Page 53 of Our Last Vineyard Summer

If anyone recognized the woman as an occasional waitress at the yacht club restaurant, then good, Virgie thought. Feminism wasn’t only for the educated—it needed to find a place for all women, just like the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People made room for everyone of color. Well, as far as Virgie could tell.

At her mother’s insistence, Louisa and her friend from Sidwell Friends School in Washington mingled with the younger guests, while Aggie and Betsy served hors d’oeuvres and white wine so they could hear the speakers as they worked. India Knight, the featured guest, talked from a borrowed podium about how essential it was for women to band together to put pressure on officials about issues of importance. Women listened and nibbled finger sandwiches as Mrs. Knight recounted the story about passing birth control legislation in England. She’d gone head-to-head on the five o’clock news with one of the elected officials against the measures, the gentleman with white shaggy eyebrows telling her, “A doctor gets to decide if a woman should get contraception.” To which Mrs. Knight had responded with measure: “Is that what you’ll tell your wife after she gets pregnant? That her doctor will decide what she does with her body?”

Aggie went from table to table refilling iced tea glasses, while Betsy tried to keep up with clearing the disposable plates.

“The Pill has been available in the United States for the last few years,” Mrs. Knight said, “but not without work. If we want women to be treated fairly in the workplace, we need more than an act of Congress. We need oversight. We need justice. I urge you to lobby your senators and congressmen for a well-funded, and not just ceremonial, Women’s Bureau in Washington.”

Virgie had been to dozens of political gatherings over the years—she’d even organized many of them—but most had been about issues important to Charlie: the piloting of the food stamps program, which he’d recently helped pass with the support of then-President Kennedy, and increasing budgets for the Department of Education so it could bolster public schools in the neediest communities. Those things were important to Virgie, too, but her agenda was narrowing. Listening to India speak, Virgie could see that women had their own sets of priorities: equal rights in the workplace, access to good childcare, the freedom to decide what they did with their bodies. It was India who suggested they only invite women speakers to their luncheons moving forward. “If we’re going to be a movement, we need to act like one.”

Virgie liked that, a political group for women that would help them create a national voice for the priorities of their members. There had been talk of a national version forming in Washington, since smaller groups like Virgie’s were sprouting up all over the nation, but nothing had coalesced.

There was a round of applause when India finished, and Virgie stepped behind the wooden podium, thirty pairs of eyes staring at her.How wonderful it feels to be alive right now, she thought, and she imagined marching into the senators’ offices alongside these women and forcing them to listen.

“I want my girls to have a chance at happiness,” she said, finding Pamela in the crowd clearing plates alongside Betsy. “And if I want my daughters to be happy, they need to count in their own lives, and if theyneed to count, then they need to count in Washington. We must stop letting public officials sideline our priorities. We must act.”

A round of applause emanated, and Virgie beamed, her satin strapless dress reflective with sunlight. What would Charlie think if he heard her talking like this right now? Her essays would say more. She could write so much better than she could speak. Virgie cleared her throat. “And so, to the Edgartown Ladies of Social Concern, I say that we begin here today. Together.”

It was after dessert that Virgie noticed that Wiley had slipped into the yard. On a lawn dotted with women in pastels, it was easy to spot his lanky frame and shorts. As he meandered through the crowd, women tried to stop him to say hello, and he’d nod politely, exchange a minute of small talk, then continue to Virgie.

“What brings you here?” Virgie reached out her hand to shake Wiley’s like they were perfect strangers. “Would you like to be a member?”

Lines wrinkled his smooth forehead. “I would, in fact.”

She’d been sitting on her finished article for over a week, but with Wiley here now, maybe she would fetch a copy to send home with him. They strolled over to the two Adirondack chairs positioned on the hill overlooking the harbor, and he sat, resting his forearms on the armrests. His foot was restless, rattling like an earthquake.

“What is it, Wiley?”

He fixed her with concentration. “I think one of the reporters at the paper came to see you last week, and I’m sorry. I’ve been holding them off, but he came on his own dime.”

Her stomach flip-flopped. “I told him he should contact Charlie’s press office.”

“Yes, I know.” Wiley pyramided his fingers. “I meant to come earlier and apologize, but the debate is growing in the newsroom.”

Virgie realized that she was holding her breath and she exhaled, twiddling with the hem of her dress. “What debate?”

He hesitated, like he was standing on a diving board, trying to decide if he was going to jump. “It’s Charlie. Has he talked to you about any possible bombs going off?”

She watched an osprey circling with a fish in its talons. “I asked Charlie about what the reporter said, and he told me it wasn’t an issue.”

The corners of his mouth tensed. “And you thought that was reasonable?”

“Yes, I thought that was reasonable. Why wouldn’t it be?” Near the patio, Pamela cleared bottles of wine, and Virgie was pleased when she poured them out entirely before tossing them in the trash. Her voice was quiet then. “Is there something on Nantucket I should know about?”

“We don’t know—but we think Charlie might have some kind of shell company on the island, that he’s stowing money there.”

“Charlie is not a thief.”

Wiley leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees. “Maybe not, but I want you to know they’re going to send a reporter to the island to investigate.”

“What kind of shell company?”

He sighed. “Like I said, I’m not sure.”

Had Charlie done something stupid? Taken money he wasn’t supposed to and stashed it on the summer island?

But it didn’t make sense. Nantucket wasn’t Grand Cayman or Bermuda; you couldn’t squirrel away illegal dollars there. It was a low-key summer island off the coast of Massachusetts.

“Why do you think he has any connection to the island?” That part she already knew from the reporter.

---