Page 1

1

Mari

2016

I hoisted my backpack over my shoulder and joined the crush of people streaming down the ferry’s gangplank.

I’d made it to Martha’s Vineyard at last, that storied island. I’d heard it was almost too charming. That Princess Diana had stayed there. Lots of presidents. Carly Simon and James Taylor once upon a time. There had to be something cool about it.

I stood under the canopy and scanned the people coming to meet their friends and families. Mrs. Devereaux had been so vague in her letter. Take the 9:30 ferry. I’ll fetch you in Vineyard Haven. Had I gotten the day wrong?

I wiped the sweat off my upper lip. I’d forgotten my sunglasses and was beyond jet-lagged from taking the red-eye from L.A. to Boston.

An amped-up bridal party pressed by me in a haze of Miss Dior, gold Mylar balloons bobbing above them; matching straw hats identified them as Bride and Bride Squad, as if the world didn’t know. I stepped back to let a couple not that much older than me walk by, a toddler in the father’s arms and a sweet-looking mutt leashed behind. The perfect family.

I walked across to the gray-shingled terminal building, the asphalt radiating heat, and sat cross-legged on a bench, watching the crowd of rich-looking tourists, flannel-shirted farmer types, and lunch-tote-carrying workers from the mainland. Were some headed to those stately white houses that lined the harbor, the ones probably built by men with names like Ichabod, the kitchens done over with double Sub-Zeros and too much white marble? Life was good for people here in almost-too-charming land.

I held my suede fringe bag close, one of my mother’s favorites. My high-waisted jeans and halter top had seemed right at the time when I left L.A., but from the few stares and glances cast in my direction, I now knew I looked out of place. Not that I cared much about dressing for others. I dressed for joy. And my dwindling bank account.

I’d eaten nothing since the peanuts on the plane, because the ferry snack bar offered only industrial-looking clam chowder and some shriveled hot dogs. And a ten-dollar deck of playing cards featuring a vintage Martha’s Vineyard map, which I’d bought in a moment of impulse and regretted as soon as cash changed hands.

I called Nate’s number. “This is Nate. Sorry I’m not here right now, but we’ll talk soon.” Why did he never pick up? He was always so busy with his tech start-up, which was taking forever to start up.

I sipped my bottle of club soda, an economical drink since the bubbles made me feel fuller, and watched my fellow passengers match up with their rides. A white Range Rover arrived, and the bridal party wrangled their balloons into the car and piled in. Soon a white-haired woman wearing a pink button-down shirt waved to the perfect family, and off they went, the mother fussing over the daughter or daughter-in-law.

It made me miss my own mom. Not that my mother would’ve worn anything remotely buttoned down. If a shirt didn’t have a seventies vibe, Nancy Starwood wasn’t wearing it. We’d spent hours browsing the L.A. thrift shops as a team, hunting through the racks on Melrose, on the lookout for band T’s and vintage Levi’s. All the shop owners loved her charming way and always saved her the good stuff.

Soon the crowds thinned. Where is Mrs. Devereaux? I checked my phone and found it nonresponsive. Maybe a new phone with some battery life would be a good thing to save for.

I turned the golden bracelet on my wrist, a habit I’d just acquired. Before I left L.A., I found the circle of gold hearts in the electric-pink sock my mom used to store her jewelry in. The hearts were kind of corny and the bracelet wasn’t really my mother’s style—or mine, either—but it gave me an odd sort of comfort now.

I approached a woman wearing an orange vest, who stood waving cars onto the ferry to return to the mainland. “Where’s the closest public phone? My ride hasn’t shown up.”

“Across the street,” the woman said. “Vineyard Bikes will let you use theirs.”

I dodged cars and hurried into the shop. Bikes filled every inch of the place, even hanging from the rafters, and I ran one finger along the seat of a tandem bike resting against the wall. That much togetherness would be a mistake no matter how good the relationship.

A guy I guessed was in his mid-thirties, maybe two years older than me, stood bent over an overturned bicycle, his hair pulled back in a messy bun. He spun the wheel with a satisfying ticking sound. I basked in the cool darkness of the place and admired his strong-looking back, a body part underappreciated in men.

I waved. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He looked up and tucked a stray lock behind one ear. “Great bag.”

I ran one hand down the suede, taken aback that a male human had admired a piece of my clothing, a first for me. “My mother’s. I’m sorry, but the person I was supposed to meet is a no-show. Mind if I use your phone?”

He nodded toward the counter. “Have at it.”

I dialed the number from the letter, and while it rang, I considered the bike man’s profile and decided if he’d been born in the seventeenth century he could have passed for a Flemish painter or composer.

“Is it always this crowded here?” I asked, phone to my ear.

“It’s an August Friday, so yes. March, not so much.”

I liked the way he said Mahch in that famous Massachusetts accent.

I hung up the phone. “No one there.”

I stepped to the window and checked the ferry terminal again. After paying my mother’s funeral expenses, I couldn’t afford a long cab ride.

“I’m here from L.A. Just flew into Logan this morning. How much to rent a bike to ride to Chilmark?”

“Twenty bucks a day.” He glanced at me. “But it’s a tough ride.” He straightened, brushed off his jeans, and gave me his full attention. “Used to biking?”

“I went on a Berkeley trip once back in college—toured Hershey, Pennsylvania.”

“Oh, that garden spot.”

“But it was really fun, actually.” I shooed away the image of my ex-boyfriend, Justin, riding off with Jennifer Sibley down Chocolate World Way.

“Well, you’d be fine biking the flat roads along the coast, but the roads Up-Island are hillier. Trust me, just take Stagecoach Taxi.”

“How much would that be?” I asked.

“Around sixty bucks.”

I pictured the inside of my wallet and the two twenty-dollar bills and change there. At thirty-four I should have been well past the backpacking phase of life and able to afford a taxi. Just a late bloomer, my mother had said. “That’s kind of a lot for me right now…”

He reached up into the rafters and pulled down a pale-green bike, a surprising feat of strength, and I stepped back to watch. I’d always found men who did physical labor more attractive than their office-working counterparts.

“I get it. It’s possible to live out here without a lot of money, but you have to be creative. I can do it for ten if that helps.”

“It does, thanks.”

He went to the counter and hovered his pen above a form.

“Name?”

“Mari Starwood.”

He smiled. “You could be a movie star with that name.”

I’d actually been christened Marigold Violet Starwood, named after a British soap my mother had a passing fancy for, but I rarely shared my full name. Not because I didn’t like it; more to avoid people’s same old jokes about it.

“Are you an actress? Being so…”

“So what?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” He searched my face for a few long seconds. “Beautiful.”

I glanced away, hiding my smile. He was just flirting, but that wasn’t a word I’d use to describe myself. Interesting, perhaps. But black hair and Elvira-white skin wasn’t the most sought-after vibe in L.A., where blonds ruled. Just the thought that there might be a more relaxed beauty standard here in the land of farmers and fishermen made me feel newly buoyant.

I told him I had to leave tonight on the seven-thirty ferry. I’d scored a quick turnaround flight out of Boston for less than three hundred dollars round trip.

“You’ll want to stay longer. It’s a unique place. The air alone here helps people reconsider things.”

“I need to get home. I’m moving. Going back to school for physical wellness. Hoping to make a bit more money so I can afford a bigger place.” I forced myself to stop oversharing with this random stranger and pulled the deck of cards from my bag. “Can you show me where I’m going, on this map here?”

I liked the easy way he leaned his forearms on the counter, rested the deck of cards on his palm, and pointed to various spots as he spoke. “The island’s bigger than some people think—twenty-three miles long. There are six towns. We’re here in Vineyard Haven, one of the two main ports. You’re going to what they call Up-Island, to Chilmark. Lots of farms up there. At the other end is fancy Edgartown. It’s like New England Land at Disney World. You need big bucks to hang around there. The bar at Atria has amazing two-for-one gin gimlets on Tuesdays, though.”

“I have to go to Copper Pond Farm, wherever that is.”

He stood a little taller. “That’s a very cool place—huge piece of property. Used to be an Army base just above it. Highest spot here. Now kids go there to make out.”

I felt an absurd rise of heat in my cheeks. What would Nate think about me chatting up the bike man? “I’m meeting a woman from there. For a private painting class. Supposed to be starting at eleven.”

“Elizabeth Devereaux? She’s famous.”

“I know. We studied her work in an art class.” I’d taken Intro to American Painting during my wanting-to-be-an-artist phase at Berkeley. Not that I was any great painter or anything. Elizabeth Devereaux would probably think my work was a total joke.

“Wow. For one of her one-on-one workshops? I thought she didn’t take students anymore.”

“I wrote and told her how much I love her work and she accepted me,” I said, aiming for vagueness. He didn’t need to know the real reason I was here.

“Well, Mrs. Devereaux’s a private person. I paint a little, too, and met her once, at a gallery opening last year, but I’ve only seen her farm from the water. It’s gated, and they say the dirt road is in terrible shape. Out here, seems the more exclusive the property, the worse the potholes.”

“There were no photos of her online. What’s she like?”

“A bit brusque, but very kind to the artist community here. She loved talking shop but not much about her personal life. I asked her about her farm, and she just changed the subject.”

“She’s ninety-something?”

“Still an amazing talent, though. Said she paints every day. Were you an art major?”

“I wish. I love to paint. I had to major in something that would pay the bills, though. Communications. But I ended up in the health-food industry.” I’d never actually graduated, after my scholarship ran out. I tried not to think about the blender station at the Jamba on Wilshire, where I whipped up Mango-A-Go-Go’s and microwaved sandwiches, the elder statesman of the baby-faced staff.

The bike man leaned in over the counter. “Devereaux paintings go for more than this whole shop’s worth. You’re lucky to get in with her.”

“Who’s lucky to get in with her?”

We turned and found a woman standing in the doorway, dressed in a comfortable-looking pair of paint-spattered cargo pants, which I instantly wanted, and a gauzy linen shirt. Tall and thin, she wore a wide-brimmed straw hat, her white hair plaited to one side, down across herchest.

“Mrs. Devereaux—”

“Ronan, isn’t it?” she asked with just a trace of a French accent. “So this is where you spend your days? You should be painting.” She stepped toward me. “Are you Miss Starwood, by chance? I figured you might be here chatting. All the girls seem to find their way to Ronan White.” Mrs. Devereaux just stared at me, lost for a moment.

“Yes, I’m Mari.” I shifted in my shoes. How did she recognize me? She continued to gaze at me. “Are you okay?” I asked.

Mrs. Devereaux seemed to emerge from her trance. She turned and started out the door. “Let’s get going, shall we, if we’re to get some painting done? Mustn’t dawdle.”

I looked back and found Ronan watching me go. And part of me wished I was on my way to drink gin gimlets with him instead.