Love Finds You in Martha's Vineyard Page 5

  “Veggies,” he said cheerfully, opening the fridge and taking out the lovely produce Vivian had brought over. “Onions, spinach, tomatoes, peppers, and—”

  “I don’t like any of those,” she informed him.

  He blinked. “None of them?”

  She shook her head no.

  He thought hard. Well, to be fair, she had never been fond of those vegetables. But he figured with her new focus on nutrition, she should’ve been now. However, he was not going there. Not today anyway.

  “Okay, how about an egg-white omelet with some, uh…” He considered his words. “Some low-fat cheese.”

  “Low-fat cheese?”

  “Yes. Some cheeses are very low in fat.” He was backpedaling now, digging in the cheese drawer of his fridge, hoping for a miracle. “Like Swiss,” he proclaimed.

  “Swiss is low-fat?” she asked a bit skeptically.

  “Absolutely,” he said with mock confidence. “That’s what those holes are for.”

  She gave him a funny look. “Okay.” Then she went back to playing her games.

  Feeling like maybe he’d just won that round, he proceeded to make her a “low-fat” omelet. What was it with women and diets anyway? Who had been brainwashing her about this garbage—and how long would it take to unbrainwash her? Or was that even possible? He wondered if there was some kind of hotline for things like this: 1-800-DAD-HELP.

  He finished the first omelet and, to his relief, she ate most of it, as well as the apple slices he’d put next to it. However, she turned her nose up at the chocolate milk. That was disheartening, because that had always been the one thing he could count on her eating before. Now she proclaimed it “full of fat and carbs.”

  After he finished his omelet, he began cleaning up in the kitchen, and she wandered out to the TV. But she soon discovered he had no cable and, minutes later, proclaimed his new collection of DVDs “childish.” He was fearful she was about to return to her video games again.

  “Maybe we can shop for some different movies together,” he offered as he hung the frying pan on the pot rack over the stove.

  “Do you even have a video store here?” she asked sarcastically.

  “Sure,” he said. “Martha’s Vineyard isn’t exactly the sticks.”

  “That’s not what Mom said.”

  “There’s a lot to do around here,” he told her. “Beaches to explore and—”

  “Does the video store carry games?”

  He shrugged as he dried his hands. “I don’t know.”

  “It figures. Alex told me I’d be bored out of my gourd here.”

  He chuckled. “Bored out of your gourd, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Has Alex even been here?”

  “No, but her friend was here one summer.”

  “I see.” Blake was desperately trying to think of something to say that would bring back that old sparkle in her eyes. “I made friends with the neighbors,” he tried, “and we’re invited to their house for dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Do they have kids?”

  “Uh…” He thought of Janice now. “Yeah, one of the ladies has a daughter.” Misleading, yes, but it wasn’t exactly a lie. Mostly he simply wanted to pacify her, to assure her that they could do this…it would get better. Wouldn’t it?

  “Okay.” She nodded like she was envisioning a young friend for her to hang with during the summer. “I’m kinda tired, Dad. I think I’ll go to my room now.”

  “All right.” He felt a mixture of relief and disappointment as he watched her turn and go into her room, firmly closing the door as if to tell him to “stay out.” But to be honest, it was mostly relief he felt. He had no doubts that he was in way over his head. It seemed crystal clear: Sicily had no intention of making this easy. At this rate, he wasn’t sure which one of them would give up on this summer first—her or him?

  The next day started out as one of those delectable June mornings—a warm breeze wafting off the water, a few clouds wisping across a pristine blue sky. Perfect. As Blake leaned back into his Adirondack chair, gazing out toward the Sound, he stretched his long tanned legs out onto his porch and sipped a hot mug of coffee. Life was good. His daughter was sleeping in this morning. He suspected a better father would rouse her out of bed, invite her to walk on the beach and look for sea glass or shells, but he knew he wouldn’t. Not today, anyway.

  Despite the soft marine air drifting through his open bedroom window last night, Blake had not slept well. Instead of relishing the notion that his only and beloved daughter was finally safe and sound beneath his very own roof, the only thing Blake could think was that he’d blown it. No matter which way you sliced it, he’d messed up. The fact that Sicily was acting like a spoiled, bratty pubescent was his fault.

  He’d tossed and turned, running the past ten years through his head with enough regret to make a grown man cry. He’d shed a few tears as he punished himself by replaying his many mistakes. If only he hadn’t worked so much. If only he’d taken a more active part in raising Sicily. If only he hadn’t moved all the way to Martha’s Vineyard.

  Or the biggie—if he’d somehow been able to keep his marriage together—which would’ve been a challenge since Gia had indulged in more than one affair during their relationship. Her rationale had been that “everyone did it,” and it was the only way to secure a role. Not that she’d scored any big contracts from her couch sessions. But she did manage to hook Gregory. Not that she was happy with him now.

  On and on he’d gone, torturing himself by the light of the moon until he finally saw the gray light of dawn creeping in. Then, feeling raw and hopeless, he got up and made coffee. The sun’s rising, combined with coffee, improved his outlook. Some of his old optimism was returning. He and Sicily were merely going through a rough patch. Give her a few days to get used to things, and she’ll return to her old self. Or so he was telling himself.

  “Hello there,” called a woman’s voice.

  Blake turned, looking toward Louise and Vivian’s place, seeing a tall, unfamiliar woman coming his way. As she got closer, he could see her dark hair was cut short, curling around her face in a becoming way. She looked stylish in a turquoise polo shirt and bright-colored, madras-plaid capris. Waving toward him, she called out, “Hey, neighbor, I’m your neighbor.” She waited at the bottom of the porch steps. “Mind if I intrude?”

  “Not at all.” He stood to greet her.

  “I was sent over here by my mother to see if you happen to have a stick of butter we can borrow.” She smiled brightly, revealing straight white teeth.

  “I’m Blake Erickson,” he said as they shook hands.

  “So I’ve heard.” She studied him closely now. Judging by her eyes, she liked what she was seeing.

  “I’m guessing you’re Janice Grant.”

  She looked slightly surprised. “You already know who I am?”

  “Your mother, uh, may have mentioned you…in passing.”

  “Oh.” She smiled wryly. “Well, now it makes more sense.”

  “What makes sense?”

  “Why my practical mother was making hotcakes without a speck of butter in the house.”

  He frowned. “I’m not following you exactly.”

  She laughed. “My mother’s way of forcing an introduction. Sorry about that. She’s not the most subtle person on the planet.”

  “So do you need the butter or not?” he asked.

  “Good question. I’ll bet my mother does have butter somewhere, but she’s tucked it out of sight, probably in a cupboard. I’ve got a mind to go back there and force her to dig it out, so I can rub her nose in it.”

  “Or I could just loan you some, which I do happen to have by the way. I put in provisions a couple of days ago. In fact, I got so much stuff, you’d think I was planning on entertaining a full house”—he lowered his voice—“instead of one slightly anorexic daughter, who wouldn’t touch butter with a ten-foot pole.”

  Janice blinked. “Your daughter is ano
rexic?”

  He posed a forefinger over his lips now, tipping his head toward Sicily’s bedroom window, which thankfully was closed.

  “Oh.” Janice nodded. “I see.”

  He continued talking quietly, feeling the need to unload his worries on someone. “I picked her up yesterday. She’s only nine, but she’s acting like a snotty teenager already. It’s like an adolescent alien invaded her being and took over. The last time I saw her, a few months ago, she was a sweet, adorable child.” He sadly shook his head. “Now she is…well, something else. And I blame myself.”

  “You blame yourself?”

  He nodded, noticing that his coffee mug was empty. He held it up. “Care for some coffee?”

  She appeared to consider this. “Maybe so. It might do my mother good to have to wait for me to come back. Teach her a lesson about honesty.”

  He opened the screen door. “Come on in.” So while he made a fresh pot of coffee, she wandered through the kitchen and great room, peppering him with questions. He told her a little about his past and unfortunate marriage, even confessing about his addiction to work. “Which is one reason I moved here…to slow down.” He handed her a cup of coffee. “I’ve discovered that being a driven workaholic comes with a high price, especially in relationships.”

  “That’s one reason I’ve never married.” She poured some cream into her coffee. “I knew that a husband would play second fiddle to my work.”

  “At least you had the sense to figure that out first,” he said as they went back outside. “Some people have to learn the hard way.”

  “So are you still a workaholic?” she asked as she sat down.

  “No. I’m recovering…hopefully.” Then he explained about leaving the rat race behind. “So my buddy Lincoln took my condo and I took his house. We have a two-year agreement, though Lincoln is hoping it’ll become permanent.” He smiled. “It’s a pretty nice condo…good location.”

  “And you’d give that up to live here?” She looked shocked.

  “For now, and maybe longer. Mostly I just want to learn how to slow down and live my life differently.” He looked out over the water and sighed. “I’m still getting used to the pace, but I think I like it.”

  She frowned slightly. “I like it for a while,” she told him. “But I couldn’t handle a steady diet of this.”

  “It’s definitely not for everyone. I hear the winters can be hard.”

  “And they’re not just talking about the weather either,” she said in a warning tone. “This place empties out right after Labor Day. I was here once in midwinter, and it was a ghost town—or a ghost island. They say the population goes from fifteen thousand in off-season to a hundred thousand at the peak.”

  He nodded. “I’ve heard that too. Some of the locals go around saying, ‘See you next fall,’ because a lot of them go completely underground during summer, becoming recluses until the tourists go home.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” she said. “I like the idea of popping over here from time to time in the hopes of spotting some of the rich and famous. I’ve hinted to Mom that I expect to get invited to some of the exciting parties I’ve heard about. Now that she’s a full-time resident, she could rub elbows with some big names.” Janice laughed. “Although it’s widely accepted that Republicans aren’t terribly popular on this island.” She wrinkled her nose. “Thanks to predecessors like Clintons and Gores. But it’s a free country, and I’m not afraid to express my opinions in front of anyone willing to listen, especially if they have a vote.”

  “Yes, I hear you’re running for state senate,” he said. “Impressive.”

  “Don’t be too impressed. I might not win. Not this time anyway. The first go-around is more about getting your name out there…again. My father was a senator, but it’s been a long time. It’s not that I’m trying to ride on his coattails. In fact, there was a time when I was certain I would never pursue politics. In a way, I think politics came after me.” She finished her coffee and smiled. “Now, as pleasant as this has been, I think I better get back to check on those hotcakes.”

  “And the butter?” he offered.

  “I think I’ll force my mother to come clean about that.” She handed him the empty coffee mug. “Thanks, neighbor.”

  “See you around,” he called as she went down the porch steps.

  “Yes, I hear we’re having guests for dinner tomorrow evening. I suspect that means you.”

  He watched as she headed through the beach grass between the two houses, reminding himself to get some sort of grass cutting tool the next time he was in the hardware store. A path might be nice. Janice Grant seemed a pleasant woman—not hard on the eyes either. Perhaps she wasn’t exactly his type—not that he knew exactly what his type was anymore—but she came across as intelligent, interesting, and energetic. Maybe he finally had time to investigate the possibilities of female companionship. Well, except that he had Sicily to consider now. He stood and stretched lazily, reminding himself that there was no reason to hurry anything along right now. No schedules, no deadlines, no pressures…at least for a while. And he intended to enjoy it.

  Chapter Six

  As she waited to board her flight, Waverly couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this exhilarated. Probably not since Neil was alive. The last time she’d experienced this kind of hopeful anticipation was probably the time they were getting on a plane bound for Mexico. Shortly after their first anniversary, they began planning a trip to Yucatan. It took a couple of years of frugality and penny pinching to save up enough for their dream vacation.

  Waverly still remembered feeling cautious when the time came to book the big trip. So used to fretting over finances, she’d actually suggested they wait another year to take the trip. But Neil had remained steadfast, insisting they had to go. So they booked it shortly after the New Year. In late February, during a Chicago blizzard, they’d packed their bags and left. Once they made their escape from O’Hare, Waverly’s regrets evaporated, and the rest of the trip turned out to be amazing and memorable—well worth all the little things they’d gone without to afford it.

  Of course, there’d been no way to predict it would be their first and last big trip like that together. But looking back now, Waverly thanked God that Neil had convinced her to go.

  Now—although today was completely different—she experienced a similar rush of excitement as she boarded the plane, found her seat, and buckled her safety belt. She was really doing this. No turning back. Every bridge was burned. Her nonstop flight to Boston would arrive in the afternoon. After that she’d ride a shuttle to the ferry, which would transport her directly to Vineyard Haven—her final destination. She felt like she was about six years old, like Christmas was just around the corner.

  Vivian had been hard to reach this past week, plus Waverly had been distracted with packing and preparing for her exodus, but she had told her mother which ferry she’d booked and when she’d be arriving. Vivian had promised to meet her at the ferry. Waverly hoped she didn’t forget. But even if she did, Waverly figured she could probably walk to town. According to the map she’d studied, the ferries were only a block or two from the center of the downtown area. Still, she hoped Vivian would remember since it sounded as if there was a lot going on there for them too.

  “Janice just arrived,” Vivian had told her during the weekend. “She’s taking her vacation here, sharing Aunt Lou’s bedroom, so it’s pretty cozy in the bungalow. But you’re welcome to stay with me in my room, if you don’t mind sharing a bed. Otherwise you can start settling into the apartment. Aunt Lou had to store some things there. She had things brought over from Boston, but she’d overestimated on how much furniture our little bungalow can hold. It started feeling like a warehouse in here. But I’m positive she won’t mind if you use her things.”

  Suddenly Waverly felt concerned—or maybe even territorial. Surely her mom and aunt would let her arrange the studio apartment herself. “My things are coming too,” Waverly said
with hesitation. “They should be here by the end of the week.”

  “That’s wonderful, dear. As I recall, your aunt only had a sofa bed and a few other pieces stored there. If necessary, we can find someone who’ll like them. We’ll sort it out when you get here, darling. No worries.”

  Waverly was still trying to wrap her head around this new side of Vivian. She wasn’t used to her mother being so congenial and easygoing. But she appreciated it. As Waverly stood outside now, leaning into the rail of the ferry boat and watching as it cut through thick, luminescent curls of water, she felt incredibly happy and free. The sea breeze against her skin, the summer sun on her head—everything seemed absolutely perfect. Picture perfect.

  She took numerous photos, telling herself that someday, when she had the time, these very photos would inspire her to paint. Watercolors perhaps. Or maybe she’d break out the oils eventually. She stared in wonder at the vastness of the water and sky before her. So much blue—varying shades of blue around her. As they got closer to what appeared to be land, probably the island, she noticed more boats. Some sailboats, some yachts—nautical slices of pristine white cutting through the otherwise blue-scape. Fresh, clean, beautiful. She was going to be happy here. She couldn’t wait to settle in.

  During her flight, she’d decided that she wanted to move directly into the studio—no matter what shape it was in. The idea of sharing a bedroom with her mother—and a bed—wasn’t going to work for her. As well located as their beach bungalow might be and as pretty as it sounded like they were making it, she was going to take a pass on staying there with them. She would rather “rough it” in the studio on her own.

  She knew this decision was partly related to her cousin. Waverly had been surprised to hear that Janice Grant was there right now. Even though Janice was only there on vacation, Waverly felt caught off guard, and it had almost stolen some of the joyful anticipation about her new life. Of course, she’d convinced herself that it was silly to let Janice get to her. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Janice. Not exactly.