She didn’t go into detail about Erik, simply summing up what happened as, “I sort of let my boyfriend talk me into a series of bad investments, so I lost a lot of my savings.” She fought the impulse to add, The moral of this story is not to allow someone to convince you to do something you’ll regret later.
Gabi gave her a playful nudge. “Wow. And I thought what I did was dumb.”
“What you did was dumb.” Even though she was an aunt, Zoey could assume a mom-voice when she had to. “But as I said, I trust you not to do something like that again.”
Her niece came to an abrupt stop, dropped Zoey’s arm, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. At first, Zoey thought she may have been offended by her admonishment. Then she realized she was savoring the briny scent wafting toward them. Zoey understood; frequently the sight or sound or smell of the ocean stopped her in her tracks, too. As she glanced at Gabi’s profile, she wondered if the tear streaking her cheek was from the wind or from emotion. What was it she was feeling? Did she remember coming here with her mom?
Her eyelids snapped open. “Which way do you want to go?”
Zoey suggested they walk in the sand to the end of the jetty, which was easier than tramping atop of the uneven, rocky surface. Since the tide was out, they could make it all the way to the tip without getting their shoes wet. Gabi asked why there were NO SWIMMING signs posted nearby.
“Because when the tide is in, there’s a lot of boat traffic. This is more of a walking beach. When it gets warmer, we can go swimming at Rose Beach. It’s not too far from here, just on the other side of Sea Gull Light.” Zoey pointed to the sandy arm jutting into the water. Against the bright blue backdrop of the sky, the white lighthouse appeared even more radiant than usual.
“Is the house next to it really where Mr. Witherell used to live?”
“Yes, but now it’s a museum. Why, do you remember him?”
“No. When I saw him go past Aunt Ivy’s window yesterday afternoon, Mark kind of filled me in.”
“Oh? What did he tell you?”
“That Mr. Witherell used to be the lighthouse keeper. But now he lives in a decrepit little house in the valley. He said he’s mean. That twice a day he roams from one end of Benjamin’s Manor to the other, no matter what the weather’s like and that he growls at people. He told me I should stay away from him—to cross the street if I see him coming. I didn’t know if he was trying to trick me, like when he told you the Legend of Captain Chadwell.”
Zoey figured her cousin must have still been annoyed about the verbal dig Mr. Witherell made at his expense. If Mark felt spiteful toward the old man, that was his business, but to malign his character to an impressionable teenager was taking his resentment too far. While she thought it was a good idea for Gabi to be cautious around strangers in general, Zoey didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable if she crossed paths with Mr. Witherell.
“It’s true that he lives in a little house and walks every day. I’m not sure how good his hearing is. He can speak, but he usually doesn’t say much. I’ve never heard him growl at anyone, but sometimes he sort of clears his throat.
“As for Mr. Witherell being mean, I can only guess why Mark would say that. Unfortunately, you might hear kids at school or people in town saying the same thing. Aunt Ivy once told me that’s because when he was a lighthouse keeper, Mr. Witherell used to report boaters for speeding in the harbor and he broke up a few bashes—that’s what they called parties—which were prohibited on the beach after dark. Supposedly, he considered Benjamin’s Harbor his domain to protect, so he was a real stickler for the rules. A few people held grudges against him for that and they passed their attitudes down to their children and grandchildren.”
Zoey repeated the advice her mother gave her when she was about Gabi’s age, warning her that on such a small island she was going to hear a lot of gossip from the locals. New rumors, as well as old ones going back several decades. Some had an element of truth and some were completely unfounded, so she should take them all with a grain of salt.
“Regardless, I think Mark’s suggestion to cross the street if you see Mr. Witherell coming your way is rude. Mr. Witherell has served this island well in his capacity as keeper of Sea Gull Light and he deserves respect. You saw him, so you know he’s a fragile, elderly gentleman who couldn’t hurt a fly even if he wanted to. There’s definitely no need to be afraid of him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I wasn’t. Not really.” Gabi’s half-hearted denial told Zoey otherwise. “Besides, Aunt Ivy told me he used to carry a torch for Aunt Sylvia—that’s how she put it—but that she wasn’t interested in him.”
Her aunt had once told Zoey the same thing, boasting, “Young men were drawn to Sylvia like bees to honey, but she was only drawn to Marcus.” It was hard to tell if she was prouder of Sylvia for being so attractive or of her brother, for capturing Sylvia’s heart.
Curious, Zoey asked, “Did talking about Aunt Sylvia make Aunt Ivy sad?”
“No, she was okay. I think she actually wanted tell me more stories about Aunt Sylvia but Mark was hungry for something sweet so she went into the kitchen to make those raspberry crumble bars we had last night for dessert.”
As they continued their hike, Zoey silently mulled over Mark’s instructing Gabi to shun Mr. Witherell. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, she supposed he may have been concerned Mr. Witherell would say something insulting to Gabi, too—but that was unlikely since Gabi would never provoke him with an obnoxious comment the way Mark did. Zoey couldn’t put a finger on it exactly, but something wasn’t adding up and she decided she was going to wheedle the truth out of her cousin when she got home, even if he accused her of asking nosy questions. However, when they returned, Mark was nowhere in sight.
“He’s in the attic again,” Ivy informed her. “That’s the third time this week. First it was Sylvia’s bedroom, now this. He’s going through everything with a fine-toothed comb. The poor boy, I think he’s hoping his grandmother left him a personal note or something special to remember her by.”
Is that why he’s been hanging around in the afternoon? Zoey wondered. She’d thought it was because he wanted time alone with Ivy to cajole her into vacating her home. But perhaps it was merely because he was still combing through Sylvia’s mementos. Or maybe it was a little of each. Otherwise, why would he have chased Zoey out of the house on both days? He’d already told her he wanted to check out the trunks Sylvia kept in the attic. In fact, Zoey had seen him go up there after they’d eaten lunch on Tuesday, so it wasn’t any big secret.
That’s when it struck her: it shouldn’t have taken Mark three days to sort through his grandmother’s possessions. For one thing, the attic was too organized. Ivy had never been one to purchase more than she needed; she used everything until it was no longer functional and then disposed of it and got a replacement. All her valuables and heirlooms were on display in the best room. So aside from seasonal items, such as Christmas ornaments, lawn decorations and window screens, the attic was nearly empty, and Sylvia’s two trunks were readily accessible.
For another thing, Sylvia’s belongings amounted to little more than a couple of dresser scarves and half a dozen figurines. Except for her clothes and a few personal items, everything else in the house belonged to Ivy, so it’s not as if it should have taken Mark more than half an hour to peruse the contents of Sylvia’s bedroom, either.
He had to have been searching for something else! Something specific that he hasn’t found yet. Something that’s so important to him that he’s willing to stick around Dune Island until he does, she deduced. And I doubt very much it’s a personal note from his grandmother!
Her curiosity piqued, Zoey decided to pop upstairs so she could catch Mark unawares, but before she could, he came back down. “Did you discover anything interesting?”
“Nah.” He turned his empty palms up as if to prove it.
“If you tell me what you’re looking for, maybe I can help you find it.” Yo
u’re not the only one who has ulterior motives for being helpful, she thought.
“That’s okay. I’m done up there.”
Zoey knew it was futile to ask whether he was done because he’d found whatever it was he wanted to find (and was hiding it in his pocket), or because he’d searched the attic thoroughly enough to conclude that whatever he was looking for wasn’t there. But she decided that after he left the island she was going to do a little snooping upstairs on her own.
Mark clapped dust off his slacks and said, “I’ve got to run, Ivy. I’ll be back by eight tomorrow morning for our eight-thirty meeting, but don’t feel obligated to make breakfast.”
Ivy furrowed her brow. “Our meeting?”
“Yeah, you know—with the carpenter.”
“The carpenter?” Ivy echoed him again.
“We spoke about this at length. Don’t you remember?”
Mark’s patronizing tone made Zoey want to scream, So what if she forgot! Don’t you have the slightest inkling of how difficult it is to concentrate when you’re grief-stricken? As far as Zoey was concerned, in the weeks following her sister’s death, if she could remember her email address and phone number, it meant she was having a good day. So she thought nothing of Ivy forgetting about Mark’s self-serving meeting.
“Sometimes, it can be helpful to jot important details down on a calendar,” she suggested, looking pointedly at Mark, meaning that’s what he should have done on their aunt’s behalf.
“I’d probably forget where I hung the calendar, too.” Ivy clucked, shaking her head. “What will we be discussing at this meeting?”
“The kitchen renovations. Getting a new stove, that kind of thing,” Mark answered.
“Ah, now I remember,” Ivy claimed, but there was no spark of recognition in her eyes. It made Zoey wonder if Mark had actually discussed the renovations with her at all. He’d been acting so sketchy lately that she wouldn’t put it past him to use Ivy’s supposed forgetfulness against her and trick everyone into believing she’d okayed the meeting.
“You don’t have to meet with anyone yet, if you’re not ready. There’s no hurry,” Zoey told her aunt.
“Actually, there is. I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon on the twelve thirty-five ferry. That’s why I reserved a block of time in my schedule in the morning.”
The elation Zoey felt upon hearing that Mark was leaving was counterbalanced by her resentment of his pressure tactic. Whatever happened to you saying, ‘no rush’ when we talked about this on Tuesday? she fumed to herself. Clearly, he’d just been pacifying her to shut her up. Well, two could play that game.
“You’ve obviously got a lot on your plate right now—that’s all the more reason to postpone the meeting. You could always come back to discuss the renovations later in the summer.” Or in the fall. Or never.
“Yeah, but I’m concerned it might be hazardous for Ivy to continue using the stove. Besides, who knows what the carpenter’s workload will be like later in the season.”
“The Armstrong boy?” Ivy asked. “The one who does all my repairs?”
“Yup.”
“Oh, you’re right. He does excellent work at a very fair price. We can’t miss out on booking him,” Ivy agreed. “I worry he doesn’t eat right, you know. He’s divorced and he doesn’t have a girlfriend. I’ll make a quiche for breakfast.”
“It’s not necessary for you to feed him, Aunt Ivy,” Zoey was half amused, half exasperated by her aunt’s attitude and belief that men didn’t know how to cook for themselves. “Besides, we don’t have enough eggs.”
“I can walk to the market and get some,” Gabi volunteered.
“Thanks, but we prefer local eggs. I’ll stop at the farm stand on the way home from taking you to school in the morning. There will still be plenty of time for me to make a quiche before our meeting.”
“You don’t have to take me—” Gabi began.
At the same moment, Ivy protested, “I can’t let you make breakfast when I’m the one who suggested it.”
Simultaneously, Mark spoke over both of them, saying, “There’s no need for you to attend the meeting, Zoey.”
“Wait—just listen to me!” she barked, startling everyone, including Moby who hopped off Ivy’s lap and trotted out of the room. Feeling like a shrew, she lowered her voice. “Yes, I do need to go to school with you, Gabi. There’s some paperwork they want me to sign and I have a few questions I’d like answered… And Aunt Ivy, please let me make the quiche. It takes you a while to wake up in the morning. If you get up early or have to rush around, you’ll be too distracted to tell Mark and the carpenter what you want—and don’t want—done to your kitchen.”
Then, her voice disingenuously syrupy, she added, “I’m happy to sit in on the meeting, Mark. I’ll take notes so we can all remember what was discussed and agreed upon.”
Zoey relished the look of dismay that melted his features. He recovered quickly though. “Suit yourself. But as long as you’re going to the trouble of making breakfast, I’d prefer an omelet instead of quiche.”
“Sure. Whatever you want.” Under her breath she muttered, “A special meal in celebration of your last day here.”
Later that evening, Zoey relaxed in the living room with her aunt and Gabi, both of them sipping chamomile tea, the way Ivy and Sylvia routinely used to do together at bedtime. Moby was settled peacefully on Gabi’s lap and Zoey, who was too hot for tea, was drinking ice water.
“Are you planning to audition for the school symphony?” she asked her niece.
Gabi shrugged. “They might not have a symphony at this school.”
“They must have a band, at least.” Zoey remarked to Ivy, “Gabi is an excellent flutist. She made second chair in the youth symphony this year, even though she’s only in ninth grade.”
“I know. Her father gave me… I think it’s called a link? To her Christmas concert. The boy who plows the driveway played it for Sylvia and me on his phone. It brought tears to our eyes, we were so proud.”
That was news to Zoey. “I wonder why Scott didn’t send me the link.”
Gabi blew her bangs out of her eyes with a puff from the corner of her mouth. “Probably didn’t think you were interested.”
Her aloof manner told Zoey what must have happened; Scott had forgotten to send it to her because he’d been drinking. Trying not to show her disappointment, she said, “Oh, well. You could give us a private performance now, couldn’t you?”
“I’m too tired. And I haven’t had any practice.”
“You can practice here any time,” Ivy said. “Don’t feel like you have to be quiet on my account, even if I’m napping. I don’t hear anything unless we’re in the same room.”
“Yeah, but my flute might bother Moby. Cats have very sensitive ears.”
Zoey was perplexed by Gabi’s response. Why had she brought her flute if she didn’t intend to play it? Maybe she’d change her mind. It was possible she was more nervous about starting school the next day than she’d let on and she couldn’t focus on playing her instrument right now.
Switching the subject, Zoey hinted, “Aunt Ivy, I don’t think Gabi knows the story about how you met Captain Denny.”
Because Zoey’s great-uncle had died so long before she was born, she never thought of him as Uncle Dennis. To her, he was always Denny or Captain Denny. Or sometimes Aunt Ivy’s husband. She glanced at her aunt, hoping his name wouldn’t trigger tears. But the elderly woman smiled as she set her teacup and saucer on the coffee table.
“Oh, that’s right. The last time you visited, Gabi, you would have been too young for me to tell you about my clandestine courtship.” There was a sparkle in her eye as she beamed at the portrait above the mantel, obviously pleased for the opportunity to tell the story again. Zoey had heard it so often she could have recited it verbatim. But this time, Ivy began by repeating the genealogy Zoey had previously mentioned, since Gabi didn’t have a good grasp of her family’s background.
“Growing up,
I lived in Brookline, a suburb just outside Boston. My father was a criminal court judge and my mother was a homemaker. They had three children; me, Charles—your great-grandfather—and Marcus.”
Ivy recounted how when she was a girl, her family rented a house on Dune Island for the entire summer. Although her father’s work kept him in Boston, he’d visit on the weekends or whenever court wasn’t in session. They all loved Benjamin’s Manor so much that her parents bought the Captain Chadwell house the year Ivy was twelve, with the intention of relocating there permanently when her father retired.
“Unfortunately, my mother died when she was forty-one of an aneurysm. Two years after that, my father, a pipe smoker, was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. He lost his voice from a surgery and had to resign from judicial office. I was in my second year of college, so I dropped out in order to care for him.”
“You had to drop out of college when your father got sick?” Gabi asked. “What about your brothers? Didn’t they help you?”
“Well, Charles had his sights set on law school. And Marcus wasn’t in the best health himself. He’d go through bouts of fatigue and respiratory illness. Problems with his muscles, too, especially in his ankles. My mother thought it was because he’d contracted polio as a child, even though he recovered. My father said he was just born with a weak constitution. It left him exhausted and it was assumed I’d take care of him, too. Men weren’t expected to assist with things like that—nursing an ill person back to health was considered women’s work. Regardless, I wanted to do it because I loved my father and my brother dearly.”
Noticing Ivy’s eyes brim with tears, Zoey said, “Maybe we should wait until another time to continue this story.”
“No, no. I haven’t gotten to the best part yet,” Ivy insisted. She took another sip of tea before telling Gabi that since her father needed to stay close to his doctors and the hospital in Boston, they couldn’t relocate to Dune Island year round, as he had planned. But they continued to go there in the summers, when his health permitted. Sometimes his condition improved; more often, it worsened. Toward the end, he decided he wanted to live out his last days on the island, against his physicians’ advice.
Aunt Ivy's Cottage: A totally gripping and emotional page turner Page 6