Chapter 8
The massive white and black ferry rocked in the spring waves as I drove the pre-owned, low-mileage sedan I bought three days ago up the car ramp.
The inside of the car was still chilled from the gust of wind that burst through the window when I gave the attendant my passenger ticket: one-way to Martha’s Vineyard.
It was the first time I’d seen the ferry terminal in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, with little to no car traffic, and even fewer walk-on passengers. It was also the first time I’d ever traveled to the island before Memorial Day.
After I parked the car, I made my way up to the little onboard galley, bought a beer, and settled into a seat by a window.
I’d normally sit outside on the deck and let the cleansing ocean wind whip over my face.
But today the cool temperature, gray sky, and choppy, dark waves kept me inside.
I took my current romance novel out of my bag—my fifth since I started the medical leave—but I didn’t open it.
This journey typically inspired a sort of childlike excitement as I pictured trips to the beach and the boutiques in town, and anticipated the taste of handmade ice cream and lobster rolls on buttered, grilled buns.
But this time, sipping my beer and looking out at the water, part of me felt just as listless as the crashing Atlantic waves.
Crushed shells and gravel crunched under my tires as I pulled into the driveway at Mimi’s house.
My tasks until Mimi arrived in mid-May were to open up the house, get it ready, and get settled in myself.
A surge of nostalgia washed over me as I looked at the home.
Weathered shingles covered the whole facade.
Black trim surrounded the windows, and a black door stood in the center. It hadn’t changed in thirty years.
I grabbed a bag and the key and headed inside.
The door swung open, and a familiar smell filled my nostrils.
But it was quieter than usual. I flicked on the lights.
Like the outside, everything inside was the same: blue couches, nautical artwork, worn, dark wood cabinets in the kitchen.
Collages of family photos filled gold standing frames on almost every surface.
The oldest Drew or I were in any of them had to be about twelve.
The bookshelf in the living room overflowed with my grandfather’s well-loved paperbacks—all mysteries and thrillers.
I’d have to read some of those this summer, too.
I followed the directions my dad wrote out on a note before I left, turning on the water and the heat and checking the basement for leaks.
Upstairs, I shook out the sheets I found in the linen closet and put them on the queen-sized bed in the larger of the two guest rooms, following my mother’s lifelong advice to “always make the bed first because you’ll be too tired later.”
I organized the handful of groceries I bought on the way here in the fridge, cracked another beer, and plopped on the couch.
Now what?
I drummed my manicured fingers on the dark wood coffee table until I finally gave in and opened that romance novel, ready to escape into another person’s story for a few hours as a break from worrying about my own.
The next morning I woke up so early it was dark out when I opened my eyes.
I’d had a nightmare that I had to explain to my law school professors why I wasn’t working right now.
I pushed the damp hair sticking to my forehead to the sides and sat up.
My hand wrapped around my neck, feeling the pulse thrumming under the warm skin, faster than it should be.
It was a familiar but (thankfully) increasingly infrequent occurrence in the mornings.
Still, the dream cracked open some of the mental floodgates I’d forced shut over the last few weeks. Was I a quitter? I worked so hard in high school and college and law school, and then I just couldn’t hack it? How come some people can? Are they just smarter than I am? More dedicated?
At least the virtual counseling my primary care doctor recommended when she signed my medical leave paperwork was starting tomorrow. That should help. And Mimi would get here next weekend. Then I wouldn’t be alone with my thoughts anymore.
I pushed the doubts down before I spiraled. Then I picked up the paperback from my nightstand instead.
Five chapters later, I stared through the kitchen window at Mimi’s backyard with my second cup of coffee in my hand.
Sunlight reflected off the dewy, blooming flower bushes of her garden.
They reminded me of the fresh flowers they always had at Morning Glory Farm, a small local farm a mile from Mimi’s house.
Grateful I didn’t buy much produce at the grocery store yesterday, I skipped upstairs to change and smiled when a pair of jeans that hadn’t been comfortable for a while zipped up easily.
This is what this break is for, isn’t it? I thought as I drove. Sleeping, reading, cooking, enjoying my free time. If I focused on my physical health, then my mental health would follow, right? Hopefully my new therapist would know.
When I opened my car door in the Morning Glory parking lot, I caught an instant whiff of fresh flowers. The smell enveloped the entire property. The breeze rustling the leaves and the rhythmic whir of the windmill mingled with my crunching footsteps as I walked the flower-lined path to the door.
I picked up a wicker basket and a bunch of sunflowers from outside. Before I swung open the screen door the floral smell was overtaken by freshly baked muffins. This was dangerous, given the healthy eating kick I’d been on.
Vegetables first, then maybe some bakery items, I said to myself. And I’m joining the gym tomorrow.
The farm store was all light wood, like the inside of a barn, with wooden tables and crates filled to the brim with fruits, vegetables, and leafy greens. It was a kaleidoscope of colors, broken up by cheerful blackboard signs noting the name of each item.
I placed two fresh tomatoes from the table in front of the door in my basket. When I turned to look at the bakery section, there was a tall man with a deep tan skin tone standing there, reading the labels on the pie-shaped boxes in front of him.
He wore a black T-shirt, blue golf shorts, and a pair of boat shoes that looked like they’d traveled to the bottom of the ocean and back.
His dark brown, almost black, hair was long, curling at the nape of his neck in the back, and sloping down from his hairline to his eyebrows in the front.
He pushed it back, and the pieces fell down to the exact same spot.
As if he could feel me watching him, he turned and caught my eye.
His eyes were a deep, warm brown. Inviting.
I realized too late that I was staring. My options were to pretend I wasn’t and flee to another section of the store or say something to justify why I was looking at him.
“Hi,” I blurted.
“Hi,” he replied, amusement dancing across his face. One of his dark eyebrows rose slightly.
Why was I saying hi? Why would someone say hi to a stranger in a store?
“Um, so…” I nodded toward the stacks of pie boxes he was scrutinizing. “What do you usually buy here? I haven’t been back in ages.”
His face changed to a friendly smile, white teeth appearing within his neatly trimmed, dark beard.
Wow, he’s handsome. “The quiches are the best, and they change up the flavors regularly. Definitely grab one of those. And the zucchini bread. Plus, I mean, all the produce is great, too, because a lot of it is grown here.” He gestured to the rest of the store with a muscular, tanned arm.
“Thank you. I’ll definitely try a quiche then.
” I smiled at him. His gaze lingered on me for a moment, and I thought he might say something else.
Instead, he added one of the boxes to the top of his basket, which was already full of green produce bags.
He stepped aside so I could look at the display.
“Enjoy,” he said over his shoulder as he walked toward the checkout area.
“Thanks!” I called back.
I wondered if he lived on the island full-time. It was mid-May, which was early if you only spent your summers here.
I wished I had thought of something else to say to him. I was out of practice at…well, everything that wasn’t talking to partners, associates, and clients about purchase agreements.
Maybe I’d run into him again at some point. The island wasn’t that big. I rolled my lips between my teeth and stole one more look at him in the checkout line.
I hadn’t had the time or the desire to put myself out there in years. Maybe that was changing though, because one of the first things I noticed about him was that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.