Page 63 of Our Last Vineyard Summer

James started as well, “I wrote you back…,” and they both paused, neither one wanting to say anything then. Lifting her gaze from the floor, she said, “Sorry, you go first.”

The ferry sounded two powerful horn blasts, and they craned their heads to see why. A powerboat had crossed in front of the larger boat’s path, a dire warning to move out of its way.

She turned her hands over in her lap as James called Peanut Butter back, gently petting the dog’s head. “I was just saying that I wrote you back.”

She felt the color drain from her face, thinking about what he might have written, since his expression was hazy. “I really am sorry we didn’t call or write after your mother died.”

A group of children ran by, chanting another child’s name. “Your mother came to her funeral. Do you know that?”

She felt his eyes on her, a pang of surprise reverberating down to her fingertips. Her mother had sworn off James and his family the same year that her father had encouraged Betsy to distance herself from him. When had her mother been able to sneak off to attend services for James’s mother? “At some point, I think she thought of you as one of her own children.”

James had a deeper voice now, more serious. “Maybe because she couldn’t ever get me to go home.”

A schooner sailed by with three masts, and the conversation lightened when he asked aboutSenatorial. They got up from their seatsand walked to one side of the ferry, both resting their forearms on the railing and staring off across the water.This was progress, she thought.

He told her a story then.

“When I was in college at Berkeley, your mother was speaking on campus at Zellerbach Hall. I saw it in the campus paper, so I went.” Afterward he waited in line to talk to her. When Virgie saw him, she’d beamed and given him an enormous bear hug. Then she’d said she was so proud that he’d gotten off the island.

James stared straight ahead, a corner smile lifting, then slipping away. She turned her body to one side, facing him.Her mother had seen him at Berkeley?

“Your mom was impressed that I wanted more than the hand that I was dealt, she’d said.” James tapped the railing with his fingers.

“Sounds like something she’d say, and it’s pretty rude too.” Her mother could be so direct. Too direct sometimes.

“Nah,” he said.

She looked away, her eyes landing on Louisa, who was pushing open the ferry door and striding along the deck with her hair freshly brushed, big sunglasses on her face, and lip gloss applied.

“I had gone about as far away as I could get from this island, thanks to Wiley’s help. Your mother, she’d write me letters sometimes, encouraging me.” Now he turned to face Betsy, her rosebud skirt blowing behind her legs with the wind. “Betsy, you may have moved on from my life, but you shouldn’t feel bad about it. Your mother remained with me all along.”

Betsy folded her arms tight around her chest despite the warm sun. “My mother wrote you letters? Why are you telling me this? You realize that you’re making me hate her more than I already do.”

“You don’t hate your mother,” he said. He began to tap his foot. “And I don’t know why I’m telling you. Maybe because your letter was so apologetic that it was almost insulting, like you thought I was still sulking about things between us. I needed you to know that I’m not.”

“I don’t think that.” She dropped the fabric pleat of her skirt, gripping the railing in front of her. “You’ve made clear you’ve moved on, and as you said, I have too. I have a boyfriend; he’s a professor at Dartmouth.”

A muscle in his cheek twitched. “I’m happy for you,” he said.

“I’m happy for you too.” She pushed the subject of her mother away, wrinkling her nose at him. Why did she love that he was wearing the wrong kind of socks? “Don’t you know that everyone is pulling their socks up these days?”

He stared down at his feet, the beginning of a grin. “What have I done without you correcting my fashion missteps all these years?”

“It’s a very good question,” she said.

Louisa joined them moments later, announcing they could see the Cape in close range. “Where on earth is the taxi line when you arrive at the terminal? I’ve never even paid attention.”

The thoughts swirled: her mother writing James letters, his visit with her mother at Berkeley, how her mother had attended his mother’s funeral. Betsy snapped at her sister: “It’s not going to be that hard to get a taxi, Louisa!” She marched back to the table to gather her belongings. Her gosh-darn stomach was growling.

Louisa had come to gather her bags, too, while James brought his wrappers to the nearby trash can. When he returned to the table, Louisa projected her voice beyond Betsy when she said, “It would be great if we knew someone going that way and could get a ride.” Louisa made a show of getting up on tiptoe and looking around the ferry goers.

Betsy’s voice couldn’t be any sterner. They would not take up his time. “We arefinewith a taxi.”

There was some finagling of Peanut Butter’s leash around the table leg, James holding the navy cord. “I can drive the two of you to Hyannis if you need me to. There must be a hardware store there.”

“It’s okay. We’re fine.” Betsy made a face at her sister, who smiled primly. She’d always disliked when her sisters took advantage of James’skindness. When they were younger, Louisa had convinced James to paint all their toes, and he’d done it, even though Betsy told him he should charge them.

“We wouldn’t want to put you out, James,” said Louisa, fully intending to put him out. “I know it’s been years, but it would be really great if we could hitch a ride.”

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