3. Marnie
CHAPTER THREE
Marnie
The blaring foghorn jolts me awake, nearly toppling me out of my seat and bringing me back to reality. It takes a few beats to steady my heart and realize I was dreaming.
Unlike most times when I wake up, I remember this one vividly: a compilation of classic first-day catastrophes.
Discovering a hole in my only clean pair of dress pants.
Getting lost en route and arriving late.
Attempting to bond with my new coworkers via comedy, leading to an awkward first impression.
I peek around at the surrounding deck and seating areas, hoping no one noticed. Coast is clear.
Slight mortification creeps over me at the knowledge that I fell asleep in public when I had no intention of doing so, but I’m thoroughly spent and running on zero caffeine and my body just couldn’t take it anymore. Maybe I can blame the mild rocking of the ferry for lulling me to sleep.
The drive from Boston to the port at Woods Hole landed me in Friday morning traffic, adding an extra hour and a half to my commute. This was the first time all day that my body has been completely still and my mind not focused on a task, and I just crashed.
I stand and walk to the railing, my heart still racing as I look out across the waves and watch as they lap and slosh against the boat.
My fingers grip the front of my cardigan, pulling it tighter around me, tracing the outline of the embroidered flowers stitched into the sleeves. The breeze is more intense than I was expecting, but I welcome the chill it brings, and I’m wide awake now.
The wind pulls a few wisps of hair from my bun, curling the ends.
I inhale the salt air rising from the water below and allow it to fill my senses, not quite able to name the feeling the scent awakens in me. Something between a calming peace and a longing nostalgia, though not strong enough to settle the rest of my nerves.
I focus on the steady hum of the engine vibrating under my feet. The sound of the ferry cutting through the waves. The metal clanging against the pole on the mast. Anything to distract myself from wanting to jump overboard and swim back to the safety of the city.
Am I really doing this?
Just days ago, I was celebrating my best exhibit launch to date, blissfully unaware of my boss’s plan to ship me off for the summer while my only competition gets to stay and help with her every need.
Now, I have my entire life packed away into my car, sailing to an island with no clue what to expect.
When Irene broke the news, she neglected to tell me that I had less than forty-eight hours to pack up and make the move for the summer.
Most of the boat reservations for this weekend were sold out for travelers bringing a car to the island, but I snagged the last open Friday slot, and I would still arrive by early afternoon to find my way around before it got dark.
I was grateful to have a few days to unpack and settle in before my first day, but it was all so abrupt.
Gwen came over immediately after work Wednesday night with a tub of ice cream, knowing just what I needed after I called her in a panic.
She let me vent and unload everything that Irene told me, then she stood up and told me to dust myself off and get packing because I had a promotion to earn.
We spent that night and the following night packing up everything I needed for the summer into every piece of luggage we owned between the two of us.
Despite going to school in Boston, I never had the chance to see the Vineyard. Gwen and I took a weekend trip to the Cape after final exams one year to visit her family in Chatham, but that was the extent of my vacations.
There was no time off when you worked in a highly competitive field with few opportunities for your dream job.
I still can’t believe I agreed to do this. Not that Irene really gave me a choice, but that was nothing new. When Irene says “jump,” you say, “how high?” She can make or break your career, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone, especially John, stand in my way.
I shoot Gwen a quick text to let her know I made it onto the boat. She replies seconds later.
Gwen Townsend
Safe travels! Where are you staying?
Me
No clue . . . Irene gave me an address to a cottage in Vineyard Haven with no details.
Not sketchy at all . . .
Gwen Townsend
Ooh, mysterious
Call me when you’re settled in! XOXO
I slip my phone into my pocket and glance back up at the horizon.
The mainland grows farther away with each passing second, and the harbor starts coming into view.
It’s unnerving, like the part in a movie where the main character is thrust into an unknown world and the suspense builds as they have no choice but to accept their fate.
Anxious anticipation pools in my belly at the thought.
I wonder what life will be like back in Boston while I’m gone—whether Gwen will start obsessing over a new sitcom, or if John will finally get his car towed for parking in the spots reserved for the restaurant next door to the office.
But I also wonder what awaits me here. I wonder what the cottage looks like and what Josie will be like.
Most importantly, I wonder if this exhibit will truly be enough to earn me the promotion.
Irene has not led me astray thus far, so I have no reason not to trust her.
The captain comes over the intercom to announce that we are docking soon, so I start to make my way back down to my car. Forty-five minutes flies by when you’re overthinking your life.
When it’s time for my row to disembark, an older gentleman moves to direct us out single file. I give him a soft wave in thanks as I pass by, driving over the metal ramp connecting the ferry to the loading dock. I release a large breath and type my destination into my GPS.
Vineyard Haven, here I come.
The address Irene gave me sends me to a small, flat area of hard sand and crushed shells just off the road, almost like a driveway.
The area is surrounded by bushes and grass, with a bordering ranch-style wooden fence.
On the far left of the alcove is a mailbox with a large rock at the base painted 19 in thick white letters.
I park my car and exit, immediately taking in my new home for the summer.
A path of wooden planks leads directly to a cottage that sits about a hundred feet from the water’s edge, on a beach that stretches for miles on end in either direction. It’s breathtaking.
I walk down toward the ocean, leaving my sandals on the final plank.
I cross over the collection of rocks and shells near the shoreline and reach the squishy sand where the water is retreating. The next wave approaches, submerging me up to my ankles, the sand falling beneath the weight of my feet.
The sheer serenity instantly puts me at ease.
I stand there for a few minutes, taking it all in.
My feet sink fully into the sand before I realize it, one strong gust of wind away from knocking me off balance. Before they reach the point of no return, I dig them out, letting the water sweep the sand off the top of my feet before turning and heading back towards the cottage.
I was so drawn to the waves, their ebb and flow pulling me into a trance, that I don’t know how I managed to not see the beauty of the cottage as well.
The cottage is small, not like the quintessential oceanfront estates, but room enough for me for the summer.
The exterior is wrapped with cedar shake siding, each individual shingle uniquely grooved and weathered, their color a mix of pale and dark grays from years of enduring the sea breeze.
Long, rectangular windows that stretch almost floor to ceiling allow the expansive natural light to flow inside, while the wraparound porch offers a view of the ocean from any angle.
Bold, blue hydrangea bushes surround the cottage, each petal a different shade of light and dark hues with deep green leaves making each bulb pop.
These hydrangeas have just started blooming, and already they are the most beautiful variation I’ve ever seen.
They should continue to fill out and become more vibrant throughout the summer.
This cottage is straight out of a movie.
A few houses in the distance catch my attention, sitting higher up in the dunes and far enough away to not consider them a direct neighbor, but close enough to tell they all share the same landscaping and beach access as my cottage.
Quiet. Secluded. Peaceful. Not at all like the city. Not at all what I was expecting.
It’s perfect.
Hauling six suitcases and several boxes down those wooden planks and over the sand is no easy feat. It takes nine trips to transfer all my luggage, office supplies, and spider plant—my most prized possession—from the car.
I’ve had this plant for a little over a year now.
My apartment was in desperate need of another living entity, but I have the polar opposite of a green thumb, so when Gwen suggested I get a plant, it took a little convincing.
I needed something low maintenance that wouldn’t spontaneously die if I forgot to water it for a day or two since work sometimes kept me occupied for days at a time, especially when close to a new exhibit launch.
In undergrad, Gwen and I shared a dorm for our final two years, and our hall threw a Galentine’s celebration for anyone not celebrating with a significant other.
Instead of roses, the RA gifted each girl a small succulent in an engraved pot that read Don’t Be a Prick.
The tag on the back included watering and sunlight instructions, with a tagline saying, I Thrive on Neglect.
Turns out that wasn’t true, and I managed to kill it within the week.
I swore off plants after that, until an older woman at the farmer’s market was giving away spider plants towards the end of the event, and Gwen convinced me to take one.