Next to the living room, a dining room displayed a sleek glass-topped table that synced well with ornately carved mahogany chairs that had padded, silk-covered seats. A few contemporary paintings graced the red-and-cream, French toile-patterned walls: the combination was appealing. Maddie wondered whether Evelyn or Brandon had been the curator.
As she kept snooping, Maddie saw that even the music room aspired to museum-quality dignity and comfort, from its baby grand piano to interesting pieces of sculpture that stood on pedestals on either side of the windows. Two cozy sitting areas were on each end of a wall of bookshelves that held not only books but also mementos that had clearly come from other countries, other lands—Southeast Asia, Africa, India.
Together, the decor invokedHouse Beautifulon Martha’s Vineyard.
At that point, Maddie’s foot began to ache again—a dull warning that it was time to elevate. Besides, sneaking around someone’s house unchaperoned would be considered impolite.
Rolling the walker back to the sunroom, she sat upright on the lounge chair while eating her lunch. Once finished, she raised her foot again and tipped back into a nearly prone position. She wondered if, even with the deluge of money, she’d be able to create such a warm, welcoming home for friends and strangers alike to visit. If that was what she wanted. And how long it would take for her to know.
* * *
The man who took care of Evelyn’s property arrived just before three o’clock.
“I’m in the sunroom,” she replied, after he’d called out her name. “And I hope you’re Joe, because I’m not expecting anyone else.”
Footsteps padded across the wood floors, the sounds muffled when they crossed the Oriental rugs.
“I hope I’m Joe, too,” the voice replied. “Because I’m too darned old now to be anyone else.”
He stepped into the sunroom and circled around to face Maddie, who remained prone, her foot propped in a way that would please Evelyn when she came home, whenever that would be.
Joe was tall and lanky, with dark eyes and a deeply tanned, leathery complexion that spoke to having spent years in the sun. Threads of gray ran through his black hair; as he turned to pull a chair closer to the patient, she noticed that his hair wasn’t only long but also was in a ponytail, tied back with what looked like a thin cord of straw.
It occurred to her that he might be a full-blooded member of the Wampanoag tribe. Should she greet him by saying, “Wuneekeesuq”? But she’d learned the word in what had only been a dream; she’d feel foolish if it wasn’t real, if it wasn’t a word her deep memory had recalled.
So she simply said, “Hello. I’m Maddie.” Then she thought about the man with the ponytail who’d built her hobbit house. Had he been Wampanoag, too? In elementary school in Green Hills, she’d been taught that the tribe had purportedly dined with the Pilgrims at the first Thanksgiving, which was now well recognized as a myth. She knew little else about them.
Her visitor pressed his lips into a broad smile and nodded. “I kind of figured you were her. I’m Joe Thurston.”
“And I kind of figured you’re Joe.” She mirrored his smile. “But I didn’t know your last name until now.”
He laughed. “Not everybody does. Folks mostly just call me Joe.” He gestured toward her foot. “How’s it doing?” His voice was soft, almost whispery, as though it had some gravel in it. Or tiny grains of beach sand. It also sounded oddly familiar, which might be because other islanders sounded the same, having breathed the same, salty, often sandy air that circled the perimeter, keeping pace with the tides.
“I’m not in much pain today, thanks, so that’s good. But I never would have thought that a tumble down a small dune could break a bone.”
“Sometimes our earth has a mind of her own,” he said. Then he asked where it happened; she admitted she was looking for a piece of property that belonged to her grandmother.
“Nancy,” he said.
Maddie was startled. Then she wondered why she was surprised that he knew who her grandmother was. She had no idea how many people lived on the Vineyard year-round, especially up-island, but she imagined that the number wasn’t large. Which also meant that Joe must know why Maddie was there.
“The place off Clay Pit?” he asked.
“Yes.” So, yes, he not only knew about her grandmother, but he also must know why Maddie was there.
“Darn pretty area. When I was a kid, Nancy showed me where to forage for berries out there.”
Maddie had no idea how old he was. The same age as Evelyn? “You knew my grandmother well, then.”
He nodded again. “You could say that. And I know she’d be sorry to hear that you broke your foot on her property.”
Maddie grinned and decided not to correct him by saying that the “place off Clay Pit” actually belonged to her now. Or, rather, it almost did.
Then she had another of her intuitions—one of the pleasant kind. “By any chance, did you build a room on the back of my grandmother’s cottage years ago?” Was that why his voice was so familiar?
His dark eyes studied hers. “You have a good memory.”
“Hardly!” She laughed, glad that her “gift” had worked in such a nice way, if that’s what had happened. “I might have been four? I loved that room. If I stared at you then, I apologize. Back then I’d never seen a man in a ponytail.”
