The Vineyard Sisters: A Wayfarer Inn Novel

by Grace Palmer

  And now, he had the audacity to write her a letter and explain himself.

  “‘To all of you,” John read. “I never much liked public speaking in my life, and I don’t see a reason to change that now. So, I’ll keep it brief: I made mistakes.’”

  Leslie snorted and crossed her arms as she leaned back in her chair. She could feel the attention of the room turn on her, but she didn’t care.

  John continued reading. “I made decisions in my life that affected all of you. I stayed silent when I should have spoken up. I kept my distance when I should have pulled you closer. I dealt with problems alone when I should have asked for help. All I want for all of you is to learn from my mistakes. If you hate me, I wouldn’t be surprised. But don’t hate each other. Talk to each other, lean on each other, and help each other. I love you all. Dad.”

  Silence fell over the cramped little office. Leslie had never hated her father more.

  Those were his final words? That was all he had to say?

  Sure, he’d been a man of few words in life, but this pitiful little note was an insult. After all the secrets he’d dumped on them, he offered no real explanation. No justification. If he was in front of her right now, she’d scream in his grizzled face. She’d push on his barrel chest and demand answers.

  But he wasn’t here. He’d never be here again.

  So there was no one to yell at, no chest to poke. He was gone and she was alone. Exactly where she’d been after the accident, standing on her dad’s doorstep, asking him to take her in.

  He had done just that, and for twenty-five years, Leslie had hidden behind the walls of the Wayfarer Inn. She’d existed within her dad’s dream, claiming it as her own.

  Maybe this was her sign to get out and find a dream of her own. A life no one could snatch away from her.

  For the first time since she’d walked into her dad’s office days earlier, tears filled Leslie’s eyes. She didn’t even bother to blink them away.

  8

  Jill

  Lunch At The Wayfarer Inn

  “Come to the inn for lunch.”

  Leslie’s eyes were red-rimmed. Jill tried her best not to stare. Since the three women had walked out of John Schmidt’s office and into the crisp March air, Jill wanted nothing more than to skate by unnoticed and leave.

  Warren Townsend had told them all to take care of each other and lean on each other, but Jill didn’t know any of these people. And it was clear they didn’t want to know her. Michelle had stated plainly that Jill and Grayson were “outside the family.”

  Jill was fine with that. It was easier that way.

  “No, I don’t want to intrude,” Jill said, waving away the offer. “You two have a lot to deal with, I’m sure, and—”

  “You should see the inn,” Leslie cut in. “You’re a co-owner now.”

  Jill shook her head. “Not really.”

  “Legally, you are, though.” Michelle’s voice was even, factual. Whatever she felt about the proceedings, she was keeping it to herself. Jill couldn’t read her.

  “You should see the inn. And if I eat another sympathy casserole, I’ll lose my mind,” Leslie said. “Let me cook for you. I’m sure we have a lot to discuss, anyway.”

  “Okay,” Jill conceded. “I could eat.”

  “Great.” Michelle lifted her hand into the air and pressed twice on her key fob. A silver Lexus along the curb beeped as it unlocked. “I’ll drive.”

  Leslie drove her own car—Jill couldn’t understand why they’d drive separate cars to their father’s funeral, but she didn’t ask—and Michelle navigated the roads of Martha’s Vineyard like she was taking her driver’s test. She stayed quiet, eyes pinned to the road, hands at ten and two on the wheel. When her phone vibrated in the cupholder of the center console, she didn’t even glance down.

  Jill stared out the windshield as the ocean came into view at the end of the road. She glanced sideways at Michelle when the “No Outlet” sign became visible. For a moment, Jill thought the stress of the day—the funeral, the surprise siblings, the will—had been too much for her and now she was going to plunge them both into the frigid Atlantic.

  But at the last moment, Michelle turned the wheel to the left and then hit the brakes, pulling her sporty car to a stop in front of a sprawling two-story home.

  Michelle gestured towards the house. “The Wayfarer Inn,” she said. “Welcome.”

  “Wow.” The word slipped out, but Jill meant it.

  It looked like a dream.

  Simply put, the inn was stunning. Six, seven times as big as any house Jill had ever lived in. It was shingled in the same silvery cedar Jill had noticed all over the island. A large porch wrapped around the front and left side of the house. White tables and chairs were stationed every so often so guests could sit on the porch and enjoy the sweeping view of the ocean slapping against the white sand not even fifty feet away. A white picket fence surrounded a modest plot of grass, lush and green.

  Jill wondered if Leslie and Michelle played in the lawn as girls, if they walked barefoot to the beach. She and Grayson would have bounded out of the house and down the steps every day and not come back until dinner if they’d had this much space to roam.

  Leslie pulled a little red car with a burnt-out taillight into the driveway and waved them inward. “Have Michelle give you the tour. I’m going to start lunch.”

  “You don’t have to,” Jill protested.

  “I don’t mind,” Michelle said. “Unless you’d rather Leslie show you around. With her, you’re likely to get the history behind every knickknack and doorknob. I’m a little more brief.”

  “Brief is fine,” said Jill.

  Michelle nodded and walked across the porch. Jill followed.

  Up close, the white paint on the porch railing was chipping. A few pieces of deck furniture looked to be hanging on by nothing more than wooden splinters. Inside, the house smelled of coffee and something spiced emanating from a wooden bowl full of scented pine cones.

  The entryway was long and narrow. A set of wooden stairs ran up the right wall to the second floor and a swinging door with a “Staff Only” sign nailed to it loomed straight ahead. Jill could hear the floors creaking somewhere in the back of the house as Leslie moved around, so she assumed the swinging door led into the kitchen.

  To the left was a surprisingly large dining room area with five circular tables surrounded by chairs. Yellowing tablecloths with soft edges from countless washes covered the tables. A coffee bar along the back wall stood stocked with an assortment of mismatched mugs, a twelve-cup coffee machine that looked like it was from the Nineties, and glass containers half-filled with sugar. The windows looked out onto the porch and the ocean beyond.

  “The dining area,” Michelle said, pointing with a manicured finger. Then she spun around and pointed to a smaller room on the other side of the entryway. “Sitting room. It’s just for the guests.”

  The room was twice the size of Jill’s mom’s whole house. It had the same wall of windows as the other room, but the rest of the walls were reserved for bookcases. There were scrapes and scuffs in the wood and one of the shelves was missing entirely. Jill spotted it leaning against the wall in the corner, waiting for repair.

  Two blue- and white-striped sofas sat in the middle of the room facing each other with cream armchairs on either end. The furniture was in nice shape, but dated. Something Jill’s mom would have liked to own thirty years earlier if she could have afforded it. Instead, she’d bought a pink, green, and blue floral sofa that had followed them from place to place. Even now, it sat in her mom’s living room like a paint-mixing accident. The cushions sunk in at odd angles, and she had to throw a crochet blanket over the back to hide a rip that grew larger every passing year.

  “If this is just for the guests, does that mean you all lived in the house, too?” Jill asked.

  Michelle nodded and pointed towards the red sign Jill had noticed before. “We’re ‘staff.’ Our quarters were in the back of
the house. Well, Leslie’s still are. She lives here.”

  Jill nodded and then frowned. “Wait, so if the inn gets repossessed…”

  “Leslie will need… new arrangements.” If Michelle had any particularly strong feelings about her sister losing her home and their family losing her father’s business, she didn’t let on. She reminded Jill a lot of Grayson in that way. Logical, factual, cold.

  “Where do you live?”

  “I’ve been in San Francisco for almost twenty years,” Michelle said.

  Apparently, Michelle and Grayson were alike in another way. Both of them had no problem moving a very long way from home. “That’s quite a trek from Martha’s Vineyard.”

  “My husband was into tech start-ups and that sort of thing,” she said. “Besides, I can’t imagine living here again. It’s freezing.”

  Jill wanted to ask about the curious use of the past tense. My husband was into… But she didn’t press. Michelle didn’t seem to be keen on sharing too much in the way of personal details and Jill wanted to respect that. She felt like she was intruding enough as it was.

  “The rooms upstairs are your standard fare. Ocean-themed with beds and televisions and bathrooms. Do you want to see them or…?”

  Jill shook her head. “I can imagine.”

  “Wonderful. I’m going to go freshen up. Feel free to wander around or go find Leslie or whatever you’d like. It’s your house, too.”

  There wasn’t really any bitterness in her voice, but that didn’t stop Jill from imagining it.

  The most Jill had expected from the will reading was a letter from her dad or some photographs. A simple explanation for what had happened between him and her mom would have been better than anything else.

  Instead, she got one-quarter of an inn on an island she’d never been to before.

  And, in the process, two sisters—who were less than thrilled at her sudden arrival.

  Though maybe Michelle didn’t actually care. Based on her car and her nails and the way she’d been shocked her father hadn’t reached out to her for the fifty-thousand-dollar loan, it seemed she wasn’t short on money.

  Leslie, on the other hand… well, the inn seemed more important to her. Which meant Jill would have to work even harder to earn her trust.

  Or rather, she’d have to if she cared. Which she didn’t. As soon as this lunch was over, Jill would hop on the next ferry back to Hyannis and hightail it home. Coming here at all had been a mistake. Just like Grayson had said.

  She stepped out onto the porch, pulling the front door closed behind her, and called Grayson.

  He answered just before Jill was sure the call would go to voicemail. “Is this important? I’m in the middle of something and—”

  “Then why even answer in the first place?” Jill asked.

  “Because if I didn’t, I’d get an earful about how I never answer your calls.”

  “Then my complaining is working exactly as I planned. And this is important, but I’ll be quick,” Jill said, taking a deep breath to steel herself. “I’m on Martha’s Vineyard.”

  There was a long pause. “Like, on vacation? That is important. You never take vacations.”

  “Oh. No. I guess I forgot to mention… Our father lived on Martha’s Vineyard.” She hesitated, then added, “He actually owned an inn here.”

  “Our father, as in the one who just died?”

  “Pretty sure that’s the only one we have.”

  Grayson groaned. “You went to the funeral, didn’t you?”

  “And the reading of the will,” she said. “I also may have forgotten to add that a lawyer called me and told me there was a will.”

  Just as Jill had expected, Grayson’s tune changed immediately. “Did he leave you anything?”

  “He left us both something. Together, we own half of the Wayfarer Inn.”

  “Oh.” She couldn’t tell how he felt from that small reaction alone. “Who owns the other half?”

  “Warren’s two other daughters—Michelle and Leslie.” Jill snapped her fingers. “That’s right. We have sisters.”

  Wow. A lot had happened in the last twenty-four hours.

  “And do they want to sell the business or what?” Classic Grayson, breezing right past the emotional landmine and getting to the money of it all.

  “I don’t think so. Leslie has worked here for most of her life. It seems like a nice place. It’s right off the water. It could use some sprucing up, but it’s really pretty. There is a debt on it, but—”

  “How much? Do we have to pay it? If that man paid zero attention to us our entire lives and then saddled us with his failing business, I swear, I will—”

  “Let me finish,” Jill interrupted. She lowered her voice. “Michelle seems like she is pretty well off. The debt is for fifty grand, but I think she can pay it. Then we can give our shares to them and be done with it. Just like you wanted.”

  “Done with it? Why on earth would I want that?”

  Jill frowned and sat down on the top step. “Because we don’t know these people? Because just yesterday you said you wouldn’t even bother to read our father’s obituary? I dunno, why would you want his inn?”

  “Because his inn could be useful to me,” he said immediately. “Knowing about his personal life is useless. I don’t care.”

  “Money,” Jill deadpanned. “That’s what it’s about?”

  “Oh, don’t get high and mighty with me. You can pretend money isn’t important if you want, but I’m trying to launch a hedge fund. Every penny counts.”

  It’s not that Jill didn’t see the importance of money. She did, certainly. More money would allow her to live in a nicer place, to afford better care for her mom, to quit working for a boss who once “playfully” slapped her on the butt.

  The difference was, Jill didn’t value money over people. Not the way her brother did.

  “Michelle and Leslie want to keep the business in the family.” Michelle had made that clear enough times in the meeting with the lawyer.

  “And they can,” Grayson said, “when they buy us out of our shares.”

  “They already have to pay off the debt. You really think they’ll buy our shares off of us?”

  “You said this Michelle lady had money, right?”

  Jill eyed Michelle’s Lexus, glittering along the curb. “I guess so.”

  “Then yeah, I think they will. Especially since you and I own half. They can’t make any decisions without our approval. And if they don’t want to buy us out, we’ll make them so miserable they won’t have a choice.”

  Maybe Jill didn’t know Leslie and Michelle well, but she didn’t want to make them miserable. Not when their dad had just died. No need to kick them while they were down.

  “I’ll talk to them,” Jill said. “Just… let me try and sort this all out peaceably. We’re about to have lunch.”

  “A little sisterly bonding?” Grayson teased.

  Jill rolled her eyes. “I thought you had big important things to attend to?”

  “I do. Go have lunch with our sisters and handle business,” he drawled. “If you don’t, I will.”

  It took Jill a moment to realize her brother had hung up on her. When she did, she stood and sighed, just as the door behind her opened.

  “Lunch is ready,” Leslie said. She wasn’t smiling, but her blue eyes sparkled with warmth.

  “Great. I’m starved.”

  Leslie led Jill straight past the stairs and through the swinging door into the kitchen. Unlike the rest of the house, which looked like it was staged for a magazine profile, the kitchen looked lived-in.

  Hooks hung on the wall above the stove, stainless steel and copper pots and pans in all sizes hanging in a row. A ceramic cup in the shape of a lighthouse held a bouquet of cooking utensils. A wooden knife block, the edges rounded and softened with age, sat next to a bundle of vertically-stacked cutting boards that leaned against an old black-and-white microwave.

  Michelle was sitting on a wooden ba
rstool at the island. Her hands were folded formally in front of her, but for the first time all day, she was slouching forward. Relaxed. She looked at home.

  “Guests aren’t allowed in here?” Jill asked.

  “Everything the light touches is mine,” Leslie joked. She wrinkled her nose. “Or ours, I guess. Sorry.” She shook her head and pointed down a short hallway lined with doors. “There are a few bedrooms back that way, a bathroom, a TV room, and Dad’s office.”

  “No more touring right now, please,” Michelle interrupted. “Food first.”

  It seemed everyone was starved. With the smells circling around the kitchen, it was no wonder. It smelled exquisite, better than anything Jill ever made. There was a hint of garlic and onion, but with something creamy and buttery over top.

  Jill sighed. “What is that smell?”

  “Lobster bisque,” Leslie said, grabbing three blue and white ceramic bowls from a wooden cabinet and dropping them down on the tile countertop. “I had the bisque frozen, so it didn’t take long to throw together. It’s nothing.”

  As soon as Leslie took a bite, she knew this meal was far from “nothing.” Leslie served it with crisped bread on the side, and Jill felt like she could have eaten until she burst. The food was so good that, even though no one spoke while they ate, the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was a silence born from comfort. The lobster bisque felt like a warm hug.

  When it was gone, Jill was almost sad. “That was so good. Do you do the cooking for the guests?”

  “Just breakfast,” Leslie said. “But I don’t get any complaints, so I suppose they like it.”

  “I don’t imagine you do. With a meal like that, you could open a restaurant,” Jill said. “If you opened this place up for lunch or dinner, you’d be sold out.”