Evelyn took off her green gloves and wiped her brow. “Thank you. The colors are extra vivid on a cloudy day.”
Maddie hadn’t considered that.
“I hate to drop in,” she said, “but I was on my way to Cronig’s and wondered if Brandon might have a minute. I have a couple of quick questions.”
Setting the gloves on a small gardening cart, Evelyn abandoned her pots and went down the steps toward Maddie. That day her capris were light gray, her polo shirt, pale aqua. Once again, her white hair was tidily in place. “I’m sorry, dear, but Brandon isn’t home. Is there something I can help you with?”
Maddie smiled. “Maybe. I can’t find a key to the padlock on my grandmother’s large outbuilding. I’m starting to sort through her things, and I’d like to see what’s in there.” She was mildly proud of herself for saying “things” instead of “junk.” And for not admitting that she was trying to decide what to save, what to sell, and, mostly, what to dump.
The woman folded her arms and looked at her pleasantly. “My son should be back any minute. Would you like to join me in the front garden and have tea while we wait?” She gestured toward a shady spot in the side yard where a white wrought-iron table and two chairs stood amid more pots of blossoms.
Maddie said that would be nice, and she followed Evelyn, sat down and looked around. “You’ve created a lovely little Eden here.”
Evelyn laughed. “Thank you. Around back there’s another outdoor space that seats six or eight. But I think this one is cozier when a friend drops by to say hello. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get the tea. Hot or iced?”
“Iced is fine.”
Though the sky remained overcast, Maddie supposed that any moment the sun would “burn off” the clouds—another of Grandma Nancy’s sayings that Maddie recollected as she sat, relishing the floral scents, the stillness of the day, and mostly the ocean air—all of which evoked more memories, both surprising and wonderful.
“Your mother was a terrific artist,” Evelyn said when she returned, carrying the same tray she’d carried the day before.
“She was,” Maddie said, as if she’d ever known the depth of her mother’s talent. She’d seen only a few canvases—the pair of Menemsha sunsets that had graced their home in Green Hills, and the one on the mantel in her grandmother’s cottage. “So you were in school with her?”
“Every year, right through high school. Our class was smaller than classes are today, and we all knew each other. Your grandmother usually picked us up in her old pickup; she had to go past the house where I grew up. My mom didn’t drive, and my dad usually didn’t get home until late. He was a fisherman like your grandfather.”
Maddie took a big gulp of tea. She hadn’t known her grandfather was a fisherman. She didn’t, in fact, know anything about him. At least, not that she recalled.
“He died when we were in elementary school,” Evelyn said quietly. “It was hard on your grandmother. And your mother.”
“I didn’t know that. Thanks for telling me.” She wondered if she meant that. Or if the less she knew about her family, the better.
“But your mom!” Evelyn perked up. “Hannah was so much fun. So creative. And always curious.”
She handed Maddie a plate that had the same kind of biscuits she’d planned to offer her the day before. This time, Maddie took one. It was a scone . . . with cranberries and a light icing on top. She wondered if the berries were from the island, if there was a bog there.
Before she could ask, Evelyn continued.
“Your mom was always busy doing one thing or another. After high school we rarely saw each other; I went off island to college, got married, and came back. She got married and left, but you know that. We occasionally saw each other when she was here with you. Every one of those summers, I tried to get her to teach the kids’ painting class at the old school. But she was doing her own work, which she was so good at.” She laughed again, as if recalling happy memories. Then she stopped. “Wait. You were in the program one season. I taught the kids how to paint a flower on a piece of small pottery. Do you remember?”
Maddie bit into the scone so she wouldn’t have to answer. She chewed. Then she murmured something she hoped sounded as if she were thinking.
“Winnie Lathrop—oh, Winnie is a wonderful potter,” Evelyn went on. “She’s still at it. She makes jewelry, too. Gorgeous wampum earrings and bracelets. Anyway, every year, Winnie donated bowls—mostly they were seconds that I thought were lovely but had a tiny flaw or two, so because she’s a perfectionist, she refused to sell them. The kids, of course, loved them. They got to decorate them and take them home. It was great fun for all of us.”
A small bowl with a tiny flaw—like listing a little? And painted with a flower? Swallowing at last, Maddie asked, “Could I have painted a daisy on one?” The bowl on her grandmother’s mantel took on new importance. Maybe her mother hadn’t painted it. Maybeshehad. Little Maddie. The girl with a hobbit house.
“A daisy!” Evelyn cried. “Youdoremember! Yes, daisies were easy to teach. Lord knows I don’t have an ounce of the talent your mother had.”
Just then, a vehicle pulled into the long driveway. A Volvo like Maddie’s. Well, not really like hers. It was a new one; an upgraded model. With a gleaming finish and no visible rust.
“Oh, good,” Evelyn said as she stood up. “Brandon’s home. Maybe he can find your padlock key.”
* * *
Maddie and Brandon went into his office while Evelyn carried the refreshments back to her kitchen, allowing her son privacy with his client. He wore what looked like the same shorts he’d had on the day before, but a T-shirt instead of a button-down. He was no longer an Owen clone.
She sat in the same chair she’d sat in yesterday, now with one more reason to be dumbfounded. The bowl. The daisy. It had been easier when she’d first arrived and felt little connection to . . . everything.
“Nice to see you again,” Brandon said with a smile.
