Chapter Seven
Seven
By the time Martha’s Vineyard was in sight, Erica had joined us on the top deck with a coffee from the snack bar.
She must’ve been desperate; Erica was kind of a coffee snob, and I couldn’t imagine this brew was the best. “We’re docking in Oak Bluffs,” she told me while snapping some photos of Maisie and Bryce with her Nikon.
They were laughing, T-shirts blowing and billowing in the ocean breeze.
“It’s one of the Vineyard’s larger towns.
” She considered. “It’s fun for a day, but otherwise too touristy. ”
All I did was nod, mostly focused on the horizon.
But I thought about Oak Bluffs’ historic gazebo and carousel.
As we got closer to the island, all passengers were instructed to return to their cars, and walk-ons reported to the gangway.
Bryce made a game of darting past and weaving between the parked cars, packed together like sardines.
He’d literally just gotten his cast off.
“Careful, pal!” my dad warned as he nearly cut a corner too close. “You might hurt someone…”
Or hit something, I thought, horrifically imagining a bike rack snagging my brother’s sleeve, or an open car door stopping him in his tracks. There had to have been an accident like that before, right?
But Bryce made it back to the Expedition safely, and after coaxing Swede back into the car (the ferry was much more interesting!), we all buckled up—ready to disembark. The ferry unloaded efficiently, and I felt a thrill race through my veins when my dad drove onto the wide-plank dock.
I looked over the side of the pier to see people on the beach.
A couple was napping together on a large blanket; three tween girls were taking selfies on the rocks; a young mother and her toddler stood at the water’s edge, squealing and racing away whenever a ripple washed ashore.
I smiled to myself, remembering my mom and me playing the same game when I was little.
Run, Livvy! Her warm hand tugged mine. Or do you want to turn into a mermaid?
We cruised along the blue water, and when I glanced the other way, my heart jumped a little.
Out the right side window, peering around Swede’s blocky head, I saw a sprawling green park with a pair of fountains, network of pathways, and lush flowerbeds.
Its white Victorian gazebo caught my eye; one of Annie’s Polaroids come to life.
“How far away is Nana and Granddad’s house?” Maisie asked, prompting me to blink.
“Twenty minutes,” Erica said without missing a beat. She shifted in her seat. “Allison texted that Jay’s flight was delayed, but everyone else is there.”
Great, I thought, wondering if our arrival would make me feel like the new kid walking into a crowded high school cafeteria.
The other day, I’d asked Erica for a Carmichael family highlight reel; I didn’t think about them very often (shocking, I know), and while I might not be able to put names to faces right away, I didn’t want to have minimal background on top of that.
My stepmother had been in the middle of updating her latest Pinterest board, but she seemed almost happy to take a break and give me the 411 on her family.
Her parents were Lawrence and Margaret. Their love story was an idyllic one: high school sweethearts turned patriarch and matriarch of a big family.
Having met them only a few times, I should initially refer to them as “Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael,” but only as a formality; they’d invite me to call them “Topper and Peggy.”
What kind of nickname is Topper? was the follow-up question I did not ask.
Beth was Erica’s older sister. She was a Boston neurosurgeon and married to Paul, who was German. They lived in the city during the week and coastal Connecticut on the weekends. Ashley was their only daughter.
And she has two kids, I remembered, but their names were fuzzy.
Jay, Erica’s brother, worked in investment banking and was married to Allison. They also lived in Connecticut and had three children, but only Nick and Charlie—twins, funnily enough—would be “on-island” for the festivities. Erica mentioned their daughter lived in London—
Bryce’s voice interrupted my train of thought.
“Look!” he exclaimed while we drove over a bridge. “That guy just did a backflip!”
Tons of teenagers in bikinis and swim trunks were catapulting themselves off the bridge and into the water. NO JUMPING OFF THE brIDGE, a tall sign announced, but it must’ve been an inside joke.
“This is Jaws Bridge.” Erica explained its tie to the 1970-something movie. “Jumping off the bridge is a rite of passage on the island.”
“Have you done it, Dad?” Maisie asked.
My dad laughed. “Yes, but certainly not a backflip.” He glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “You should jump, Liv.”
“Maybe.” I smiled, though my stomach tightened. The whole scene looked daunting. At our swim club, I’d only climb up to the high dive if someone dared me.
For the rest of the drive, I gazed out my window.
I’d always associated the word island with tropical, but this place was different.
There were trees everywhere, and none of them were palm trees.
Instead, it was a blend of leafy green and pine, and every now and again, we’d pass a split-rail fence and a wide-open beyond—grassy fields, some with horses, others farmland.
Cyclists rode along the paved bike path that ran parallel to the road, and cedar-shingled houses started popping up.
Private driveways did too. A vintage orange car with white racing stripes sat at the end of one, a stone obelisk marking the driveway’s entrance.
It wasn’t long after we passed the airport that my dad flipped his left blinker and turned onto what a sign denoted as OYSTA WATCHA ROAD.
Which was unpaved. The smooth main road shifted into a tree-lined sandy-dirt drive. One so bumpy that I inadvertently started bouncing in my seat. The twins giggled, and Erica turned in her seat to smile at them. “It’s like we’re off-roading!” Bryce cackled.
Every now and again I spotted a mailbox, but there were no houses in sight.
The road was so long that I lost all sense of space and time, the trees engulfing us.
“And here we are,” my dad finally said when we reached a navy-blue mailbox.
CARMICHAEL was printed below the address in white lettering, and I was relieved to see a pebbled driveway. No more bumps.
And even though I’d seen pictures of the Carmichael family’s summer home, it still left me speechless.
New England cottage meets Gilded Age mansion, it was a long cedar-shingled house with white trim, black shutters, and three brick chimneys.
A low stoop with a black front door and pair of lantern-esque sconces anchored the entrance while two beautiful sprawling wings flanked the historic house.
The product of an intense renovation spurred by a growing family, I guessed.
My dad parked with the other cars, near the detached garage. It matched the house; cedar-shingles with rounded black doors. “Hello!” someone shouted as my family deployed from the Expedition, our feet crunching over the driveway’s pebbles. “At long last!”
Erica’s mom was walking over, a huge smile on her face. She was petite and adorable in a wide-brimmed straw hat with a blue grosgrain bow. It didn’t take a map to trace back Erica’s preppy sense of style. “Nana!” Maisie and Bryce chorused and ran to her for a hug.
“Christopher, it’s wonderful to see you,” she said after the twins had released her and took off toward the house. I was almost envious; they hadn’t been here in years, yet they already felt right at home.
“Wonderful to see you too, Peggy,” my dad replied as he bent to give his mother-in-law a hug. “Thank you again for having us.”
“It’s our pleasure.” She squeezed his arm after they broke apart, then turned to focus on me—and Swede, who was straining against his leash. “Olivia, it’s been a while.”
She sounded a little judgmental, and I didn’t know what to say. Yes? I know? I’m sorry, but also not really, because you’re not my grandmother?
“Your home is stunning, Mrs. Carmichael,” is what I settled on.
As predicted, she told me to call her Peggy.
“Come into the house,” she said after giving Swede some belly rubs. He was in heaven. “Don’t worry about unpacking the car. I’ll have the boys do it.”
Erica stage-gasped. “They’re here? In the house? Sitting still?”
Peggy laughed and kissed her youngest daughter’s cheek. “No, no.” She shook her head. “They’re out sailing.”
Of course they are, I thought, even though I wasn’t entirely sure who Erica’s mom was talking about.
Erica’s father and brother? Erica’s nephews?
A pair of bellhops? This place was beautiful beyond words, but it also seemed a little more than just sequestered—remote, on the edge of the world.
I suddenly felt very far away from home.
Stop being so dramatic, I heard Annie’s voice in my head. This isn’t White Lotus!
I couldn’t help but smile a bit as I let Swede lead me across the driveway. White Lotus had been too difficult a concept for Annie to grasp, but when I’d shown her a couple episodes a few years ago, she remarked how gorgeous the resort was.
She would’ve thought this house was gorgeous too.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, I was unpacking. Most of the Carmichaels were at the beach while others ran errands, so the house had been quiet until “the boys” got back from their sail.
It turned out they weren’t technically boys.
“Family!” Nick Carmichael exclaimed once he and Charlie joined us on the back porch, which overlooked the water.
Maisie and Bryce were racing across the rolling lawn with Swede and two other dogs, but my dad, Erica, and I’d been admiring the view of the gleaming blue-green Oyster Pond.
Grinning, Nick stretched out his arms as if expecting a group hug, accidentally whacking his twin in the chest.