6. Marnie
CHAPTER SIX
Marnie
Ilied—the nerves are back in full force. The further away I got from the coffee shop and the closer I got to the historical society, the worse it got. I wonder if Art put an extra dose of caffeine in my drink, or if the nerves are turning into literal jitters now.
Who would’ve thought I’d be missing a stranger’s company, if only to ease the anxiety of my first day.
After spending an entire weekend alone, stewing in my own thoughts, it was nice to have some human interaction outside of anything work-related.
Yes, Art had been cordial, and I will absolutely be back for more pumpkin spice latte runs, but something about my interaction with Caleb has been messing with my head.
My legs start to feel tingly when the path ends and the building comes into view. I slip my phone out of my pocket, the time reading 7:55 a.m. My feet carry me to the bench outside the door, and I take a moment to familiarize myself with my surroundings before I have to head inside.
The Martha’s Vineyard Historical Society sits atop a hill, overlooking a small inlet of bowriders, sailboats, and even a houseboat.
Lush green grass surrounds the building on every side, except where the gravel parking lot meets the sidewalk that leads around back.
There are plenty of outdoor tables and benches on the opposite side of the sidewalk, giving guests a great place to relax before, during, or after their visit.
The building is a massive, two-story entity painted a crisp, off-white color, like one of those summer homes in movies that are always too big for one person to enjoy.
I remember reading about their renovation and relocation a few years back but seeing it in person does not do it justice.
It’s an old historic property that has changed roles several times over the decades, and the historical society acquired it to keep up with their expanding showrooms and archives.
A second, smaller building—which looks like a recent add-on to the original building—with floor-to-ceiling windows sits just off the main entrance and it appears to house their new showrooms.
Upon entering, I pass a staircase that leads to an upstairs gallery and find myself at the reception table where a young woman around my age sits. She lowers her book and welcomes me with a chipper smile. “How can I help you this morning?”
“I’m here to see Josie Mendes.”
“Oh, you’re Marnie Stevens!” she exclaims. “Josie told us you’d be working here this summer.
We are thrilled to have you. Staff offices are down that hall,” she points past my shoulder in the direction of a slim hallway blocked off from the public by a wooden half-door.
“Josie’s office is the last door on the left. ”
I track her hand to get a glimpse of the hall and then turn back, reading the name on her badge. “Thank you, Jordan.”
The half-door leading to the staff offices creaks as I swing it open, and my heels echo off the walls, seemingly growing louder the further I walk toward the end of the hall.
The last door on the left is open, light spilling out and illuminating the surrounding space.
This feels eerily like one of those scary movies where you’re silently yelling at the main character not to walk down the hallway toward the unknown.
I’m briefly reminded of my interaction with Caleb again, and it brings a small smile to my face.
Enough for me to ignore every internal alarm bell going off and take the final steps toward Josie’s office, reassuring myself that there is no reason to panic . . . yet.
My feet hover over the threshold. “Mrs. Mendes?”
Behind a large, mahogany desk sits a woman with shoulder-length hair so dark it is a few shades from black. Her head is down as she runs a pink highlighter across several lines of the document in front of her.
“Mrs. Mendes is my mother-in-law, and if she’s here, we are all in trouble.” When she looks up at me, I’m greeted with the kindest expression I’ve ever received. “You must be Marnie.”
I am not used to seeing a set of brown eyes staring at me this softly at work. It’s a relief, but quite unnerving—a drastic difference to Irene’s daily appearance back in Boston. “Yes, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say, offering my hand as I approach her desk.
She accepts it eagerly. “You can call me Josie, or Jo, doesn’t matter to me. Just none of that Mrs. Mendes business. Please, sit.” She gestures to the pair of chairs behind me. “Let me just finish up this email and then we will go over your onboarding paperwork.”
I do as she says and set my bag down next to me.
Her office is warm and inviting. My eyes travel over the dozens of frames adorning her shelves. Family vacations, graduations, holiday gatherings.
Something else catches my eye amidst all the photos—a wooden sign, hand-painted in a dark blue cursive font. On Island Time. There’s something so aesthetically pleasing about the phrase and I feel myself relax slightly, shoulders loosening as I lean back into the chair.
Josie looks up from her computer to see me staring at the photo closest to her desk. “That was from our trip to the Azores a couple years ago. Have you ever been?”
I shake my head. “No, but my parents were there a few months back.”
I got a postcard, just like all their other stops.
They’ve been traveling the world for the past year since they’ve retired.
A long, fulfilled working life, and now their reward is no responsibilities and freedom to do whatever they want.
It’s what I’ll have eventually, if all goes according to plan.
I haven’t taken a true vacation in years. I’ve always been too busy. Even on my trip to the Cape with Gwen, I brought work with me since I was on a deadline for a class project.
Growing up, my parents were rarely home.
They were either at work, traveling for work, or talking about work, so I got used to being on my own.
I would fill the silence with anything to keep busy.
Tutoring and clubs and extra credit assignments.
It gave me purpose and something to work towards. It became my identity—what defined me.
And I turned out exactly like them. The older I’ve gotten, the more that terrifies me. But this is all I’ve ever known.
I shake the thought away, trying to refocus on not embarrassing myself in front of my new boss.
“So how do you know Irene?”
I’m ashamed to admit that I know nothing about Josie. Irene didn’t exactly fill me in on the personal details of her life. I stay on a strict need-to-know basis, and it seems I never need to be in the know.
I read her biography on the historical society’s website over the weekend, but it only contained academic and professional information. Knowing personal and intimate details about my boss’s life is an informality that I was not prepared for.
Josie leans back in her chair, searching for a photo on her shelf.
She pulls a small frame from the end and hands it to me.
“I met Irene over twenty years ago when I first moved to Boston. She was already a curator, and I had just finished up my master’s degree and was starting out in the nonprofit sector. ”
The photo is of a celebration, with a group of people standing under a banner that reads Congratulations! Front and center, I recognize Josie with her arms around Irene.
She smiles down at the photo. “We worked together until she became chief curator, and I took the job here as executive director shortly thereafter. We’ve collaborated on dozens of exhibits over the years, each lending our expertise to one another.
When I knew I needed help this summer, she was the first person I called. ”
I return the photo to her, and she spins around to set it back on the shelf.
“Now, enough about me, tell me a bit about yourself. How are you settling in?”
“Still unpacking, but not too much left to do. It’s been a very busy weekend with the move.”
“I bet,” she replies and takes a sip of her coffee. “Did you try out the recipe I left for you?”
Color drains from my face. “Wait . . . you left me that recipe? That’s your cottage?”
She nods in confirmation. “Didn’t Irene tell you?”
There’s a lot of things that Irene neglects to tell me, so I am not surprised she failed to mention this one, too. There better not be any more surprises today.
“Yes, of course,” I fib. No good will come from telling her that Irene did nothing to prepare me for this summer. “I just wasn’t expecting to be living somewhere so . . .” I trail off.
She raises her eyebrows, urging me to continue.
“So nice,” I finish. “I assumed all beachfront cottages would be snatched up already for the summer.”
“My husband and I typically use it as a vacation rental or for our families to stay in when they visit, but with housing being so scarce for summer employment, I thought it might sweeten the deal if housing was covered.”
“It’s very generous of you both, so thank you.”
Her eyes crinkle as she smiles at me and moves to open a file on her computer. “Alright. Ready to learn about the exhibit?”
“Yes, I’m very eager to get started.”
“Jaws.”
“As in . . . the movie?” I blurt out before I catch myself.
She lets out a soft chuckle. “Yes, exactly like the movie. The book celebrated its 50th anniversary last year, and this year is the 50th anniversary of the movie. As I’m sure you know, the movie was filmed here back in the seventies, and it’s an important part of the history and culture of the island. ”
Excitement blooms in my chest the more she describes the theme. “So, what are you looking to get out of the exhibit?”
Josie leans forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “The island is anticipating a massive spike in tourism after this summer, and the chamber of commerce wants an exhibit that will continue to draw in groups to take advantage of the interest in the island.”