“Oh, boy,” she said as she opened the double doors.
Inside, five horizontal shelves spanned the width of the cabinet. Each shelf was neatly covered by a canvas drape.
“At least it’s not another truck,” Brandon said.
“That’s very funny. For an attorney.”
Studying the shapes beneath the drape, she sensed what was there—a number of vertical slots . . . each of which likely held a painting standing neatly, separated by dividers, protected by the climate-controlled air in the storage unit, better for preservation than the cottage or its outbuildings. She almost caught a whiff of decades-old acrylics, almost envisioned more views of Menemsha sunsets. Of course she couldn’t be sure that the artist was her mother. She wouldn’t know until she uncovered them.
“And we’re waiting for . . . what, exactly?” Brandon asked.
Maddie paused, then whispered, “I think they might be my mother’s paintings.”
“Oh,” he said. “Wow.”
“Yeah.” Her lower lip started to quiver. She thought she might cry.
“Do you want me to look first?” he asked.
She almost said yes. Then she realized if her grandmother had saved them, had preserved them for her, Maddie should have the courage, and the gratitude, to do the honors.
“Thanks,” she said, “but I’ve got this.”
Stretching her arm to the top row, she nudged the tarp until it cascaded down the cabinet, exposing row after row of artist’s canvases that, indeed, were standing between wooden dividers so they didn’t touch one another. Starting on the right side of the top row, she gingerly removed the first one.
It wasn’t a Menemsha sunset. Instead, it was a portrait of a girl with the beautiful complexion of a Wampanoag, the same jet-black hair and high, prominent cheekbones. Her clothing was pale beige, perhaps the color of deer hide—perhaps it even was deer hide; she wore a beaded headband around her forehead. She might have been eleven or twelve years old.
“White wampum,” Brandon said as he pointed to the pieces woven into the headband. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? She might have collected the shells, separated the white from the purple, and crafted the beads herself.”
Maddie nodded. She knew that wampum—some white, some purple, most a combination of both—came from the interior of quahog shells. She’d loved picking up the pieces of it on a beach with her grandmother while her mother sat at a nearby easel. And Maddie had seen a perfect example in the photo of Grandma Nancy’s wedding costume.
After staring at the painting another moment, Maddie’s eyes moved to the small signature on the bottom:Hannah Clieg, 1971. Her mother had painted the portrait when she was seventeen.
“She was a good artist, wasn’t she?” Maddie asked Brandon.
“I’ll say. Do you want to look at more now . . . or take them to the cottage and go through them there?”
“If you don’t mind, let’s look now. I don’t want to take them until I decide what to do with them. At least I know they’re safe here.” The last thing she wanted was for Owen to return and break into the cottage when she wasn’t there and make off with these wonderful paintings. No matter what they might be worth in dollars, they were more valuable to her.
So the process began. Hannah had painted the canvases in the top three rows before she’d married Maddie’s father and left the island. Several others were portraits—some in various styles of Wampanoag traditional dress, some of individuals simply sitting. They were in a range of ages, and none were named. The oldest was a man who wasn’t dressed in traditional Wampanoag clothing but in a denim shirt; he wore a rawhide necklace with a wampum pendant hanging from it that had been carved into the shape of an arrowhead. Other paintings were Vineyard landscapes and seascapes, some of which were sunny, others, cloaked in fog. And there were sunsets. Lots of sunsets. All were beautiful. And seemed very accomplished for someone so young.
The bottom row was different. They were later landscapes, most of which were dated after Maddie was born. They were not of the Vineyard, but of the Berkshire Hills: blanketed by snow, illuminated by shades of autumn leaves, vibrant with spring greens. There were a few portraits, too, though none looked as interesting as those of the Wampanoags. Yes, Maddie thought, the paintings on the bottom row were missing something. They were missing Hannah’s heritage. Her heart. Her home.
* * *
Where the heck did Maddie go with Brandon? Did he take her to the boat? Was she going home? She couldn’t drive her car—was someone meeting her on the other side? Her son? Her father?
And wasn’t she supposed to be recuperating?
It might be a good time to snoop around inside the cottage, to see if there were any clues about what she planned to do. Unless she’d left the island . . . in which case, all of this would have been a total waste of time.
Chapter 16
Over an hour passed while Maddie and Brandon perused the paintings. It was exhilarating. And confounding. Because Maddie had no idea what to do with the collection.
“Why not choose a few that you like best and donate the rest to the cultural center?” Brandon suggested.
“Great idea. I’ll do it when Rafe is here. I think he’d like to see all of them. And maybe he’ll want a couple. For now, however, let’s go to lunch. I’m famished.”
