlson.

  Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.

  Printed in USA.

  MY PRECONCEPTION OF MARTHA’S VINEYARD WAS PROBABLY SIMILAR to that of the average American who’s never been there. I assumed it was the highbrow vacation playground of the rich and famous. Thanks to a small number of well-known personalities, from songwriters to politicians, this is somewhat true. But the first time I actually experienced Martha’s Vineyard, I was caught off guard by its quaint charm and natural beauty—and I never saw a single celebrity. That might be because I visited the Vineyard in the middle of winter—a time when the population of the entire island is about fifteen thousand and life there is sleepy, subdued, and slow-paced. But winter is also a good time to get around the island and see the sights—and it’s not hard to get reservations at the last minute.

  However, if you attempt to go in the midst of the summer, brace yourself. The population increases tenfold—up to 150,000 people inhabit the small island and traffic can be a bear (bikes are recommended). The full-time locals wisely maintain a low profile during the height of the season. They’re said to tell their friends, “See you in the fall,” as soon as June rolls around. They’re also reported to say, “I’m going to America,” when they board the ferry taking them back to Massachusetts. I suppose that’s just how removed they feel, living off on their little island in the Atlantic.

  Since I’ve always been drawn to seaboard towns (we have a beach bungalow on the other side of the country), I felt right at home in Martha’s Vineyard. I found the local people to be helpful, informative, and interesting. And the scenery—whether it was windswept beaches, picturesque lighthouses, handsome boats moored in Vineyard Haven, or gingerbread houses in Oak Bluffs—was perfectly delightful, not to mention photogenic. Despite being there in February, with severe storms raging inland, the weather on the island was temperate and mild. All in all, it was a great trip. Even the ferry ride in and out of Woods Hole was enjoyable. In other words, I highly recommend Martha’s Vineyard. I’m looking forward to going back there again myself!

  Melody Carlson

  Chapter One

  Where was that lake-effect weather when you really needed it? A nice chilly breeze off Lake Michigan would’ve been most welcome today. Waverly felt weary and wilted as she slowly made her way toward the “L.” Not only was she perspiring profusely in her best summer suit, but her new spectator pumps were torturing her feet. She should’ve known better than to trust the adolescent salesgirl who assured Waverly that “four-inch heels really can be comfortable.” And to buy the old line that “Oprah wears these exact same shoes for hours at a time” was truly pathetic. Sometimes Waverly wondered if someone had secretly tattooed GULLIBLE on her forehead in a special ink that only showed up in department store lighting.

  As she limped across the street, Waverly wondered if she might’ve permanently injured her feet as well. This morning she’d been so focused on her big interview today that she’d even forgotten to tuck her usual flip-flops into her oversized bag. Well, that was water under the bridge now. Waverly paused at the corner of Columbus and, waiting for the light to change, peeled off her limp linen jacket and folded it over her arm. She fished a hairclip out of her bag and sloppily stuck her long thick curls on top of her head. If the pavement wasn’t so hot, she’d take off her shoes too.

  She probably resembled a bag lady now, but her neck and back felt a tiny bit cooler. Even though it was nearly 6 p.m., the temperature on the bank’s reader board declared it was still 98 smoldering degrees. Summer wasn’t here yet, and Chicago had already broken several of this year’s heat and humidity records.

  That wasn’t the only thing broken, Waverly thought as she hurried across another scorching hot street. A few days ago, her air conditioner had given up the ghost, and so far her building’s super had not returned her call. Normally, Waverly didn’t whine and complain, but today she felt like flopping down on the greens of Grant Park and sobbing loudly and pitifully. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was going right for her. On days like today, she wondered why she even tried.

  “You’re somewhat overqualified for this position,” Mrs. Tremble had told her this morning. Waverly had taken an early lunch break to sneak off to an interview at a new art gallery opening on North Michigan Avenue—in search of her dream job.

  “I realize that,” Waverly had explained. “But I’d really love to work for you and I—”

  “Have you ever worked in a gallery?” Mrs. Tremble peered curiously over her bifocals at Waverly. “I mean, besides art conservation, which is admittedly a very important field in the art world at large but altogether different from working in sales. Certainly, you can understand.”

  “No…I haven’t actually worked in a gallery,” Waverly said slowly. “But I’m a fast learner.”

  Mrs. Tremble smiled in a placating way. “I’m sure you are. However, selling art is different. It takes a certain sort of savoir-faire. A special type of personality, if you know what I mean. Almost a gift, I’m inclined to believe. The ability to read people, to immediately assess them, to understand their tastes, know what they want…and how much they are willing to spend…and more.” She laughed lightly. “I sometimes call it the sixth sense. Really, it’s an art form in itself, dear. It’s a lot different from the science of caring for and restoring art. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think I do,” Waverly assured her. “I consider myself a fairly intuitive person. Although I didn’t mention it on my résumé, I’m not only involved in the science side of art, I’m also an artist myself.” She smiled hopefully. “I am both creative and scientific.”

  Mrs. Tremble sighed. “Well, then…now I am certain you wouldn’t be right for our gallery.”

  Waverly frowned. “Why not?”

  “I would never hire an artist as a salesperson, dear. Too conflicting.”

  “Conflicting?”

  “Oh my, yes. It is one thing to understand and appreciate art. It’s another thing to have the gift for selling art. But to have an actual artist working here in a sales position.” She held up her hands as if Waverly had offered her a poisoned apple. “That would never work.”

  “But I haven’t picked up a paintbrush in ages,” Waverly tried.

  Mrs. Tremble smiled as she stood. “Just be thankful you already have an excellent job. Working in the museum at the Art Institute of Chicago is nothing to be ashamed of, dear. And in this day and age, one is fortunate to have employment of any kind, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.” Waverly nodded helplessly as she too stood. The interview was clearly over.

  “I don’t want to waste any more of your precious time.” Mrs. Tremble looked at her diamond-studded watch bracelet. “I do thank you for coming in, and I hope you’ll stop by again when we are properly opened. Do watch
for the announcement in the Tribune. And we’ll be having a special show for Summer Solstice, less than three weeks away.”

  “Thank you.” Waverly looped a strap of her bag over her shoulder with a very forced smile. “I appreciate your time.”

  Mrs. Tremble walked her out of the office and into the spacious gallery, where electricians were working on the lighting system that, even at a glance, was state-of-the-art. At the front door, Mrs. Tremble had given Waverly a weak handshake, saying, “Thank you, dear. Have a nice day.”

  Waverly politely exited the sleekly designed gallery. Then, pausing in the shade of a canvas awning over the restaurant next door, she’d let out a long, exasperated sigh. She could not believe that Mrs. Tremble had refused to even consider her for the sales position. It was as if the old woman had made up her mind from the very get-go. But, good grief, how hard would it be to sell art? After all, the salespeople worked mostly on commission anyway. What was that mumbo-jumbo about special gifts and a sixth sense? It seemed clear—Mrs. Tremble simply had someone else in mind. Waverly watched as a precisely groomed and well-dressed man paused by the door to the gallery. Checking his image in the shining plate glass, he smoothed his short hair, made a self-satisfied smile, and, holding his head high, went inside. Yes, he was probably the exact sort of person Mrs. Tremble was looking for. Well, good for him!

  Waverly had tried not to show any signs of her disappointment as she returned to work. Not that anyone would notice, since her job was a fairly solitary one—one of the many reasons she was seeking something different. The place was even more quiet than usual since she was now working through her traditional lunch hour. As a result, no one was around to notice her tears as she meticulously cleaned a 350-year-old alabaster bust of a middle-aged Italian woman. The woman’s expression, at first glance, had been pensive…thoughtful…even wistful. But the more Waverly worked on Antonia, the name she’d given the sculpture, the more Waverly realized she was wrong. Antonia was not meditating on her lover or pondering the mysteries of the universe. The woman was plain sad. Perhaps even clinically depressed.

  Was it possible that Antonia, like Waverly, was disappointed in life? Maybe she too had lost her beloved husband at a young age. Perhaps she felt disillusioned about her future. Disenchanted with life. Hopeless. Or maybe Waverly had simply been superimposing her own emotional state onto this cold gypsum form.

  As Waverly entered the shabby courtyard of The Hampshire, the apartment complex where she had resided for the past seven years, she wondered, not for the first time, what had attracted her and Neil to these dowdy brick structures in the first place. Oh, certainly, they had been newlyweds and filled with wide-eyed optimism and high hopes. Plus, neither had ever lived in a big city like Chicago before.

  “We’ll only stay a year,” Neil had promised her. “Two at the most. Just until we figure things out and find a place to buy.” A year had quickly turned into two and then three. But they had been happy years, and Neil and Waverly Brennen made several good friends at The Hampshire. Plus they’d discovered it was handily located close to the “L.” And by keeping expenses down, Waverly was free to pursue her art. So, really, life was good. Then, shortly after their third anniversary, Neil had gone into the hospital for what was supposed to be a “routine surgery.”

  As many times as Waverly had replayed the four-year-old scenario, as many times as she’d blamed herself, blamed the doctors, even blamed Neil, she now found herself replaying it all over again. Maybe it was the weather or the disappointing day, but as she climbed the metal stairs to her apartment, it came flooding back at her.

  “Just go in and get it done while our insurance is still good,” she’d told Neil after his doctor had recommended a cartilage replacement in his left knee. Neil wasn’t even thirty yet, but an old soccer injury had been making him walk like an old man. With summer coming on, Waverly had wanted to get out their bicycles. Plus, she knew Neil had been considering a job switch where the pay was significantly better but the insurance was not. So it had made sense. Or so it seemed.

  Waverly had gone in with him for the surgery. Then she’d brought him home and followed the doctor’s instructions regarding rehabilitation. But two days after the surgery, Neil had complained of a stomachache. Waverly had suggested the usual remedies, like Pepto-Bismol and TUMS, and she’d even made him a cup of ginger tea. Then she’d gotten lost in a painting, a seascape that was still unfinished. By the time she’d checked on Neil again, she assumed he was asleep, but on closer inspection, she saw how pale and cool his skin was to the touch. And she realized he was unconscious.

  By the time the paramedics arrived, his blood pressure had dropped seriously low, and by the time he was examined in the ER thirty minutes later, he was in septic shock. He died the next day. The doctor was sympathetic, telling her such a reaction to surgery was statistically quite rare. But that did not bring her husband back.

  She unlocked and opened the door to her stuffy apartment. Despite having left blinds closed and windows open, the space was even hotter than outside. She checked her landline phone to see if the super had called back—since he hadn’t called on her cell phone—but no one had called. She stripped off the remainder of her interview outfit, replaced it with a tank top and shorts, then went out onto the terrace where, thanks to the shade of another building, it was only 88 degrees. She sat down in her favorite wicker rocker, which was starting to crack and disintegrate, thanks to the harsh winter it had recently survived. Rocking back and forth, she simply stared out onto…nothing.

  It had been more than a year since the last of their friends had moved from The Hampshire. Not that she’d been terribly involved with either of the couples after Neil’s death. Oh, the Picketts and the Garcias had tried to include her at first, but as time passed, it got harder and harder to pretend that nothing had changed. Or that no one missed Neil and his slaphappy sense of humor. In a way, she had been relieved when the Picketts had gotten pregnant and moved to the suburbs. It made things simpler. Loneliness had simply become a way of life. Work and loneliness, combined with a bit of house-cleaning and shopping—that was her routine.

  Waverly noticed something tucked behind the decrepit old barbecue that Neil had gotten them shortly after they’d moved in here. She pulled out the warped piece of cardboard and stared at the faded images pasted onto it. Oh, yes, she remembered now. This had once been her “vision board.” Rita Garcia had talked Waverly into attending a woman’s seminar awhile back. One of their “exercises” had been to create a vision board. This visual image was supposed to help Waverly focus on her hopes and dreams for the future, perhaps even make them come true.

  Waverly had reluctantly cooperated in the project. For nearly a year she had focused on the sweet images she’d cut and pasted onto her board. She’d study those slick magazine photographs of a happy-looking couple, several children (two redheaded girls and a little blond boy), a beagle puppy with a blue collar, a stripey cat with amber eyes, a farmhouse, and even a dreamy cook’s kitchen. For a short time Waverly almost believed it would work.

  But then winter came—one of those harsh Chicago winters that feels endless. When she was alone and depressed at Christmastime last year, she had taken the detestable vision board and, despite the howling snow and wind, had shoved it out onto the terrace, wedging it behind the barbecue grill with plans to torch it later.

  The flimsy paper shredded easily, crumbling in her hands like sawdust as she dumped the whole mess into the rusty barbecue. She was just going into the apartment to search for matches when the loud jangling of the landline made her jump. She was tempted to let the obnoxious interruption go to voice mail, but thinking it might be her slacking super calling about her useless AC, she hurried to get it. “Hello?”

  “Waverly!” gushed what sounded like her mother’s voice. “I can’t believe I caught you at home!”

  “Vivian?” Waverly had been taught early on to call her mother by her first name, and anything else at this stage
of the game would feel awkward.

  “Yes, darling, it’s me.”

  Now Waverly jumped to the worst conclusions—the natural thing to do since her mother rarely called and, as far as Waverly knew, she was out of the country. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course, I’m fine. I’m over here in—” The line crackled apart and the words were lost.

  “You’re breaking up on me,” Waverly warned loudly.

  “Sorry. This connection is a little iffy.”

  “But you are all right? Nothing is wrong?”

  “I’m perfectly fine,” Vivian assured her.

  Waverly was relieved but curious. “So what’s up then?”

  “Oh, it’s very exciting. Aunt Lou and I have just—” Suddenly the connection broke up again, crackling so loudly that Waverly’s ears rang and she had to hold the phone away from her head.

  About to hang up, Waverly shouted into the receiver, “Why don’t you call back later when you have a better connection and I can hear—”

  “You don’t have to yell at me.” Her mother’s voice came through quite clearly now.

  “Sorry, but I couldn’t hear—”

  “Yes, yes, but as I was saying, Aunt Lou and I took the plunge and bought the gallery. It’s so groovy.”

  “Huh?” Waverly tried to piece this together. “What gallery? Where are you?”

  “Martha’s Vineyard!” Vivian exclaimed. “Weren’t you listening to a single word I said?”

  “You were breaking up on me and—”

  “Anyway, we were just talking over dinner. Oh, you wouldn’t believe the lobster here. Delightful. Although this is a dry town, if you can believe that.” She laughed. “I tried to order a bottle of cabernet and was informed that was not possible. Not a drop of alcohol can be sold here in Vineyard Haven. Can you imagine? And we’re staying at this adorable little inn that looks out over the harbor and even has a cupola on top. You can walk all the way around it and—”