Chapter 1
October
Seven months earlier
“Wake up!” Grandma Nancy bellowed, jostling Maddie from sleep.
Maddie, however, was done grading students’ papers and had earmarked a few days for taking a break to have fun. She hadn’t expected it would start so soon after dawn.
“I hear a car out on the road!” Grandma prattled as she stood in the bedroom doorway, her frail, wiry frame lightly bouncing in her ancient slippers that might have been as old as she was.
Her dark eyes were wide with joy, her chestnut-shaded skin multiwrinkled yet radiant, her stubborn white hair only partly corralled by a beaded headband.
The dirt road wasn’t often used off-season; the vehicle on it most likely was a taxi, with Maddie’s son, Rafe, in the passenger seat.
To have caught the first boat, he must have left Amherst in the middle of the night; he’d planned to get a cab at the ferry terminal because, as a college senior, he’d said he did not need his mother to trek down to Vineyard Haven on a Sunday morning simply to greet him.
Oh, how Maddie loved her kid.
“I bet he’s excited about Cranberry Day!” Grandma’s ninety-year-old body seemed exhilarated, as if, like Maddie and Rafe, this would be her first time taking part in the centuries-old tradition.
Maddie rubbed her eyes. “I’m excited, too, Grandma. I never expected I’d be part of a cranberry harvest.” Her voice was still filled with sleep; she hadn’t intended to sound snide.
“You have much to learn, Granddaughter.” The old woman pretended to huff as she spun around and probably smiled as she faced the front door where Rafe would enter. After all, Nancy Clieg’s great-grandson was a gift that had resurrected her gusto for life. Maddie was grateful for that.
And though she was looking forward to the festivities, she was even more thrilled to have time with her son, a luxury that had been scarce since she’d come to the island last summer and stayed to look after her grandmother.
Pulling herself from beneath the quilt, she grabbed her clothes and headed for the bathroom to perform her ablutions—a favorite old British expression for grooming that her father once said was appropriate since they lived on the second floor of a nineteenth-century Victorian mansion in Green Hills, as far west in Massachusetts as one could get before falling into Upstate New York.
Maddie had been born and raised in that house; it also was where she’d returned after her divorce, toting her then three-year-old son, and where she’d become determined to reinvent herself as a single mom and career woman.
So she and Rafe had lived in the house with her father, Stephen Clarke, a retired professor at the local college where Maddie wound up teaching, too, though she now did it remotely.
Life in Green Hills had been quiet, predictable, safe; their home hadn’t burned down the way that Grandma’s almost had two months ago.
Maddie sighed, then quickly bundled into an alpaca sweater and yesterday’s jeans.
The cabin, where she and Grand ma were staying until renovations to the cottage were done, was cozy and well heated.
One drawback, however, was the persistent autumn wind that often swept up from Vineyard Sound and circled around and around the compact but somewhat drafty two-bed, one-bath structure that had been built fifty years earlier and was mostly used in summers.
Bang, bang, bang. A fist hammered on the bathroom door.
“Hurry up!” Grandma barked. “They’re pulling into the driveway!”
“Yes, ma’am!” Maddie saluted because Grandma couldn’t see her.
Dabbing light blush on her coppery-burnished cheeks (a shade lighter than Grandma’s) and a touch of gloss to her lips, she heard Grandma open the front door and shout: “You’re here!” which was followed by Rafe’s jubilant laugh.
Maddie slipped into the living room as her six-foot-one, or maybe -two now, one-and-only child stepped inside and nearly swallowed her grandmother into his long arms. Though Grand ma was, indeed, spunkier since they’d reconnected last summer, sometimes she looked tinier by the day.
“Hi, honey,” Maddie said after waiting her turn, then hugging Rafe, who, though seven or eight inches taller than his mom, did not swallow her. “How was the trip?”
“Long.”
He looked even more handsome than when she’d last seen him.
If nothing else, Maddie’s ex-husband, Owen, had given their son a few decent genes, though she was proudly accountable for Rafe’s shining charcoal hair (identical to hers) and his perfect, coppery skin (lighter than Maddie’s)—testaments to their Indigenous ancestors.
But though she’d also like to lay claim to Rafe’s clear blue eyes (a shade of the island sky), Owen’s eyes also were blue, so she supposed it was a draw.
At least Rafe had Maddie’s father’s sharp mind and her sensitivity, the latter of which was why, when Rafe had come to the Vineyard for the first time in August and learned of his true heritage, he’d wanted to stay.
Thankfully, Maddie convinced him to return to college and finish his degree.
With his academic focus on economics and environmental studies, she knew he’d be able to contribute a lot to the island and the Wampanoag tribe—now that he knew he was one of them.
“Never mind the hugging,” Grandma Nancy interrupted. “I want to know if Rafe has a girlfriend. I want a great-great-grandkid before I croak.”
“I’m waiting to find a nice Wampanoag girl,” he said. “So I can carry on our Indigenous line.”
“Well …” Grandma replied, unexpectedly flustered, “stop dilly-dallying, okay? I’m not getting any younger.”
“Yeah,” a familiar voice mocked from the porch. “Stop dilly-dallying. I’ve got berries to pick.”
Maddie laughed with surprise as Rex Winsted (the gentle giant, as she liked to think of him) entered the cabin, which he owned.
He also owned—and was the chef at—the fabulous Lord James restaurant on the water in downtown Edgartown.
He was the same height as Rafe but broader, and unlike Rafe’s full head of hair, Rex was totally bald.
“By nature and Norelco,” the fifty-something man once told her.
“Don’t tell me you were Rafe’s taxi driver.” Maddie’s gaze darted between Rex and her son.
“A coincidence, Mom. He called late last night and said he had to come up-island early this morning, so he offered to pick me up at the boat.”
“You ‘had to’ make a trip up here at this hour?” Grandma asked Rex.
“I did,” he said, his bright, cinnamon eyes twinkling impishly, as they sometimes did.
“In case you didn’t know, it’s not only Indigenous Peoples’ weekend.
It’s also the last long weekend for leaf peepers and tour busses, so we non-Indigenous folks have to work.
Which includes picking the last of my berry crop so I can make today’s special—blueberry buckle—always a hit with visitors.
” He held out an empty tin pail as proof of his mission.
“But have a great day Tuesday. I’ve heard it’s a memorable event. ”
“Easy for you to say,” Grandma grumbled. “I haven’t foraged for anything, let alone cranberries, since I was eighty-nine. We’ll see how long I last.”
“Right,” Rex said. “My bet is you’ll survive.”
Rafe thanked him for the ride, then Rex waved his pail in good-bye, and jogged back down the porch steps and around to the backyard—his backyard—where Maddie hoped she’d left enough blueberries for his buckle, whatever that was.
After whipping up pancakes and adding the berries she’d looted the previous day, Maddie joined Grandma and Rafe at the small table that abutted the kitchen counter.
Tucking into his breakfast, Rafe shared stories about college life, his studies, and his favorite thing, the rowing team.
Two important regattas, one in Cambridge, the other in Saratoga Springs, New York, were still on the horizon before the fall season ended.
Grandma nodded, mesmerized by all he said.
Watching her watching Rafe made Maddie think about her father, alone in the Victorian back in Green Hills: He would love to be with them.
“I’m here until Wednesday morning,” Rafe continued, “so can I camp out on the couch ’til then? I promised to help Joe set up tables and stuff tomorrow for the potluck dinner on Tuesday. Which leaves today and cranberry-picking day for us to be together. Okay?”
Joe was Grandma Nancy’s much younger half brother, who’d helped Maddie in many ways since she’d showed up in July.
Surprisingly, she’d remembered his lanky frame, his soft mahogany complexion, and the trademark ponytail he’d had even when she was a little girl.
Rafe had developed a special bond with Joe, who was close to Maddie’s father in age, yet worlds apart in spirit, style, and outlook on life.
Where Stephen—like those of his 100 percent White, British heritage—was pensive and reserved in manner and dress, Joe was casual and open, and exuded innate calm.
He’d introduced Rafe to their Wampanoag culture, and Rafe gobbled every morsel.
“The sofa’s yours if you want it,” Maddie said, sipping her strong coffee. “And I’m glad you’ll be helping Joe.”
“My brother isn’t getting any younger,” Grandma butted in.
“Despite that he tries to act like he’s still twenty-five when his half great-grandson is around.
” Nancy and Joe were born nearly two decades apart, yet they were close.
Unlike Grandma, Joe hadn’t married or had children, and he seemed to like having a family—especially with Rafe now part of it.
Rafe flashed a white-toothed smile. “Thanks. And Grandma? Not to change the subject, but I’ve been wondering if you’ll help me with something.” He leaned closer. “Will you teach me how to weave your baskets?”
Grandma Nancy’s eyebrows shot up, their spikey white and black hairs springing out in every direction. “What?”