Almost Home

by Macomber, Debbie; Duarte, Judy; Lamb, Cathy; Mary Carter

  Kate ripped out all the lights and bunched them up near the steps. She felt awful. Someone had put considerable time and thought into welcoming the nearlyweds, someone who was obviously a romantic at heart, just like Kate. Who did Amanda say owned this cottage? A photographer friend of Pete’s, if she remembered correctly. A man did this? He must be gay. Or he hired a woman to decorate it, being that women were much more romantic, Kate thought as she spied another flowerpot and, not feeling like sneaking next door again, smothered it with the upside-down welcome mat instead.

  She stopped and surveyed her work. Better, but not completely deromanticized; the swing was definitely going to have to come down.

  Or was that going too far? I don’t want to look at anything that smacks of romance, Katie, or I will lose it. I WILL LOSE IT. Better take down the swing.

  Amanda and her prenuptial tantrum. Because let’s face it, that’s all this was, a tantrum. A stressed-out, sleep-deprived bride throwing a fit, and a clueless groom who walked into her trap just because he didn’t know how to keep his own trap shut. Oh, how clearly Kate could see the flaws in others!

  She unlatched the chain from the top of the hook, and the right side of the swing fell with a bang. Kate winced at the noise, hoping she hadn’t damaged the swing. She could see herself sitting on it at night, enjoying a glass of Chardonnay after a leisurely stroll on the beach. Maybe she’d sneak out here when Amanda was in bed and hang the lights and reattach the swing so at least someone could enjoy the luxuries the cottage had to offer. So far, everything Kate had heard about the island was true. Martha’s Vineyard was a little slice of heaven. Maybe a bit too elitist for a common girl like Kate from good Midwestern stock, but that just meant she was in a better position to truly appreciate what the Vineyarders probably took for granted. Should she leave one end of the swing up or collapse the whole baby?

  She’d leave half of it up, mess with Amanda’s mind a little. Shame on her. Poor Pete. The wedding was so beautiful, too. If you could call it a wedding since it crashed and burned just before the vows. And Kate was finally going to face her fear of singing in public again. She’d even spent the last few months with a vocal coach getting her voice back in shape…

  It didn’t matter. It was Amanda and Pete she was thinking about, not the fact that she had been looking forward to the reception—a little cake, a little champagne, perhaps a dance with a handsome stranger.

  It was so typical of Amanda to pull something like this; still, Kate was trying not to judge. It would be easier to do if she could just get out of this ridiculous dress and maybe get a cup of coffee and some aspirin.

  Kate couldn’t help but wonder how things would have gone if Jeff had been here. He’d always had a way of calming people down, making them see sense. Yes, it definitely would have been Amanda’s older brother to the rescue. He would have made an expert negotiator, would have excelled at anything he put his mind to. He just had that way about him; Jeff lifted everyone around him. He was order out of chaos. Kate couldn’t believe the silly things she used to get upset about, the inordinate amount of time and attention Jeff would spend trying to make her feel better. Looking back, she realized that was all she was after, Jeff’s attention, but she couldn’t believe she used to play such games to get it. Regrets played in her mind like a song you couldn’t get out of your head, and it wrenched at her heart. Just like the games Amanda was playing with Pete. What a waste. If Kate had it all back—had Jeff back—just for a day…

  But she couldn’t think about Jeff right now, and she couldn’t get mad at Amanda, or at her own younger, immature self, the one who’d thought love would last forever. She was on a mission. She hadn’t been a very good friend the past five years; in fact, it was Amanda who’d had to hold Kate up after grief swallowed her like a swarm of locusts. Now Amanda needed her, and for once Kate had the strength to be there for her. If Amanda wanted her to Kill Romance, she was going to make sure it never lived to see another day. That is, until Amanda was ready to see the light.

  Amanda Panda, as Kate called her when they were children, was her best friend in the whole world. They’d lived across the street from each other since they were six years old. Kate fell in love with Amanda’s brother Jeff the same day she became best friends with Amanda. It would take eight-year-old Jeff, however, another twelve years to return her feelings. They dated for five years, and then Jeff asked her to marry him. But a run-down Ford with faulty brakes and icy roads on a Saturday night wiped out that dream in a matter of unimaginable seconds.

  But that was five years ago. Kate needed to move on. She had been so invested in this wedding taking place—looking at it as a chance to heal, a chance for love—even if she wasn’t the recipient. She loved Pete, too; he was perfect for Amanda. Why couldn’t Amanda see that? How could people be so careless with love? Why did some people throw it away like it was nothing, while others had it ripped out from underneath them?

  Amanda still had a chance, and Kate was going to do everything she could to make her see that.

  There, the porch was done. Plant covered, swing disabled, lights ripped out, and the last of the flowers smothered by the welcome mat. Not so welcome now, girl. It was time to trash the inside. Ah. Always the bridesmaid.

  Kate unlocked the door and stepped into the living room. The cottage was just as adorable on the inside: wood floors, ogee arches, leaded-glass windows. It was small, but bright and cheery. It was a perfect honeymoon house; Kate had her work cut out for her. There was a gorgeous vase of long-stem red roses on the bamboo coffee table. Those would definitely have to go. It was hard to believe such perfection grew in nature. Should she give them to a neighbor? She didn’t have much time. Amanda had to check out of the inn by ten, and it was only a ten- or fifteen-minute bike ride to the cottage, which gave Kate exactly twenty-five minutes. If only she hadn’t taken her time riding over here, she could have saved the roses. She shouldn’t have stopped at the beach to pet the little gray cat, or chat with the lovely elderly couple collecting seashells. How she would love to give the roses to the woman, Margaret was her name, but since that wasn’t possible, at least she’d brought a large black garbage bag with her.

  Kate grabbed the roses with both hands and, forgiving the thorns that dug into her palms, brought them up to her nose, smelled them, and then softly kissed them good-bye before whispering apologies into their soft petals, snapping their stems, and shoving them into the bag. When Amanda was in a better mood, Kate would replace the roses, she promised, but for now they were casualties of war. Into the garbage bag they went, bulging out obscenely, a few piercing through the bag, making Kate feel immeasurably guilty. But she had to admit, the place looked a lot less romantic with nothing but a couple of leaves floating on top of a vase of water like the last inner tube deserted in a pool. Hurry!

  Chocolates in a dish on top of the television, gone. Fresh-baked cookies on a plate in the kitchen, in the bag you go—except for one; Kate had to eat at least one. The minute they were in the bag, Kate regretted it. Surely chocolate was a necessity. Too late now; those were honeymoon cookies, and they were gone. Kate and Amanda would venture out and get a nonromantic pint of Ben and Jerry’s. Kate might even pick up a jar of peanut butter and some quality dark chocolate. Just like Jeff used to bring her. No Jeff. No cookies. No roses.

  She tore through the rest of the downstairs and was ready to head up to the second level when she rounded a corner leading to the spiral staircase and WHAM. Oh. No. God, no. Wedding gifts. Loads of them. An entire hallway table full. No way was she going to toss those in a bag. They were so beautiful. A mountain of glittering paper topped with good wishes, and white bells, and fat bows. Boxes of all sizes and shapes decked in glitter, hearts, and shine.

  Kill romance, kill romance, kill romance. This was an awful day. Of all the things she could be doing, even with a hangover, this was the worst. She was a love sniper. There was no other alternative; she would have to rip the presents open. She started with a box wra
pped in silver topped with a crème brûlée bow. She took a deep breath, grabbed a corner of the wrapping paper, and mercilessly ripped. Tearing off the paper revealed a triple-slotted toaster. Much less romantic. She couldn’t turn back now; she was committed. She began exposing the gifts one by one. Margarita pitcher, fondu set, candles, silver gravy boat. She was so into the groove that when she tore the paper off the next gift, she almost overlooked it.

  She could tell it was a picture frame, and she was expecting to see a generic silver or gold wedding frame, but instead she found herself looking at a close-up photograph of Amanda and Pete framed in driftwood. It was absolutely stunning in its simplicity. The photograph looked as if it had been taken right outside the cottage. Amanda and Pete were looking at each other and laughing. It was as if they hadn’t been aware of the camera, as if no one in the world existed but the two of them.

  This must have been taken by the photographer friend of Pete’s—the very man who had gone to great lengths to welcome the couple to their honeymoon house. The man whose romantic efforts Kate was methodically destroying. She set the framed photograph against the wall and made a mental note to explore the upstairs to see if she could find any more of his work.

  Her gift to the happy couple was in here, too—oh, the time she’d spent picking out the wrapping paper alone. She’d gone to three boutiques until she found the perfect shade of glittery plum, an exact match for the bridesmaid dresses. From the looks of it, everyone had gone to great lengths to celebrate the young couple. Amanda and Pete should be opening these gifts, daydreaming about the ones they thought they’d use, stockpiling the ones they’d return for other things they dreamed they’d use, but probably never would, and wouldn’t see again until one of them insisted they clean out their garage and have a yard sale. They’d hold a few of them back—let’s keep the fondu set; let’s really make fondu this year—and price the rest at five bucks each, so they’d at least get three. When she thought of it like that, Kate didn’t feel as guilty. Otherwise she was no better than a cannibal, eating through their dreams. Hurry!

  She was going to have to knock some sense into Amanda, that was for sure. Really, wrangling Amanda’s moods was like taming a wild animal. Maybe that’s where Jeff honed his skills, in childhood, with his little spitfire of a sister. Precaution must be taken. There, the presents were all revealed. Kate siphoned the cards off and put them in a neat little pile next to the photograph that so captivated her. It was romantic, there was no doubt about that, but Kate wasn’t going to touch it or even turn it to face the wall. She had boundaries, after all. Black plastic bag bulging, Kate stood back and surveyed her destruction. The exposed boxes stared back at her with contempt. Much less lovey-dovey. Onward and upward. It was time to tackle the upstairs.

  Chapter Two

  What the hell? Andy Beck looked at the sky to see if there was any lingering sign of the tornado that had apparently torn through his front porch, but it was clear and blue. What happened to his porch swing? Why was the welcome mat upside down? Where were the flower pots? Was this the work of vandals? On the Vineyard? It just didn’t fit. And although Andy wasn’t naïve about the ways of the world, the brutal truth that tragedy could strike anywhere, he’d been coming to Oak Bluffs since he was a kid, and he liked to think it was untouched by time and protected from the harsh realities you’d expect more from big-city living than his island haven. The neighbors may not keep their doors wide open, but they certainly said hello and looked out for each other. And they would never think of vandalizing each other’s front porches. This was definitely the work of an outsider.

  Although he had to admit, haven or not, the island certainly had seen its share of tragedies over the years, and he wasn’t just talking about spotting Bill Clinton in his swimsuit. Weddings in particular seemed cursed on the Vineyard; you didn’t have to look any further than the plane crash that took JFK Jr., his wife, and her sister all those years ago.

  Andy had certainly had his share of bad luck here, too—his own disaster of a wedding three years ago was eerily reminiscent of what was happening to Amanda and Pete. Although, as unreasonable as she’d been last night, at least Amanda hadn’t been caught making love to another man the night before the nuptials, which was more than he could say for his ex-fiancée, Michelle. That’s right, the night before he was to pledge his love to her forever, she was out having sex on the beach, and unfortunately, he didn’t mean the drink.

  But this was a new day. A clean slate. Just once, Andy wanted to see a wedding on the Vineyard come to fruition! And now he was dealing with a break-in. If bad luck came in threes, this was number two. Amanda freaking out at the wedding and calling it off was, of course, number one. Andy’s only consolation, as he surveyed the damage to the porch, was that the newlyweds hadn’t come across this mess. It wouldn’t have been much fun to carry a bride over this demolished threshold. Whoever did this had better be long gone.

  The work he’d put into getting the place ready for Pete and Amanda! Risked his reputation as a guy’s guy in the process. Not that he was insecure about his masculinity, but come on, he wouldn’t buy a special welcome mat, gussy the place up with flowers, and shower the bedroom in champagne and rose petals for just anyone.

  The front door was ajar—whoever did this could still be inside. It wasn’t Amanda or Pete; Andy had just left them at the Black Sheep Inn, arguing with each other through a slammed door. He crept to the front door, once again thinking how weddings on the island seemed cursed. Pete and Amanda were supposed to break the curse. What a ridiculous scene. He didn’t mean to be judgmental, but Amanda seemed downright crazy yesterday. When, and if, Andy ever got involved in a romantic relationship again, he wanted a nice, normal, woman. No blowups, no erratic behavior, no drama. Poor Pete. Although, to be fair, up until last night Andy had always liked Amanda. What had come over her? Yes, Pete should have kept his mouth shut, even Andy had to concede that one—but her reaction was way out of proportion. He could see Amanda getting a little miffed, but calling off the wedding? Obviously, Andy was a little biased. Pete was his childhood friend, and that’s where his loyalties had to lie.

  He looked at the door again, and wondered if he should call the police. No, it was better if he checked it out first. But not without a weapon. There was a baseball bat on the corner of his porch. That would have to do. For the first time in three years, Andy felt protective of the cottage. The idea of anyone else treading on it enraged him. It had taken a while, but he could finally gaze upon it without being overtaken by negative emotions. Anyone walking by might stop and stare at the tall man crouching by the front door, wielding a baseball bat, completely oblivious to the fact that he was actually smiling. Not because he was a violent man and looking forward to a fight—quite the opposite; he tended to funnel all his energy, including his anger and disappointments through the lens of a camera. No, Andy was smiling because it dawned on him that he was finally free. The honeymoon house was no longer haunted. The ghost of Michelle was gone.

  He had no desire to sit on the front porch with her, and a glass of wine, at the end of the day. Nor did he dream of sharing a cup of coffee and the morning paper at the little breakfast nook, discussing their prospective days, eagerly anticipating their night. And it wasn’t just his fantasies of Michelle that were gone; it was all gone. The jealousy, the anger, the longing, the regret. Gone, gone, gone, gone. The cottage was neutral. Of course, it helped that they never spent their honeymoon here, or moved in for that matter—Michelle had never even known about the existence of the cottage; things imploded long before he could tell her about it. He’d been saving the surprise for their wedding night. But as it turned out, he was the one in for a big surprise.

  It seemed like such a good idea at the time, not seeing his bride the night before the wedding. Little did Andy know, Michelle’s ex-boyfriend had no such plans. He’d actually rented a boat and sailed to the island at the eleventh hour, surprising Michelle at her hotel-room door with two red roses
and a single plea for her heart. Maybe Michelle hadn’t meant for it to happen. Andy would never know. Did she tell him to go away, or was her answer an immediate yes? Did she agree only to a walk on the beach, a few last words before they said good-bye forever?

  And what if Andy hadn’t decided to take a walk on the beach that night? He never would have seen the lovers entwined on the sand, lit by the moon. The sick part was, even Andy had to admit it was kind of romantic. He tormented himself with what-ifs. What if roles had been reversed and Michelle had been about to marry another man? Would Andy have ever thought of doing something like her ex did? The guy didn’t even know how to sail. Rumor had it he almost got arrested pulling into the dock, because he didn’t know how to maneuver the boat and clipped a couple of yachts. That was the kind of love everybody wanted, wasn’t it? Deaf, dumb, blind, and sailing-impaired. Willing to risk everything. Had Andy ever felt that for Michelle? It had taken him a few years, but he came to realize unequivocally that the answer was no. He even hoped they were still together. He hoped they were happy.

  He couldn’t say the same thing for whoever was hiding in the house. In fact, if they were still there, he was about to make their life very, very miserable. Maybe he should call the police after all. What if they’d broken into his makeshift darkroom? The pictures hanging in there had long since processed, so he didn’t need to worry about anyone letting in the light. But just the thought of anyone seeing those pictures…

  He quickly entered the house, careful to avoid the first three floorboards, which had a tendency to squeak. The living room wasn’t destroyed per se, but Andy didn’t know quite what to make of what he was seeing. The two dozen roses he’d spent a fortune on had vanished. But the vase was still there, mocking him with two little leaves floating on top. And the chocolates on top of the television, the ones from the Sweet Shack, his favorite candy store on the Vineyard, gone. Andy crept into the kitchen. The cookies were gone, too. Was the thief some kind of a diabetic? He tensed, straining to listen. He was sure he heard noise upstairs.