“Never mind the hugging,” Grandma Nancy interrupted. “I want to know if Rafe has a girlfriend. I want a great-great-grandkid before I croak.”
“I’m waiting to find a nice Wampanoag girl,” he said. “So I can carry on our Indigenous line.”
“Well …” Grandma replied, unexpectedly flustered, “stop dilly-dallying, okay? I’m not getting any younger.”
“Yeah,” a familiar voice mocked from the porch. “Stop dilly-dallying. I’ve got berries to pick.”
Maddie laughed with surprise as Rex Winsted (the gentle giant, as she liked to think of him) entered the cabin, which he owned. He also owned—and was the chef at—the fabulous Lord James restaurant on the water in downtown Edgartown. He was the same height as Rafe but broader, and unlike Rafe’s full head of hair, Rex was totally bald. “By nature and Norelco,” the fifty-something man once told her.
“Don’t tell me you were Rafe’s taxi driver.” Maddie’s gaze darted between Rex and her son.
“A coincidence, Mom. He called late last night and said he had to come up-island early this morning, so he offered to pick me up at the boat.”
“You ‘had to’ make a trip up here at this hour?” Grandma asked Rex.
“I did,” he said, his bright, cinnamon eyes twinkling impishly, as they sometimes did. “In case you didn’t know, it’s not only Indigenous Peoples’ weekend. It’s also the last long weekend for leaf peepers and tour busses, so we non-Indigenousfolks have to work. Which includes picking the last of my berry crop so I can make today’s special—blueberry buckle—always a hit with visitors.” He held out an empty tin pail as proof of his mission. “But have a great day Tuesday. I’ve heard it’s a memorable event.”
“Easy for you to say,” Grandma grumbled. “I haven’t foraged for anything, let alone cranberries, since I was eighty-nine. We’ll see how long I last.”
“Right,” Rex said. “My bet is you’ll survive.”
Rafe thanked him for the ride, then Rex waved his pail in good-bye, and jogged back down the porch steps and around to the backyard—his backyard—where Maddie hoped she’d left enough blueberries for his buckle, whatever that was.
After whipping up pancakes and adding the berries she’d looted the previous day, Maddie joined Grandma and Rafe at the small table that abutted the kitchen counter. Tucking into his breakfast, Rafe shared stories about college life, his studies, and his favorite thing, the rowing team. Two important regattas, one in Cambridge, the other in Saratoga Springs, New York, were still on the horizon before the fall season ended. Grandma nodded, mesmerized by all he said. Watching her watching Rafe made Maddie think about her father, alone in the Victorian back in Green Hills: He would love to be with them.
“I’m here until Wednesday morning,” Rafe continued, “so can I camp out on the couch ’til then? I promised to help Joe set up tables and stuff tomorrow for the potluck dinner on Tuesday. Which leaves today and cranberry-picking day for us to be together. Okay?”
Joe was Grandma Nancy’s much younger half brother, who’d helped Maddie in many ways since she’d showed up in July. Surprisingly, she’d remembered his lanky frame, his soft mahogany complexion, and the trademark ponytail he’d hadeven when she was a little girl. Rafe had developed a special bond with Joe, who was close to Maddie’s father in age, yet worlds apart in spirit, style, and outlook on life. Where Stephen—like those of his 100 percent White, British heritage—was pensive and reserved in manner and dress, Joe was casual and open, and exuded innate calm. He’d introduced Rafe to their Wampanoag culture, and Rafe gobbled every morsel.
“The sofa’s yours if you want it,” Maddie said, sipping her strong coffee. “And I’m glad you’ll be helping Joe.”
“My brother isn’t getting any younger,” Grandma butted in. “Despite that he tries to act like he’s still twenty-five when his half great-grandson is around.” Nancy and Joe were born nearly two decades apart, yet they were close. Unlike Grandma, Joe hadn’t married or had children, and he seemed to like having a family—especially with Rafe now part of it.
Rafe flashed a white-toothed smile. “Thanks. And Grandma? Not to change the subject, but I’ve been wondering if you’ll help me with something.” He leaned closer. “Will you teach me how to weave your baskets?”
Grandma Nancy’s eyebrows shot up, their spikey white and black hairs springing out in every direction. “What?”
Her handmade baskets were legendary. Maddie had learned about them when Rex and his friend Francine showed up at Grandma’s cottage in July, wanting to buy one for a friend’s baby. It turned out that for carting pies and cakes to potlucks, keeping knitting and embroidery essentials together, and even safely toting babies, Grandma Nancy’s handwoven Wampanoag baskets had been in demand for decades.
“Joe says nobody makes them like you do,” Rafe continued. “I saw some in your storage unit at the airport when I was here before. They’re so cool. And traditional, right?”
“Y-y-yes,” Grandma stammered, as if she’d suddenly become confused, an occasional occurrence. “But I never taught anyone how to make them. I-I-I don’t think I know how to do that.”
“Sure you do,” he said. “I’m a fast learner. Besides, somebody taught you, right? Was it your mother?”
She shook her head. “No. My grandmother Gladys. Gladys Nightingale.”
Spotted Fawn. Maddie remembered finding the names of their ancestors in an old family Bible. Spotted Fawn had been Nancy’s grandmother’s Wampanoag name—Maddie’s maternal great-great-grandmother, and Rafe’s great-great-great.Wow, she thought.How wonderful that Rafe wants to revive a tribal art.
“How about if we start over Christmas break?” he was asking. “I’ll be here a couple of weeks, so maybe you’ll have time to teach me then?”
Maddie didn’t ask what he thought Grandma did that could possibly keep her too busy to be with him. Nor did she ask how he would spend the rest of his winter break beyond the “couple of weeks” he’d be there. Chances were, Rafe’s father had booked what had become an annual New Year’s cruise-ship Caribbean vacation for him, his second wife, their twin daughters, and Rafe. Owen didn’t know that his son hated the crowds, the ridiculous games (as Rafe called them), and the midnight buffets. Or that Rafe mostly occupied himself by babysitting his now nine-year-old half sisters because, as he’d told Maddie, it was more fun. Every year, he readTreasure Islandto them, showed them magic tricks, and helped them master swimming, though the pool was jam-packed and the water too warm. He also said he counted the hours until each cruise would be over.
Grandma lowered her voice and said, “I stopped making baskets because of my arthritis. I’m not sure I can do it anymore.”
“Maybe you can if we work together?” Rafe asked. “I bet there’s still a good market for them. And the project might help keep both of us out of trouble.”
Maddie stifled a giggle; Grandma, however, let out a big laugh, and, of course, would not say no to him. So she spit outa string of questions about what size baskets he wanted to make, and if he’d like to use ash or hickory, wide planks or thin strips. As they exchanged ideas, Grandma stuttered less and became more animated, and Maddie’s heart swelled with love for them both. Then, as Maddie finished her breakfast, she spotted a figure outside passing by the window. Rex. She quickly stood, then scooted out the front door and down the steps.
