Chapter 1
An ice cream shack sat at the foot of the hill at Menemsha Harbor. It had the same kind of silver-colored shingles that Grandma Nancy’s cottage had, the same white trim. It also had a white wood window that Mr. Fuller pulled down into a shelf every morning at eleven o’clock, a quiet announcement that he was open for business.
“You know the rules,” Grandma whispered. “A double-dip vanilla and strawberry cone if you help me shuck corn for dinner.” It was a small cone, not as big as “double-dip” made it sound, but Maddie always remembered the tasty treat from the last summer she’d been there, racing down the hill as fast as her five-year-old, skinny little legs could go.
As memories went, that was the most vivid one she had of Martha’s Vineyard, of the tiny fishing village called Menemsha that Grandma once told her meant “still water,” where old wooden boats were moored in the harbor every afternoon, having chugged out to the Atlantic Ocean before dawn, way earlier than Maddie roused from the small cot in the house where her mother grew up. Her mother’s name was Hannah. Until Maddie had opened the letter that arrived last week, she’d forgotten that her grandmother’s name was Nancy. Nancy Clieg. Unlike Hannah, Grandma Nancy had been alive until two and a half weeks ago, four decades after the summer when Maddie had her last double-dip.
Standing at the top of the slope in front of the cottage whose shingles had visibly tarnished, Maddie pulled an envelope from her purse and read the letter for the umpteenth time since it showed up in her office mailbox at the college in Green Hills, Massachusetts. Green Hills was in Berkshire County (often just called the Berkshires); it was as far north-west as one could go in the whole state. Martha’s Vineyard, however, was as far southeast as one could go, not counting Nantucket. In between, Massachusetts had a lot of people, something like seven million. One of them was named Brandon J. Morgan, Esq., an attorney with an office on Marlborough Street, Boston. According to the return address, he also had a place on North Road in Chilmark. Chilmark was on the Vineyard. The village of Menemsha and its harbor were part of Chilmark. And so there she was.
The letter had stunned her.
Dear Ms. Clarke,
Perhaps by now you have learned that your grandmother, Nancy Clieg, age 89, unfortunately passed away on June 30th. She liked telling people that she’d lived a good, long, satisfying life, having stayed in the “same damn place” where she’d been “birthed.” Nancy was one of our island’s beloved characters, and she will be missed. She hadn’t wanted a full-blown funeral, but she did ask to have her ashes scattered off the beach at Menemsha Bight, the curve of blue water where the harbor meets the ocean. She often said that, framed as it was by the small mounds of sand dunes, the tall beach grass, and the long-standing rock jetty—all of which are watched over by the cottages up on the hill and by the reassuring presence of our Coast Guard station—the bight is, without a sailor’s doubt, the most beautiful place on earth.
Flicking her gaze from the letter down to the harbor now, where the sun’s rays of mid-July danced on the water, Maddie could not disagree. Nor could she tell if the place had changed since she’d been five, though the pleasure boats seemed larger and more streamlined. The commercial fishing boats, however, appeared unaltered, with riggings of tall poles supported by taut cables that reached upward, creating a crisscross pattern against the cloudless sky like a game of pick-up sticks splayed on a blue canvas. But even from this distance, as Maddie studied the boats, she could tell that their wooden hulls and decks seemed weather worn and in need of paint. Like her, they were noticeably older.
She laughed. Thankfully, no one would recognize her today based on how she’d looked back then, when she often dressed in her favorite white T-shirt that Grandma had embroidered with a big sequined star. She usually wore it with bright pink shorts that had a drawstring at the waist, which she often fidgeted with as she shifted from one bare foot to the other, waiting her turn at Mr. Fuller’s ice cream shack. Her eyes were blue (like the sky and like her father’s), and her hair was thick and straight, which it still was, though it now looked more charcoal than the shiny onyx of her youth. These days, she kept it trimmed just above her shoulders because an assistant professor needed to look, well, professorial, especially since she was on tenure track, competing with two others for the coveted position. Another big change was that each summer that little Maddie had come to the island, she rarely wore shoes. Which also would not be appropriate for a middle-aged, New England divorcée despite the non–dress code of the twenty-first century.
Glancing down at her short-sleeved, ivory knit top, her mid-calf, faded black skirt, and her everyday tan canvas sandals, it was obvious that, haircut aside, sometime between ages five and forty-five, she’d become disinterested in how she looked. It was obvious that, yes, Maddie, too, was weatherworn. And a bit less vibrant.
“Just a little,” she said aloud, then went back to her reading.
Included with this letter please find a copy of your grandmother’s Last Will and Testament. As you will note, she has left her entire estate—her worldly belongings, her small crafts business, the cottage and two outbuildings, and her property—to you, the only child of her only child. All she asks is for you to scatter her ashes off the beach at Menemsha at sunset. And to remember that she always loved you. Very much.
The last part hit Maddie’s heart with a thwack. How could she have remembered that her grandmother had loved her when all of this felt so . . . perplexing? Perhaps the attorney did not know the rest of the story.
She read on.
I’ll be traveling between my offices in Boston and Chilmark this summer. Please let me know when you can come to the island so I can be there in person to meet you and explain what this entails and to answer any questions you might have. I am also enclosing the key to the cottage so you will be able to make yourself at home, the place Nancy loved so much and now belongs to you.
Most of all, please accept my condolences on your loss.
Sincerely,
Brandon J. Morgan, Esq.
P. S. I’m sorry for the delay in getting this letter to you. It initially went to an address on Broadside Road in Green Hills but it came back marked “Return to Sender.” But then I located you at the college, so I’m sending it there. Please let me know you’ve received it. Thank you.
—BJM
As she folded the letter, her nostalgic mood started to dissipate. How could she have lost something—someone—she hadn’t known she still had?
Stuffing the letter back into the envelope, she paused for a moment, then plucked out a brass key that hung from a metal chain and was accompanied by a fluorescent tag imprinted: “Shirley’s Hardware, Vineyard Haven.” The key was shiny and looked almost new, as if it had never been used, as if Grandma never locked her house. Maddie was glad she’d called the attorney’s phone number in Chilmark right away; his assistant scheduled a meeting for ten o’clock Monday. Tomorrow. There was no sense dragging this out when Maddie had her career to tend to, including one more article to write and try to get published before the tenure committee made its decision. She’d done the research; the outline, then the writing, should be easy. If she were a die-hard optimist.
Gingerly navigating three flat granite rocks that served as steps to the front entrance, she opened the screen door and inserted the key into the lock on the heavy inside door, which, like the fishing boats, could do with a new coat of paint. It took a few tries for the tumblers to come to attention; then, using her shoulder, she delivered a determined shove that sprung the rusty hinges open.
She was greeted by strong scents of must and dust; she blinked to adjust her vision to the near darkness. Then she tiptoed into the room. It was hot and humid—“muggy” she thought Grandma Nancy would have called it—and eased into the past, which, childhood memories aside, Maddie refused to allow to divert her future. She’d worked too hard toward achieving her goal in Green Hills; there was no room left in her life for a rundown cottage on an island she barely remembered.
* * *
She made it into the living room. Suddenly, the shadow of a small critter streaked across the wide plank floor. Maddie squealed, as if she were five again. Glad no one was there to hear her overreact, she prayed it was only a tiny mouse, though it had seemed bigger. Maybe it was merely a dust ball that blew in on the ocean breeze.Sure, she thought with a snicker.
Fumbling through her purse, she quickly flicked on the flashlight app of her phone. By then, however, the invader was apparently gone.
She sighed.
Assuming that the electricity had been turned off, she swung the light beam around the room; it landed on a pair of old gingham curtains that sagged from an ancient rod. She walked over, pulled the curtains apart, and unlatched the pair of windows they’d been covering. Then she raised the slightly rotting wood sashes and invited the sunshine and salt air inside.
