The Silver Boat

by Luanne Rice

  “He’s been private lately,” she said.

  “Oh, you artistic lovebirds,” Harrison said. “I hear it from him, I hear it from you. Two lonely souls who are too dumb to live together.”

  “Thanks,” Dar said.

  “Baby, I’m only stating the obvious. You’re living on the most beautiful island in the world; you might as well do it together. You’d think you were both tortured.”

  “Maybe we are. It happens inside,” Dar said, remembering all her years of pain and misbehavior, drinking to chase the demons away. Andy had his own; he never talked much about his childhood, but Dar remembered his father’s drunken rages, the homemade moonshine he’d brewed from a recipe passed down from his Tennessee grandfather.

  Dar and Harrison picked up a collection of shells and sea-smoothed shell fragments, small bits of driftwood, a few crab carapaces, a broken piece of blue and white crockery, a red gingham button.

  When their hands and pockets were full, they headed across the boardwalk to the lawn. Harrison needed a Heineken, so he went into the cool kitchen while Dar arranged the beach treasures at each place setting.

  Dar had chosen every plate, glass, and piece of silver carefully, wanting to remind her sisters of what they had here, the memories that would never die as long as they stayed, and what they stood to lose.

  She had sharp radar for her sisters’ emotional lives. Both Rory and Delia had been massively kind, yet deeply withholding on the phone each time Dar had called. They couldn’t be thinking of selling. She told herself so, but the nagging thought kept returning. The traumas of this house, and what they’d just done to discover their father’s truth, had been a lot to bear. For Dar as well. But she knew they would get through it, as they always had.

  “Hey,” Harrison said. “Is Pete coming?

  “Yes, why?”

  “Andy said he’s taking a little time off from work.”

  That gave Dar a jolt, but she decided not to panic yet. She wondered why Andy hadn’t called to tell her.

  “Is Andy coming?” she asked.

  “Yep,” Harrison said, going to his truck and returning with a battered leather guitar case. “I brought the music.”

  “Excellent,” Dar said as Harrison opened the case, revealing a custom wine-red vintage Gibson electric guitar, chrome gleaming. She used to feel nervous about his bringing such valuable instruments, but had given up.

  At other times, he’d brought rosewood fiddles, a mandolin with ebony inlays, a double bass played by a musician at La Scala. Harrison always enjoyed sitting quietly with the instruments he transported, tilting them toward the beach so that, although he couldn’t actually play them, the wind would strum across the strings, echo through the f-holes of violins or arch-topped guitars. He told Dar the music stayed in him, inspiring him as he drove the instruments long distances. The music got him through the miles.

  Dar looked around the yard. Daggett’s Way and the Hideaway had always been her inspiration. Dulse, Heath, and Finn had sprung from this rocky earth, surrounded by salt ponds and the ocean. Could she continue the series, such an important part of her existence, if she didn’t have this place to come to?

  That’s why she had to be wrong about her sisters. They couldn’t be thinking of giving it up, after all they’d been through. That’s why dinner had to be perfect. She wanted to look across the table, into her sisters’ eyes, and know that they were all together on this, still in love with their family home.

  With twilight coming on, Rory and Delia rode the ferry. They had decided to come together—solidarity. They stood on deck, watching the island shimmer on the sea, a beautiful mirage.

  “I’m nervous about seeing Dar,” Delia said.

  “Me too. I can’t believe it,” Rory said.

  “Did you tell her we talked to Morgan?”

  “I chickened out.”

  “She had to figure we’d want to know the details of the offer, right? She did send us that e-mail,” Delia said.

  “I’m not sure she thought we’d check,” Rory said.

  “I would never be feeling this way if the Littles were still in the picture,” Delia said. “But it’s not so hard to take, knowing the Rileys will keep the house and land the way it is.”

  Rory nodded. “I guess that’s how I see it,” she said.

  “Can we put it in the agreement?” Delia asked. “That they can’t destroy or alter the house in any major way?”

  “We’ll have to ask Bart,” Rory said, staring into the water, seeming sad but relatively serene. No maniacal checking of her BlackBerry, no hacking into Jonathan’s e-mail. Delia didn’t understand. In less than an hour they would have to break the news to Dar, but Rory seemed calm.

  “I notice you’re not checking up on Jonathan,” Delia said.

  “I’m just so tired. Chasing him, hoping for him to come back. It’s worn me down.”

  “I’m sorry,” Delia said.

  “I really believed we would last forever. He’s left Alys, and once the kids are out of school, he’ll take them to the Vineyard for two weeks.”

  “Maybe you’ll see him!”

  Rory closed her eyes. “It hurts to see him, Delia.”

  “Are you sad about the house? Deciding we want to sell it?”

  “Of course,” Rory said, almost harshly. “Aren’t you?”

  “I feel like someone in Shakespeare. Betraying Dar, trying to wash the blood off my hands.”

  “There’s no blood,” Rory said, as the ferry entered Vineyard Haven’s harbor—the town and sky were painted with streaks of sunset orange and gold. It was time to go down to the cars.

  Rory felt overwhelmed by the evening’s beauty—blue sky fading to amber sunset, planets and a few stars already visible in the darkening sky. She supposed that one blessing would be that she wouldn’t have to see all the familiar landmarks on the way home. It would be too dark to see the large, twisting oak, the row of cedars, Alley’s Store, the vistas looking south toward salt ponds, dunes, and the Atlantic Ocean.

  When they dipped down the hill in West Tisbury, Rory heard a quick siren burst. She instantly checked her speedometer. She’d been going fifty; had the speed trap gotten her, or was he after the car heading toward Edgartown?

  “Shit, he got me,” Rory said.

  “Cops always hide here,” Delia said.

  It was pitch-black in this glade of thick trees, and the officer shone a bright flashlight on the license plate and all around the car. He stayed carefully back from the two front doors, and in the side-view mirror, Rory saw he had his hand on his holster.

  “Can you believe it?” she asked Delia. “He’s got his hand on his fucking gun. We’re two middle-aged moms!”

  After a while he stood right beside Rory’s car, shining his light in her face, indicating for her to roll down her window.

  “Any idea how fast you were traveling, ma’am?”

  “Fifty,” she said, hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead.

  “That’s right. The speed limit here is thirty. You were going twenty miles per hour over. License and registration, please.”

  Delia had gotten them ready; Rory passed them into the officer’s waiting hand. He thanked her for them and went back to his patrol car, doubtless to call them in and make her wait and stew.

  Little did he know Rory didn’t care. She was turning to stone as she sat there. Numb couldn’t begin to describe it. Being on the island brought Jonathan back to her in a way too wrenching to bear.

  “He’s writing you up,” Delia said, looking over her shoulder.

  In a much shorter time than Rory would have expected, the officer returned. She saw his smile, illuminated by the flashing lights.

  “You’re one of the McCarthys,” he said. “My dispatcher told me when I gave her your information.”

  “Yeah,” Rory said. “That was my maiden name.”

  “You’re the daughter of the guy who sailed to Ireland and found some kind of paper that gives him and his kid
s right to land in Chilmark.”

  “Basically, yes,” Rory said.

  “Well, I still have to give you a ticket.”

  “Well, thank you,” Rory said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Take it easy,” the officer said. “Arrive alive.”

  “You bet,” Rory said. She turned to Delia. “Thought maybe he’d let me off.”

  “Killed a little time for us, anyway,” Delia said.

  As Rory pulled slowly away, up the hill and bearing left toward home, she felt chills. They drove along South Road, and just before they got to their house, Rory paused—prolonging the moment before she’d see Dar—and gazed out to sea. A marsh hawk flew low over the grasslands.

  Just beyond, Rory saw a white sailboat coming into view, sailing slowly along the coast. The sloop heeled into the wind, looking so beautiful and mysterious, barely illuminated by a rising moon. Rory stared at it for another moment, wondering where it was heading, whether it was leaving the Vineyard or just arriving.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The party had started. That is, Harrison had placed several bottles of champagne and a six-pack of Heineken in a battered tin washbasin filled with ice. Andy had lit the tea candles, making the paper lanterns glow above the table. Dar had gathered bunches of wheat and beach grass, placed them in old blue bottles. Coals were bright red on the grill; dinner was almost ready to cook, but Rory, Delia, and Pete hadn’t arrived.

  “What’s taking them so long?” Harrison asked, drinking from his own bottle of champagne while lying in the grass beside the electric guitar, now back in its plush-lined leather case.

  “Whose guitar is that anyway?” Andy asked. “Would you want your priceless freaking instrument to be sitting in someone’s yard?”

  “If it were the right someone’s yard,” Harrison said. “Yes. I would. So. Where’s Pete?”

  Andy shrugged and shook his head. He looked toward Dar, and she gave him a quizzical glance. He flushed and looked away.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “You don’t know where he is?”

  “No, not exactly,” Andy said.

  “But isn’t he working for you?”

  “He asked for a little time off,” Andy said.

  “Just as his mother’s coming out? Delia will be so disappointed.”

  “I think he spoke to her about it.”

  Dar was still, taking that in. She walked into the kitchen to check on the sautéed fingerling potatoes, chilled salad, and tiny purple beets. She checked the cooling plum tart—it looked pretty good, considering she never baked. Moving around, she kept her eye on the driveway, watching for headlights.

  Pete. It wasn’t a good sign that her nephew had asked for time off work and that he wasn’t here at the family celebration. She knew that the odds of an addict’s staying sober were much worse than those of his going back to using. In spite of Andy seeming calm about it, Dar worried.

  She’d left Pete messages on his voice mail, inviting him to the party, telling him his mother and Rory would be here, too. It was out of character for him not to call her back. Just in case, she tried him again, with no answer.

  The night lit up, and headlights came swinging toward the house. Dar stepped outside. She’d put on a long navy blue dress, fitted at the waist, then flaring to her bare feet. She wore silver hoop earrings and a collection of long silver chains. She’d hoped Andy would think she looked pretty, but he seemed lost in thought. Only Harrison seemed really ready to celebrate.

  Dar thought of Tim McCarthy. He had answered her long e-mail with an even longer one of his own, asking if he could visit the Vineyard and see the famously rescued property as well as the parchment land grant at the end of the summer, when his busiest time was over. She had written back yes, she and her family would love to have him.

  And here they came now: her family. Her two sisters approached the house. They each wore shorts and T-shirts; they weren’t carrying luggage. Dar ran to them, and they all collided in a hug, their heads pressed together.

  “You look beautiful,” Delia said.

  “It’s a Daggett’s Way summer party!”

  “I’m so sorry. This is it,” Rory said, gesturing at her cargo shorts and Mystic Aquarium shirt.

  “We should have figured,” Delia said.

  “That’s okay,” Dar said, her arms around both of them. “We’re together, that’s what counts.”

  She and her sisters walked around the corner of the house, and Harrison let out a wolf whistle.

  “But we’re not even dressed up,” Rory said.

  “So what? You’re still the hottest beach girls on this island.”

  Andy came over to say hi, kiss the sisters’ cheeks, and they hugged him back.

  Rory stared at the guitar, then closed her eyes to listen to the breeze drift across the strings. Harrison disrupted her reverie, reaching for her hand. She glanced down and smiled.

  “Coming inside?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Harrison said, stubbing out his cigarette, shoving his bottle of champagne under his arm, letting Rory pull him up.

  Dar saw Delia acting nervous, pacing around. She waited for her to ask about Pete. As Rory and Harrison carried the guitar into the house, the wind picked up. It sent the lanterns swaying on their wires, then blew the tea lights out all at once. The temperature suddenly dropped.

  Glancing up at the sky, Dar saw her galaxy of stars obscured by scraps of cloud blowing in from the east. She’d checked the weather for tonight—nothing had been predicted, but this felt like a front moving through. The first raindrops fell, few and far between.

  “Andy, will you help me move the table?” she asked, as Delia gathered up the place settings.

  He grabbed one end, and she got the other. Together they carefully lifted the heavy teak table up the wide plank stairs, kept it level, and settled it on the house’s leeside porch, as the wind yanked at the tablecloth. Andy went back for the chairs, and Dar and Delia grabbed one each.

  The rain began to fall hard, driving sideways along the south shore. It slapped the house and made windows rattle. Scup ran inside, four ratty cats and the people right behind him.

  Dar stood in the open doorway, scanning the yard for the fifth. “Here, kitty,” she called. “Here, kitty kitty.”

  “Which one is missing?” Harrison asked.

  “Number Five,” Dar said. They’d been feral kittens, and her mother had never really named them, not wanting to get too attached to animals who might not stay. She’d called them “Untitled Number One,” “Untitled Number Two,” all the way to Five, trying to be as unsentimental as possible in case they ran off.

  “Your mother killed me, naming them that,” Harrison said. “She was so not a minimalist. Just check out her décor—I mean before you boxed most of it up. She had a needlepointed coaster on every mahogany surface, sterling-silver framed photos on the goddamn grand piano. That is not a woman who names her kittens ‘Untitled.’”

  “She had secret nicknames for them,” Rory said. “After flowers . . . Dahlia, Tiger Lily, Daisy. That’s all I can remember.”

  Delphinium and Holly, Dar thought.

  “You know what’s the worst thing about parents dying?” Harrison said. “It’s all the questions you’ll never get to ask them. Little things you thought you’d have forever to find out.”

  “It’s true,” Rory said, leaning into him.

  Andy walked in. “Well, I think it’s a nor’easter,” he said, putting his arm around Dar. “The rain’s completely doused the coals. We’ll have to start over, or broil the fish in here.”

  “Fish,” Harrison said, pretending to pound the table. “I should have put in my request for a nice steak.”

  Dar went to the refrigerator and pulled out something wrapped in butcher paper. “Just for you,” she said.

  “Thank you, sweetie,” he said. “See, this is what’s great about us. No deep dark secrets. No saying you can’t have beef, it’ll give you gout. No holding back
on the champagne. Or, if you’re off the sauce, good for you. We applaud you, and shall drink yours. Let’s get our glasses,” he said, rushing onto the protected porch, returning with the crystal.

  Andy poured mineral water for Dar and himself; Harrison poured champagne for Delia and Rory, topped off his own glass and raised it.

  “To our Vineyard family,” Harrison said. “And to Michael McCarthy for keeping us together.”

  They clinked, and Dar, hesitant, met her sisters’ eyes. Their expressions were dark and solemn.

  “What is it?” she asked, knowing but not wanting to know. Her heart was in her throat and she couldn’t speak or swallow.

  “Dar, we love you,” Delia said.

  Rory took Dar’s hand, held it in both of hers against her heart. “We had to come in person, we couldn’t tell you on the phone.”

  “Who is it? What happened?” she asked.

  “This has been incredibly hard,” Rory said.

  “It has,” Delia said. “I’ve lost so much sleep thinking about it; I know Rory has, too.”

  “Just tell me!”

  “We’ve decided we want to sell,” Rory said.

  “Sell?”

  “Daggett’s Way. The whole property, even Dad’s land grant,” Delia said.

  “It’s too much for me,” Rory said, her eyes pooling with tears. “I’m so sorry, Dar. But this place is loaded, way more than I can take.”

  “Because of Jonathan?”

  “And everything,” Rory said. “Just what we all went through for so long. Thinking Dad was dead, never hearing from him. He never called to say that he’d made it safely to Cork.”

  “He never doubted he’d make it home,” Dar whispered.

  “But he didn’t make it home,” Rory said.

  “Dar, Mom living here was one thing. But it would be so hard for us; none of us has the money to keep it up the way it should be.”

  “But if we auction off the deed . . .” Dar said.

  “Did you hear what we’re saying?” Rory asked. “Delia and I want out. We’d like us all to agree to accept this most recent offer. I spoke to Morgan, and she says it’s all cash, and that the couple has no intention of tearing down the house. The opposite—they love it and want to keep it just the way it is.”