Page 64 of Our Last Vineyard Summer

Early in summer when they were sixteen, Betsy had snuck out of her house to meet James at the lifeguard stand at South Beach. They climbed the ladder and sat side by side on the simple white wooden bench, and as the moon rose over the ocean, they got lost in each other, kissing and kissing some more. They continued to see each other in secret that summer. She’d borrow one of the small sailboats from the yacht club and use the wind to silently weave her way through the darkened harbor to pick him up on his lawn. They would lie together rocking in the boat, staring up at the stars and talking. On some mornings, she would take the passenger ferry with her bike to Chappy, and they’d meet each other at the end of a woodsy path that opened to a private stretch of sand. They would bring cameras and shoot fiddler crabs on the beach, Betsy complaining how the girls at school thought her dull for caring too much about books, how debutante balls were insanely boring, whatever fight she had with her mother. She and James had existed in an alternate plane: Meeting for old movies in a dark theater and finding one another in a quiet row. Talking in between teaching classes as instructors at the yacht club. Watching television on Friday nights at his house, while she told her parents she was with her girlfriends in Oak Bluffs.

“It’s not a big deal if you want me to take you to Hyannis.” James was talking to Betsy, not Louisa. “My car is at the front of the ferry lot, so we’ll be the first ones off the boat anyway.”

They followed him to a burgundy-and-white Toyota Land Cruiser. James popped the trunk, holding his arms out to lift their duffels inside.

“What a neat truck,” Louisa said as she handed him her overnight bag and sat in the passenger seat.

Betsy put her bag in the car herself. She begrudgingly climbed inside. “I’m sorry about this,” she said.

His good nature showed in his face. “Hey, it’s an excuse to catch up, right?” He pointed at his socks, which he’d pulled up as she’d suggested. She pretended to be relieved.

“Well, at least now I can be seen in public with you.”

The ferry docked in Cape Cod, the cars filing off. As they pulled the Land Cruiser into the terminal, James switched on the radio, tuning the dial through the static until a mainland station grew clear, playing “Summer Nights” fromGrease.

“You know, if the only thing you’re doing today is buying a lawnmower”—Louisa rolled down the passenger window—“maybe you’d be willing to come with us to Nantucket?”

The wind blew her sister’s blond hair off her face, and Betsy willed Louisa to look at her in the back seat so she could pretend to slice her neck with an invisible blade. Instead, Louisa said without flinching, “We could really use a car over there, and I know my mother would be so happy that we weren’t getting a ride from a stranger.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

When James stepped out of the Land Cruiser to buy a round-trip car ferry pass for Nantucket, Betsy dug her fingers into the upholstery seam. “He shouldn’t be here with us, Louisa. We could have found our way around. You’re so quick to take advantage of people, and we can’t even tell him what we’re doing.”

“Oh, what does it matter if James knows what we’re doing? Dad left behind a property on Nantucket. So what?” Louisa didn’t seem to be fazed by anything Betsy was saying, which made Betsy even more upset. “He offered to help, and we need the help. Why are you so against him coming along?”

“He didn’t offer. You made him.” Betsy’s voice dove into the deep end. “And I don’t want him here.”

“Why not?” Louisa watched from afar as James stepped up to the ticket window. “All you wanted was to spend time with him as a kid, so you’ll get to spend time with him now.”

“If you don’t remember, we haven’t spoken in several years.” Plus, being with him was bringing up all these memories and nostalgic feelings, which was growing an anxious pit in her stomach. “Andwhere is James going to sleep? Does he even know we’re spending the night?”

Louisa made a “duh” snort. “He can go home today without us. At least we’ll be able to get around.” Her sister didn’t realize that James never said no to anyone, and it didn’t take a psychologist to see it was because he’d received so much help from Betsy’s family when he was young. “Anyway, I barely know James anymore. Do you know how much anguish you’re causing me, forcing him into our day?”

“You get anguished at the sight of clouds,” Louisa shot back.

From here, Betsy could see James opening his wallet. She hit her forehead against the back of the driver’s seat. “Cripe, Louisa. He shouldn’t be paying.”

“Why? He’s not broke.” Louisa spanked the leather dashboard. “He’s a professor now. Anyway, we’ll pay him back. Now listen to me. We need a car, and he’s an old family friend, so shut up and let’s be grateful we ran into him. James driving us around Nantucket is not arealproblem. Arealproblem is being demoted at work.Okay?”

“Maybe it’s not a problem for you.” Betsy leaned back against her seat and crossed her arms, still fuming.

Traffic crept through the cobblestone streets of Nantucket, a series of cars winding through the town on roads so narrow it was hard to fit pedestrians and automobiles at once. Men with well-fed bellies and expensive Italian loafers maneuvered along the streets next to wives whose accessories sparkled around their elegant necks and delicate wrists. A series of low-slung buildings charmed with cedar shingles and crisp white trim. Clam bars and lobster shacks, surf shops and boutiques, dotted the main drag.

“These people are fancy,” Betsy declared with curiosity, spying a leggy woman in high-heeled sandals attempting to unstick her heel from the cobblestones. She and Louisa had played chess on the endlesstwo-hour ferry ride over, and she’d trounced her sister, James taking her on after. The victory had improved her mood.

“Well, people have more money here,” Louisa said, the car slipping past a mother and her two daughters in matching pink-and-green floral dresses. Peanut Butter stuck his head out the window, barking at a small yappy dog on the sidewalk.

There wasn’t an AAA map of the Cape and islands in the glove box, so Betsy and Louisa decided to scrap the plan that included requesting a copy of the deed at the land records office in town. Instead, they asked James if he would drive them straight to the “luncheon.” Then they could get a sense of their father’s mysterious property.

“I see a tourist office,” Betsy said. A cedar-shingled cottage announced as much with a sign over the door, pink roses growing in a tangle up an arbor shading the front gate. “Let’s stop and get directions.”

Inside, two teenage girls with nearly identical pin-straight auburn hair sat behind a counter, stacks of brochures organized in individual plastic stalls. Betsy asked if they knew how to get to Chapel Way, and the two of them bantered about whether Betsy should go east away from town to access it or west, neither seeming to know where it was at all.

“Let me ask our father,” one of the girls said. Minutes later, a red-haired man in a bow tie and short sleeves emerged from a back room.

“What’s the number on Chapel Way?” he said. “It’s pretty far out, in Madaket.”

“Twelve.”

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