Page 18 of Our Last Vineyard Summer

“I can’t believe you really left.” She let her voice cool from its earlier high pitch, looking about for Wiley, but he’d gone down the beach to one of the pint-sized sailboats carrying a can of paint. “I thought you’d always be an islander.”

“So did your father.” He shifted his weight onto his other canvas sneaker. The accusation silenced Betsy, and with her eye on a passing seagull, she thought about ending the conversation there. Then he continued. “The Realtors are telling me I can get a better price renting with the success ofJawsand all, so I’m fixing it up.”

“That’s what I’ve heard, real estate prices have skyrocketed.” Why were they talking about houses? The last time they were together they were sneaking out of them. “When will you put it up for rent?”

“Labor Day. I figured I’d spend the summer here.” He was holding a tub of cement and a couple of boxes of plain white tile, and when he realized she was looking at him, he said, “I’m finally fixing that bathroom floor in my mother’s house. I just came by to help Wiley with something.”

“You’ve gotten handy, then?” When she was thirteen, she’d sliced her foot open on the chipped tiles in James’s bathroom, her mother angry with her for going to his house when she’d told her not to. Betsy had needed three stitches, and she’d been punished on the night they’d had plans to go to the Agricultural Fair. Her mother made her write a two-paragraph essay to earn her freedom, titled: “Older Boys Are Trouble Because…”

God, her mother was infuriating sometimes.

“Pretty handy, yes.” James briefly cupped the back of his neck. His hands were bigger now, and she imagined how fast he could pull up rigging on a boat these days. She’d only known him as a boy, then a teenager. He asked her how Columbia was, and Betsy lied, saying she loved her degree program. How did he know she was at Columbia? Wiley, maybe. She asked him what he was doing these days.

“Teaching history at Berkeley,” he said, and at this moment, his eyes shone, like he’d been waiting his entire life to tell her this. Or anyone, maybe. “I’m writing on the side.”

He’d wanted to be a writer even back then. He’d always adored her mother, and Betsy had hated when he’d ask what she was working on.What teenage boy cared? Betsy would privately seethe when he went out of his way to read her mother’s articles inVogue.

A couple of kids dressed in Vineyard Yacht Club T-shirts ran by them, offering a natural break in their conversation, and Betsy moved to say goodbye. “It’s really nice seeing you,” she said, uncomfortable admitting as much. Why hadn’t she written him a letter to say hello, to apologize? They had been such good friends. Later, they had been in love.

“Nice seeing you too. I’m going to help Wiley…” Now James was fumbling with his words. He’d started to walk away, then turned back. “Are you here with your sisters?”

“Tortured as always,” Betsy said, feeling guilty when it slipped out. All James had ever wanted was a sibling; he told her one night at South Beach, their bodies pressed together on a lifeguard stand. “Do you have any summer guests?”

How uncomfortable it would be to run into him in Edgartown, a young woman hanging on his arm! But then again, she would be happy for him if he had someone. Maybe she’d feel less guilty about how things had ended for them.

“Just me and my dog, Peanut Butter.” He tipped his head at her, “You’re the lucky one with the big old family.”

“Do you want them?” She smiled, and he smiled back, an image resurfacing in her mind of James wedging himself between her and Aggie on the couch during episodes ofMy Three Sons, how much he loved when all the kids sat in a heap. How sometimes after Betsy’s mother sent him home, he’d sneak through the back door and she and James would stay up playing Monopoly while whispering in the living room.

James had defined her summers as much as the island had.

Betsy didn’t tell Louisa, Aggie, or her mother that she ran into James. Instead, as soon as she stepped in the front door that Monday, she wasthrust into the whirlwind drama at the center of their own lives. The latest contest involved who could make the best grilled cheese for lunch, her mother and Tabby sitting at the kitchen table and acting as judges. She set down a stack of empty boxes she’d picked up from the grocer.

“I worked at a diner for a year,” Betsy warned them, donning a floral apron from a hook in the kitchen. “I know trade secrets.”

Louisa flipped the first set of sandwiches, burning the edges to black and demanding a second chance, while Aggie, who was up second, was able to master a bread that was a respectable golden brown. But when she cut the sandwich open, the cheese hadn’t melted.

“Watch and learn.” Betsy squeezed Tabby’s small cheek, taking her place at the old-fashioned stove. As she slathered mayonnaise on the white bread and melted butter in the pan, her sisters scoffed that anyone would eat mayo on a grilled cheese. “Everyone who has eaten at a diner has eaten mayo on the bread,” Betsy said, turning down the heat in the pan and flipping her grilled cheese. As she waited for the inside to melt, she decided: She would write James a condolence letter, even if it was a few years late. She wouldn’t be able to face him if she didn’t.

“Voila!” Betsy slid two perfectly golden grilled cheese sandwiches onto her mother’s and Tabby’s plates, leaning across the table to cut both into quarters. Their eyes lit up when they bit into them, Aggie holding up Betsy’s arm like a champion and declaring her the winner. “I make the best banana pancakes and buttery French toast too,” Betsy sang out, which made Louisa pretend to be a bad sport. This made Tabby giggle. They “performed” for Tabitha all the time, casting aside their problems in the spirit of making a three-year-old smile, and sometimes the sisters got so silly they fell into their own laughter. While finishing up a few more grilled cheese sandwiches for Aggie and Louisa, Betsy told them about her new job.

“Congratulations, but let’s talk about breakfast,” her mother said, licking her fingers and rising to toss her paper plate. “You’ll be getting up for your sailing gig anyway, and clearly, there’s talent.”

“All in favor?” Louisa said, counting four hands including her own. Betsy laughed.

“Okay!”

“Excellent. My first request is banana pancakes.” Louisa took the first bite of her grilled cheese, ecstatic at its ooey gooey insides.

Betsy smiled. “Aren’t you leaving tomorrow?”

Louisa finished chewing, swallowed. “I begged for some extra time, since I haven’t used any vacation days.”

“It’s great news,” her mother said, smiling at Betsy. “Is anyone interested in the beach? If these are Betsy’s last few days of freedom, let’s go to State.”

“Sure,” Betsy said. But her mind was elsewhere, back in time. James sitting at the kitchen table eating lunch with them. James puttering across the harbor in his small boat to get his swimsuit. James piling in the car with them and going to the beach. Now that Betsy was an adult, she wondered if James’s mother ever disliked the amount of time he spent with the Whiting family. If he’d ever fought with her about letting him eat another meal here. A part of Betsy wished she could call James right now and invite him along, toss him in the back seat with her and Aggie and pass around a beach ball.

That night, Betsy took a piece of stationery into bed with her, staring out across the water to where she’d always been able to see James Sunday’s house, the crabgrass lawn visible even from here. When they were kids, she’d stare at the dot of movement on the lawn, knowing it was him playing with his pogo stick. She picked up her pen.

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