Then a song flitted through the silence. “Mockingbird,” Joe said.
Maddie opened her eyes.
“Piping plovers,” he said, as he pointed to a group of black-and-white birds on the shoreline. “Great black-backed gull.” He nodded to a different bird that bobbed sleepily on the water.
She took it all in, every bit. After a while, he announced they’d reached Nashaquitsa Pond. “We just call her ‘Quitsa,’” he said. “Saves time.” A minute or so later, he added, “To our right is an eelgrass bed, like the ones I told you about. Look below the surface and you’ll see it.”
Maddie stretched her neck, leaned close to the water, and saw tall, thin, green shafts performing a ballet in time with the gentle current. “It’s so beautiful.”
“A few years ago,” Joe said, “we got a grant from the National Fish and Wildlife that helped us restore the beds here. Eelgrass gives off oxygen, so it plays a big role in our ecosystem. Wherever, however it grows, so grow the shellfish and other aquatic life. This spot’s terrific for scallops and littlenecks.”
All Maddie could think of was Rafe; he would love to be in the canoe right now, listening intensely to all that Joe was saying. He would also love Joe. And he would have loved Nancy, from what Maddie had already seen. Joe and Nancy lived amid nature. The way Rafe loved. Then she told Joe about her son, about his passion for the outdoors.
Joe did not seem surprised. “Sure. It’s part of his heritage.”
Maddie couldn’t see his face, but she was sure he was smiling as he said it.
“Look,” he added, gesturing toward a sudden swirl of water. “It’s a sign that the juvenile shellfish are growing up, testing their capabilities. It causes the eelgrass to undulate. Like ribbons would. If ribbons could swim.”
Maddie looked.
Maddie watched.
Maddie was mesmerized.
They went on paddling, one careful stroke after another, trying not to disturb the grasses below the surface. She wondered how many times her grandmother had been on these ponds, immersing herself in watching the gifts of the earth. She wished she and Grandma Nancy had spent more time together.
Then Maddie decided to ask the question that had been gnawing at her. “Joe?” she whispered, “I’ve been wondering something. Do you think that falling was what killed my grandmother? She apparently knew her way around her property well. Had she become . . . frail? Or off-balance?”
Joe was slow to respond. He looked into the water, as if searching for an answer. Then he said, “I know Nancy’s death seems strange. But life—and death—often are, aren’t they?”
It seemed like a bizarre answer to what Maddie thought had been a straightforward question. But clearly, Joe did not want to talk about Nancy’s death. And Maddie wasn’t going to argue with that.
What she’d really wanted was to outright ask if he thought someone killed her. Someone who might know the value of the properties and might not have known about Maddie. Someone who thought Nancy had no legal heirs and somehow thought they could reap the rewards. But though Maddie had started to trust Joe, she wasn’t yet ready to be so direct. So she simply said, “That’s true.” And let it go at that.
* * *
They were gone all morning. After exploring the ponds for more than two hours, they got into Joe’s pickup and went to the Chilmark General Store for coffee and breakfast sandwiches. Then he drove toward Aquinnah.
“You do know why they call this part of the Vineyard up-island, don’t you? Even though it’s the southwest side of the island?”
Maddie reluctantly said, “I don’t have a clue.”
“Lots of people don’t. It goes back to the whaling days, long before GPS, when sailors used latitude and longitude as their only coordinates. Here in the western hemisphere, the farther west you go, the higher the longitudinal number. Nantucket is east of the Vineyard. The longitude there is 70.09, while in Aquinnah it’s 70.80. When you’re on the Vineyard, to get to Aquinnah, you have to head west, so the number goes up.”
She wanted to say, “Good grief,” but settled on saying, “It makes sense. I guess.”
He laughed. “If you’re not a sailor, it must seem pretty weird.”
Then he took a right onto Lobsterville Road.
“I figured as long as we’re up this way, you might as well have a look at your properties. With that thing on your leg, you’ll have to stay in the truck, but at least you can see some of it from the road.”
It was no surprise that Joe knew about the properties. Maybe he’d witnessed Nancy’s will; maybe that was how he knew Maddie would inherit it all. Or maybe Nancy told him. Who knew how he would have felt about that.
Lobsterville Road was bumpy, narrow, and on both sides thick with trees. At the foot of every dirt side road, wood slats in the shape of arrows were nailed to many trees; they were stacked one above the other. Each was painted a different color and sported a name printed in block letters—Smith, Randall, Allsop, and so on.
“Most of those are names of the homeowners,” Joe said, as he pointed to one group of signs. “It’s how renters found where they were supposed to go long before GPS.”
