“Second question,” Maddie said. “Would you mind giving me your cell number? It occurred to me if I’m going to be dragging my leg around here for the next few days, I should probably know who I can call if I need to. I have a couple of other numbers. And CiCi’s, of course. But I’m not ready to tackle her yet.”
“You’re going to sell?” She had the same look of surprise that Francine had had.
So Maddie simply nodded because she didn’t want to feel as if she had to make excuses for herself and her decision.
* * *
Before Lisa left, she invited Maddie for a cookout at six o’clock the following night. She said it would be only her husband, her, and the kids. Her in-laws had planned to come for the weekend but couldn’t get a boat reservation until next week. Maddie stopped herself from saying that was another reason why she couldn’t live on the Vineyard: How on earth did people exist there when too many tourists, mechanical boat failures, or bad weather that could ground ferries and planes—any day, any time—well, how did people exist if they couldn’t get to the mainland? She supposed the tribal members would laugh if she asked them that question. Some Wampanoag she was turning out to be.
Once Lisa was gone, Maddie returned to the boxes and piles of her grandmother’s things. She decided to sort through them again, separating the personal mementos from those that might be of historic tribal interest. She felt as if she was on a long journey.
By midafternoon, she was hungry again; she went to the back door and stood in the breeze that wafted through the screen. Realizing she was on the verge of becoming too sentimental, she heated the leftover strudel and wolfed it down.
Before resuming her tasks, she closed and locked the front door. The playful voices floating up from the beach, the symphony of busy seagulls in the sky, and the occasional horn blast of a boat, coming or going, in or out of the harbor, filtered through the window screens. Which was almost enchanting. If her leg wasn’t confined by the darn cast, she would have left the cottage and gone for a run or strolled barefoot in the sand, her toes sinking into its warmth.
Amazing, she thought. Her first time on the island in forty years and now she couldn’t even walk on the beach.
She forced herself to return to the bedroom and peruse the contents of another box, that one a plethora of sewing patterns in a range of sizes for simple yet practical clothing for both men and women. It appeared that her grandmother had designed them all.
Standing as she worked, comfortably leaning against the bureau, her back to the doorway, she read, sorted, and used the hard surface to help her stack the papers. She was so engrossed she didn’t hear the back door close. She didn’t hear footsteps crossing the living room; she didn’t sense that someone had walked into the room.
* * *
“Maddie?”
In a gut reaction, she quickly—too quickly—spun around. She landed on the floor, her good leg twisted beneath the not-good foot.
She grimaced. She didn’t know what was more upsetting: the fact that her left leg and her butt were rocked with pain or that her ex-husband stood next to the bed. She decided they were equally dreadful.
“Jesus, Maddie, what are you doing?”
She supposed she should give him credit for helping her up off the floor and onto the boudoir chair.
“How’d you break your foot?”
“I fell climbing a sand dune. It’s not as big a deal as it looks.” She couldn’t believe that Rafe had told him where she was. How else would he have known? Even worse, had her son told her father, too?
Owen stared at the cast. “Are you here alone? The front door was locked, but the back door wasn’t. I opened the flimsy screen door and marched right in. I could have been anyone.”
She wanted to tell him she wished hehadbeen anyone. Anyone but him. Instead, she said, “I have friends here.”
“Seriously?”
She ignored the barb. “At least I’m where I’m supposed to be. Unlike you. How did you find me? And, more important, why?”
He smiled the smile she used to think made his blue eyes light up a room. Now those same eyes looked small and uninteresting. Even devious. His hair now sprouted major hints of gray, and he’d developed saggy jowls. His silly society wife no doubt would make sure he found a plastic surgeon. And soon.
“You’re forgetting that I’m smart,” he said smugly. “I overheard our son’s side of his phone call with you; I heard him say you broke your foot. And that you were on the Vineyard for a funeral—something about a relative? I put two and two together and remembered that your mother was from here. I looked up her obituary. I forgot her maiden name, if I’d ever known it. But I found the obit on Google.Hannah Clieg Clarke, it read. Your grandmother’s name was in the write-up, too.Nancy Clieg, Martha’s Vineyard. Rocket scientist stuff, right?” He chuckled like the pompous ass he was.
“That’s why you’re here, right?” he kept blathering. “Because somebody died? Was it your grandmother? I couldn’t find her obit.”
Maddie decided to reply, if only to shut him up.
“If, in fact, my grandmother did die, did you come all this way to offer condolences?” It was weird being in the same room with him without Rafe there as insulation. Weird and uncomfortable. They’d always been civilized when an event involving their son called for them to be together. But as the years had passed and Owen’s ego swelled to the size of the Gay Head Cliffs, Maddie made it a point to stay out of his presence.
He sat on the edge of the bed as if he belonged there and heaved an annoying sigh. “I sure didn’t come all this way to fight with my former wife. I was concerned when I realized you broke your foot. I thought you might need help.”
Out of politeness, she didn’t laugh. This was the same man who’d been on the golf course with a client when Rafe was born, too busy to help her then. She doubted he’d turned over a new leaf. Unless there was something in it for him.
