* * *
So that was Madelyn Clarke. Maddie, she was called. She was pretty, though she seemed unaware of it.
From a vantage point in the woods, up the hill from the cottage, it would be easy to check on her over the next few days or however long she was there. It was comfortable enough, sitting there, watching. The thermos of iced coffee was nearly depleted, as was half a family-size bag of Cheetos, for which friends would be appalled if they found out it was serving as breakfast.
It had been an interesting yet unsettling outing, to feel like a bird of prey, an osprey, perhaps, one of those who had come back to the island, a wide-winged bird who hovered aloft, patiently studying the ocean below, waiting, waiting, for the perfect time to plunge.
But the vantage point here was over land, not open water. And, for now, it was time to go. Before the morning rush of beach crowds arrived to spread out their blankets, unfold their chairs, unscrew their water bottles, and probably be fried. They would stay all day.
So, yes, it was time to go until tomorrow. Maddie Clarke, after all, would be too busy to realize that someone was spying on her, hoping she’d reveal how things were going to play out.
Spying—or today’s word, “stalking ”—was not very nice, but sometimes you did things you did not always like when you’d made a promise . . . no matter how long ago.
Chapter 3
Intuition was not new to Maddie. Sometimes it came at her like an electrical current, a startling, frightening zap, anOh my Godsensation. Other times it was as if a fun message was delivered by an impish spirit, letting her know something great was going to happen: she’d be given an award; she’d meet an interesting man; she’d have something published somewhere that it mattered. Other times, it was creepy, more like a foreboding, a dark cloud slithering across her grave: the sensation she’d just had felt like that.
Not looking over her shoulder, not wanting to know why she’d felt what she’d felt, and why on earth anyone would be wasting time watching her, she kept her eyes on the ground and walked briskly down the path, passing Lisa’s house and the mini lot where Maddie had parked her car, until she reached Basin Road.
She craved a cup of coffee.
A burger-and-hot-dog stand stood in the place where Mr. Fuller’s ice cream shack once stood—a sign said it would open at ten. The food truck was still closed, too, as was the Homeport—a restaurant across the street. Then she spotted the fish market, where she and her mother had often bought fresh shellfish for dinner—scallops, quahogs, lobsters, whatever the day boats provided. But even if the market sold coffee, it wouldn’t be open until ten thirty. With a rush of exasperation, she walked at a fast clip back to her car, set her GPS, and headed toward the Chilmark General Store. If they didn’t have coffee, maybe she could get a bottle of orange juice. And a doughnut. Once she’d had caffeine and sugar, surely she’d be able to forget her demons and concentrate on meeting the attorney. At this hour, traffic should be heading to the beach—this time in the opposite direction.
The parking lot at the general store was packed, as was the inside. Easily spotting the take-out line, Maddie fixed her gaze on several chalkboards. The menu offered breakfast and lunch selections, from wild blueberry scones to rosemary-roasted chicken. When it was her turn, she decided she wasn’t hungry after all, so she ordered only a large coffee with milk and sugar. Thankfully, no one asked who she was or why she was there—most likely because at this time of year, out-of-towners must be in the majority. Even better, the sense that she’d been being watched had almost evaporated.
Weaving her way out the front door, she dodged the cluster of rocking-chair porch-sitters who noddedGood morninggreetings, but didn’t try to engage her in conversation. Once safely inside her car, doors locked, windows rolled up, air conditioner humming, she gulped her coffee and allowed herself another deep breath. Then she began the short trip to Brandon J. Morgan Esq.’s in-season address.
* * *
“Madelyn,” the not-quite-middle-aged man said with a smile. He wore pale blue pressed chino shorts and a white short-sleeved collared shirt. His attire was similar to that of Maddie’s ex-husband, though Owen stuck to long pants, even when the temperature soared. The attorney’s unkempt wisp of reddish-blond hair drooped over his forehead; that, and a warm smile, made him look wholesome. Down-to-earth, not drop-dead desirable. Much more relaxing for Maddie to be around than her stuffed-shirt ex.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he added. “Is it okay if I call you Madelyn?”
She stood on the front porch, which was drenched with pots of so many summer flowers Van Gogh would have drooled. The house was a large country farmhouse (on a prosperous farm); it was well cared for and cordial.
“Actually,” she replied, “most people call me Maddie.”
He nodded twice, then attempted to brush back the droop of his hair so it would stay on top of his head. His effort was futile.
“Then Maddie it is. And I’m Brandon.” He stepped aside, making room for her to enter. “Welcome to the Vineyard. And welcome to this rambling old house that’s been in my family for generations—five at last count. Or maybe it’s six.”
“Six generations, dear,” came a feminine voice as Maddie stepped into the foyer. “Though it’s had some work done from time to time.” The woman stood in a rectangle of sunlight in what looked like a parlor; its decor was a palette of fresh pastels that added a sunny glow to her white hair.
“Hello, Maddie,” she said. She wore a pale yellow cardigan and short-cropped white pants that looked brand-new that season and spoke of tidy breeding. “You probably don’t remember me. I’m Evelyn Morgan. I was in school with your mother. And I knew you when you were a little girl.” She did not look as old as Maddie’s mother would have been—was that approaching seventy already?
And then the weight of what the woman said sunk in. Evelyn Morgan had known her mother, and she remembered . . .her. Maddie. When she’d been a little girl.Her throat tightened; she didn’t know if she could speak.
“Brandon?” Evelyn said with a slight Radcliffe or Wellesley accent leftover from the days of all-female Ivy League colleges. “Why don’t you bring Maddie into your office while I fix iced tea. Or maybe you’d prefer iced coffee?”
To say Maddie was stunned minimized her gut-constricting reaction. Which she knew was ridiculous. For God’s sake, her mother had grown up on the Vineyard. Of course people would have known her, maybe even had been friends with her. Maddie tried to smile.
“Iced tea would be nice,” she managed to eke out.
Like her son, Evelyn nodded twice. “I make it from herbs that grow wild on the island.” She smiled warmly and then disappeared in one direction, while Brandon guided Maddie into another high-ceilinged room.
She sat in one of two comfortable chairs facing a large mahogany desk that whispered classic antique, though a trio of oversized computer monitors stationed across it transformed the look into a workstation at NASA’s mission control. The room was substantial: one wall had bowed windows with a pastoral view of stone walls and rolling meadows thick with wildflowers; the opposite wall featured built-in, floor-to-ceiling bookcases that spanned the entire width and were filled with rows of books, many of which were only accessible by a library ladder that trolleyed from one end to the other. Maddie calculated two thousand books, maybe more, some with plain, law-book-looking spines, others with colorful jackets, perhaps those were nonfiction books or novels. In a way, she felt transported to a classic nineteenth-century office on Beacon Hill, the kind frequented by high-society clients. But, of course, the view outside was not a narrow cobblestone road lined with gas streetlamps.
It was the Vineyard. In its storied glory.
