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Mari

2016

I decided to stay another night and Mrs. Devereaux must have used a tank of gas driving around the island as she told that tale. The last time I’d been that transfixed by a story was during an episode of Long Island Medium, when Theresa Caputo stopped a woman in a coffee shop and told her that her deceased father forgave her. But the tension was starting to get to me with this one.

“Can you tell me if Tom’s going to be okay,” I asked, as night began to fall. “Let’s just cut to the end so I can know how this all applies to my mother.”

At this rate I’d never paint anything, and I’d miss the next boat, too.

“I’m almost done,” Mrs. Devereaux said, as she focused on the road, the old headlights barely piercing the darkness. I assumed we were on the way back to the farm and hoped she’d open a bottle of the good chardonnay when we got home. And more Ritz crackers and Cracker Barrel cheese. Rich people always ate the most surprisingly basic stuff. In L.A., Tori Spelling, our favorite customer at Jamba, came in every Monday for a water and a breakfast wrap, no meat or cheese—basically a warmed-up naked tortilla.

“Women were so awful to each other back then. That Mrs. Stanhope. And Amelia. And what was up with Peter? Why didn’t he just leave?”

“It wasn’t that easy getting off the island then. You needed to show identification. If he’d been caught, it would have been bad for them all.”

I turned to Mrs. D. “You don’t have to stop telling the story, you know. Happy to pull an all-nighter. My mom and I once sat up all night at a hotel in Joshua Tree, out there for her birthday. We weren’t even tired the next day.”

“Just talking?” she asked.

“About everything. Her best friend that moved away in grade school. My dad and how they met at a high school dance. How he died driving a truck cross-country. We had each other, but she would’ve had a whole different life if she’d grown up here. Of course, I wouldn’t have been born.”

Mrs. Devereaux pulled over at the head of a dirt road, next to a row of ten mailboxes. We sat in silence for a long moment, listening to the crickets and cicadas, and then she waved toward the glove box. “I’ll tell you more soon. But first I need you to get something out of there for me.”

I opened the glove box and found it practically empty, only an old silver flashlight atop the registration.

“Take out the flashlight?” she asked.

I pulled it out and tried to hand it to her, but she waved toward my door. “You can get out now.”

“Are you serious?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

I stepped out of the jeep, flashlight in hand, and closed the door. “Okay, what do you want me to do? Steal someone’s New York Times ?”

“Just walk down that road until you hear the ocean,” she said, and then rolled off in the direction of the farm. “Turn right at the split in the road,” she called as she zoomed away.

I stood in the dark for a bit, under a canopy of stars. Was this her way of getting me to go to Ronan’s bonfire? We hadn’t seen another car on that road in over an hour, so, not having much faith in the prospect of hitchhiking home, I switched on my flashlight and hit the dirt road.

—

I walked for over half an hour before I heard anything other than cicadas and an occasional noise from one of the few houses along the dirt road. The going was slow, since the flashlight kept flickering out and was so weak I could barely see the road in front of me. My phone wasn’t much better. Was this some sort of Yoda lesson Mrs. D. was trying to teach me?

By the time I made it to the right fork, I could hear the ocean. I quickened my pace, stepped around a locked gate, and soon came to a long bridge over a pond, the moon rising, finally, for some more light. There must have been twenty swans on that pond, as still as could be, some bending their long necks to feed on something in the water.

I watched the swans for a while, then heard voices and moved on to the beach. The bonfire.

I emerged through the dunes and found them all there. Ronan White. Dutch-Braid Girl and a bunch of other equally laughy and Vogue- magazine-just-hanging-out-on-a-private-beach-photo-shoot-on-Martha’s-Vineyard types. Waves pounded the shore as they all lounged around the perfect bonfire, in their plaid flannel shirts or hooded sweatshirts, as a whole burning tree trunk shot a column of flame into the night sky. The only thing that could’ve made the scene more absurdly perfect would have been s’mores.

I had no choice but to join them, since they saw me, and if I didn’t get someone to drive me home, I’d have to make that walk back.

Ronan stood and came to me as I trudged through the sand toward them, my gauzy blouse not the right layer for the strong ocean wind.

“You made it,” he said.

He took off his sweatshirt and wrapped it around my shoulders, the fleecy part still warm from him.

“Mrs. D. dropped me off,” I said. “Kind of a forced situation. Though I’m happy I made it.”

We sat on a log near the fire and hung out for a while, taking cold beers from the cooler someone had brought. His friends were actually pretty nice. And Dutch-Braid Girl turned out to be his stepsister—she was not as annoying as I thought she might be and told me about a clothing store called Pandora’s Box that I had to check out in Menemsha, which she said was my vibe.

Ronan wasn’t my usual type, which was emotionally unavailable with a splash of narcissism, but maybe it was good to switch things up. We talked about everything and nothing. How he made amazing bluefish paté. And what bread to use for the perfect breakfast sandwich, with us agreeing that it was croissant, not biscuit.

We were quiet for a while, listening to the pop of the fire. “Mrs. Devereaux’s telling me some long, rambling story.”

“About what?” He stood and got us both another beer.

“The history of that farm. About the sisters who lived there.”

“That’s so personal.” He opened my beer and handed it to me. “She doesn’t seem like the type to just share like that.”

“Not sure it’s all true. She might be a little senile.”

He tipped his head to one side. “To be honest, I think she’s pretty compos mentis. She remembered me, and I met her only once.”

I sipped my beer and considered that. Who wouldn’t remember Ronan White? He looked amazing, unshaven, with the fire shining in his eyes, his hair loose and tousled by the wind. And if he kept throwing around the Latin, I might have to force myself on him right there. For some reason it was a huge aphrodisiac for me and was something rare to hear in L.A., unless you counted the theme song of Super Smash Bros., sung entirely in Latin.

“This may be way off base, but I’m pretty sure the whole story is connected to me somehow. Like that’s my long-lost family or something.”

He toasted me and drank his beer. “That would be wild. But I wouldn’t be surprised.” He leaned over and smoothed back a lock of my hair. “You strike me as a real Vineyard girl. There aren’t many of those left anymore. Everyone’s a washashore now, imported from somewhere else.”

A real Vineyard girl. Something about that sent a velvety warmth down my shoulders. That would be wild.

I rubbed the label off my beer with my thumb. “Well, it’s getting kind of intense, to be honest. I wish she’d cut to the chase.”

“If you’re connected to that place, you’d better figure it out soon. Some big Boston construction company is trying to buy it. They want to develop it.”

“No way. She never said anything.”

“It’s been in the paper. Mrs. Devereaux tried to give it to the land bank, but the developer is challenging the will. Saying she’s not related to the original owners.”

I was silent for a while. How tragic would that be? Is that why she’d encouraged me to come?

“Painted anything?” Ronan asked.

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

He threw a stick into the fire. “That happened to me a while ago. It comes back. You can’t force it. Sometimes just getting your life sorted out helps. If you’re clogged, how are you supposed to paint?”

“I’m not that good, anyway.” I finished my beer. “No great loss.”

He looked at me so seriously. “It’s not always about the finished product. And, anyway, who’s to say what’s good?”

Once things started winding down, we walked across the bridge to his car—a beat-up Volkswagen, but at least it would get us out of there and back to civilization.

“Winter must be terrible here,” I said as he drove me home.

“Not at all. It’s my favorite time. Quiet. And you can get into the best restaurants. I paint and read and cook and fish. I’m in the bluefish derby coming up this fall.”

I tried to remember what Nate and I had watched on Netflix that month on my account, our go-to for fun.

Every light in the place was on when we got to the cottage, and he parked at the fence gate, motor running.

“If you ever want to just talk, I’m here. I lost my mom, too, so, you know, I get it.”

He took my hand and held it for a moment. Such a simple thing, but it made me want to cry.

Ronan waited for me to get inside, and I let the screen door bang behind me. I found Mrs. Devereaux at the kitchen table, playing solitaire and munching on Ritz crackers and cheese. She was drinking what looked like a martini in a jelly-jar glass, if the olive was any indication.

“Join me?” she asked.

“Are you kidding? Yes.”

She stood and fixed me a martini, adding two olives on a toothpick.

“Thanks for abandoning me. I saw Ronan White, of course.”

She looked over her shoulder at me. “Wasn’t that a surprise.”

“He told me developers want this place.”

“Did he?” she asked.

“Yes. Is that why I’m here? Can you get to that part in the story?”

She handed me the martini. “Did you have fun with Ronan? He had a girlfriend, you know, but she moved to Santa Fe last year and married a hotel manager.”

I took a second to process that—it made me feel oddly effervescent. “Yes, but now you owe me.” I pulled out a chair and sat. My paints, brushes, and a canvas lay stacked on the table, and just seeing them made me want to paint.

“You need to tell me how my mother and I fit into this story,” I said, and set up my canvas. “And I’m not leaving this chair until you finish it.”