The original cottage had two small windows along the front wall; Maddie had them replaced with nearly all glass from the corner to the front door, and from the ceiling down to thirty inches up from the new oak plank floor. In addition, the contractor had raised the roof, so the rafters were nine feet from the floor instead of seven, which meant Rafe no longer had to duck around the old beams which, like the small windows, were long gone.
Thankfully, after the fire, the insurance company had been generous. In addition, Maddie added money she’d been saving for future traveling; she’d since decided she could not think of a nicer destination than Martha’s Vineyard.
“It’s awesome, Mom.”
She followed his gaze down the hill, outside to where Vineyard Sound curved into the harbor. Once the cottage was finished and furnished, painted and primped, Maddie knew she might want to keep it forever.
The crown jewel of the tour was the newly constructed bedroom en suite at the back. They went down the hall and stepped in.
“Wow,” Rafe said again as his jaw dropped.
“My childhood playroom was once here,” she said. “We called it my hobbit house, and it was a lot smaller.” As in the living room, the windows were wide and tall and looked west.
The adjoining bath with its walk-in shower and spa-like soaking tub was also a big hit with Rafe. Overall, the interior would be spectacular and updated, while the exterior retained the look of an historic island cottage, albeit with larger windows and new, tan cedar shingles replacing the weatheredgray ones. In a year they, too, would have adopted the silver-gray Vineyard look thanks to the sunshine and salt air.
“What about the sheds that were out back?” Rafe asked. “Are they staying or going?”
“They’re already gone. They were close to collapsing before the fire.”
When they were done oohing and aahing, they drove back to the cabin and allocated the afternoon to prepping for Cranberry Day.
Grandma was up from her nap, and made it her job to supervise Maddie assembling the Three Sisters Stew. Nancy explained that the seeds of the squash, beans, and corn had been planted together and flourished—the way people did—because they had grown up as a family. Maddie smiled and added garlic, onions, greens, and cornmeal.
“There will be other stews there,” Grandma said, “but they’ll all taste different.” Then she insisted that Maddie add a secret ingredient—a splash of maple syrup. Thankfully, Rex, the chef, kept a bottle in the cabinet.
Maddie peeled the squash and chopped it into chunks with Grandma close at hand, not unlike how Stephen enjoyed watching his daughter make dinner. She missed him now; a soft edge of homesickness nudged her.
Thankfully, Rafe interrupted. “How disappointed will my father be if I don’t go into the investment business with him and don’t want my life to revolve around a country club like his does?” It was an unexpected question, though maybe it wasn’t.
Maddie blinked. “I think you know the answer.” There was no point in saying Owen would be crushed and probably angry. He also would be embarrassed when his business and golf partners asked what had happened to his only son.
She tried not to consider it a victory for her. She really did.
Then Grandma fiddled with the salt and pepper mills on the slate countertop. “You’re serious about wanting to live here, Rafe?”
“Totally, Grandma.”
“Well, it isn’t all beach roses and daydreams. If you don’t believe me, ask your mother.”
As Maddie hadn’t yet spent a winter on the island, she wondered if Grandma had mixed her up with Hannah, Maddie’s mother.
“Why don’t you tell me what it’s really like, Grandma?” Rafe asked sweetly, as if he, too, had picked up on the flaw but had the grace not to correct her.
So while Grandma spewed a monologue about the harsh winds at the cliffs in January and how the cold air and gray sky sometimes made folks ornery, Maddie realized she could not cut her father out of their lives. She also knew he would not want to join them; Green Hills was where the memories of his beloved wife were set, and, though Hannah had died on the Vineyard, she was buried in Green Hills.No, Maddie thought.He would not want to leave.
Stripping the husk from another ear of corn, she scraped the kernels into a bowl, wondering why life had to be so complicated when so much of it now seemed so right.
Monday morning, Rafe left for Aquinnah to help Joe set up for Tuesday’s celebration. With Grandma content to park in the overstuffed chair by the fireplace in Rex’s cabin and browse through the rest of her recipes that were unearthed from the ashes at the cottage, Maddie decided to go for a run on the beach.
Clad in her Nikes, yoga pants, and a thick sweatshirt, she jogged down the driveway. But as she reached the road, a taxi pulled over and stopped. To her surprise, her father got out.
She froze. “Dad?”
He was dressed in the gray wool coat he’d bought last year because he said his hair was getting whiter by the day and that flyaway strands didn’t show as much when they landed on a similar shade. He also wore the gray and light blue, Scotch plaid scarf Maddie gave him one Christmas. Though it was only two months since she’d seen him, somehow, he looked older and a bit shorter than his former five foot ten.
“Yes, I’m the old man you call Dad,” he replied with a comical grin. He handed the cabbie cash, then hoisted his overnight bag onto his shoulder. As the taxi made a U-turn, Stephen gave his daughter a quick hug. “I decided if Rafe wouldn’t come to Green Hills, Green Hills would come to him.” He was a kind man, but his sense of humor often missed a beat. “He said he’d be here for Cranberry Day.”
“Seriously?” She wished she hadn’t sounded startled. Rafe, after all, was his grandson, and they’d always been close. Maybe her father had sensed that the island was stealing Rafe from him. “I mean, yes, he arrived. Tomorrow’s the big day.”
