Actually, it was probably because the knob was difficult to twist. The major appliances in her home—and a couple of the downstairs rooms—could have done with some updating but Zoey wasn’t going to admit that to Mark. From what she’d just overheard, he already wanted to overhaul the entire house and she knew how traumatic that would be for their aunt. “Besides, I always check the burners when she’s done using the stove.”
“Exactly. So what’s going to happen once you leave?”
“I-I’m planning to stay a while longer.”
“How can you do that? What about your job?”
Zoey was relieved but not surprised her aunts hadn’t told Mark that she’d been laid off; Sylvia and Ivy had always been tight-lipped about anything that Zoey or Mark mentioned to them in confidence. So he must have thought she’d been taking family medical leave to care for Sylvia, and Zoey was fine with letting him believe that. Losing her job wasn’t her fault, but that wouldn’t stop Mark from gloating. The fact that he’d only been in his current role as a pharmaceutical sales rep for a year and would probably quit or get fired within another six months, the way he usually did, was irrelevant. He’d make wisecracks if he found out she’d been unemployed for five months and she wasn’t in the mood to hear them.
“It’s not a problem,” she hedged. “I can stay as long as Aunt Ivy needs me.”
“You’re just postponing the inevitable, you know. She’s going to have to move eventually.”
You want to bet on it? Zoey thought, but she let his remark slide. She’d challenge him again later if it came to that, but right now she didn’t have it in her to keep sparring with him. When Mark tipped his head back to down the last of his beer, she took advantage of the silence to tell him she was going back inside. But as she turned toward the door, she noticed Mr. Witherell out of the corner of her eye. Apparently he’d finished smoking his pipe and he shuffled toward them, bent at the waist so that his torso and head were angled nearly parallel with the ground as he tapped his cane on the brick driveway.
The old man had been the village’s lighthouse keeper until all the lighthouses on Dune Island became automated in the seventies and he was forced into an early retirement. He now lived in a rundown shack of a dwelling on a little patch of land in the lowest-lying area in Benjamin’s Manor. His house was considered such an eyesore by the village’s summer elite that several of them united and offered to pay to relocate him so they could raze the building. When he refused, they counter-offered to rehabilitate his home, inside and out. Again, no deal. He did, however, allow them to build and maintain a white, eight-foot wooden privacy fence with a lattice topper and lockable gate. Anyone driving by the property wouldn’t have guessed his house on the other side was any different from the rest of the houses in the neighborhood; exactly the desired effect.
“Hello, Mr. Witherell. Thank you for coming,” Zoey said, although she knew better than to expect a response.
As a rule, Mr. Witherell didn’t talk any more. He grunted on occasion, or shook his head, but that was it. According to island lore that the school kids had been passing down for years, his jaw rusted shut during the hurricane of 1967. Although some of the adults believed he’d gone deaf, most of them generally assumed that he’d spent so much time alone keeping the lighthouse, he’d lost his social skills, and they tried to accommodate his communication style as best as they could. There were a few less tolerant people who theorized he was so cantankerous it was actually a good thing he didn’t express himself verbally.
Yet Zoey’s aunt said he always showed up for funerals whenever one of the old-time islanders passed away. Regardless of the season, he wore the same wool single-breasted suit, a relic from the fifties that was so faded it appeared charcoal instead of black. But beneath the cuffs of his short-cut, pleated trousers, his toe-cap shoes were polished to a shine. To Zoey, that small detail demonstrated a world of respect for the deceased. She tried to reciprocate her regard for Mr. Witherell by speaking to him as she would have spoken to any other guest, whether or not he heard or answered her.
Mark, on the other hand, fanned his nose and scoffed as the old man passed by, “If you want to keep your title as Dune Island’s oldest year-round resident, you might consider giving up that pipe.”
“Mark!” Zoey hissed, “That’s rude.”
Mark sneered, “The old salt is deaf.”
As if on cue, Mr. Witherell stopped short and spat on the grass. Staring at the ground, he asked Mark, “Who do you think you are?”
Zoey was absolutely dumbfounded to hear his voice, which sounded as if he was gurgling pebbles in the back of his throat. But his tone wasn’t one of indignation, the way people usually sounded when they asked that question. It was more like a straightforward inquiry. And he appeared to be waiting for a response, which meant he certainly wasn’t deaf. She glanced over at Mark to see what he’d do next.
At first, he shook his head and rolled his eyes. But when Mr. Witherell didn’t leave, he snickered before announcing slowly and loudly, “I’m. Marcus. Winslow. The. Third.”
Mr. Witherell pulled out a handkerchief and swiped it across his mouth. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” he said. Then he shoved the kerchief back into his pocket and continued down the driveway.
Red-faced, Mark immediately cursed him out, while Zoey stood there wondering, What was that all about? Mr. Witherell had undoubtedly been the object of far ruder remarks over the years, but as far as she knew, no one ever reported hearing him say anything in response. Why today? Was he finally fed up? Or was there something about Mark in particular that made him lash out? It wouldn’t have been the first time someone had been offended by her cousin’s boorishness, but casting doubt on his identity was more of a slam against his mother than against Mark. Or it would been, if it weren’t utterly ridiculous.
Oh—I get it, Zoey suddenly realized. Mark is such a snob about being a Winslow that Mr. Witherell was deliberately attacking his point of pride to get a reaction.
It worked: his taunt had made Mark fuming mad and he ended his tirade by saying, “Somebody should have had that guy committed half a century ago.”
“I admit that was odd. But I wonder why—”
Just then, the back door opened and Helen, one of Ivy and Sylvia’s acquaintances from the church they’d attended when they were in better health, tottered down the back steps hugging a large vase of white lilies. “I’m not absconding with these,” she said, peering around the blooms. “Ivy insisted I take them because they make her sneeze. She wrapped goodies for me to bring home, too, but my car is parked down the street so I’ll have to come back for them.”
“I can help you,” Zoey offered, taking the vase. While Helen was inside retrieving the goodies, Mark told Zoey he was going to say goodbye to Ivy and then he intended to take off.
“Already?” she questioned, since he had just arrived on the island that morning. She assumed he was going to spend at least one night there.
“Yeah. Check-in is at four.”
“You’re not staying at the house?”
“Nah. I’d suffocate in there. I booked a room at The Harborview.”
Of course. Only the best resort for Mark Winslow III. Knowing him, he was charging his lodging to his company’s account and claiming it was a business expense. “Are you coming back here at all tomorrow?” Or will that interfere with your golf schedule?
“Yeah. I’ll be on the island for a few days.”
“Okay. See you later.”
As Zoey and Helen inched halfway down the hill in the direction of the harbor, Helen apologized for walking so slowly, explaining, “I’ve put on quite a few pounds over the winter.”
“That’s okay—I’m wearing new shoes so I’m not going anywhere fast, either.”
Zoey was actually glad for the excuse to get away from the house for a few minutes and after Helen drove away, she paused to survey the seascape below, at the bottom of the hill. Benjamin’s Harbor was much smaller than Po
rt Newcomb, where the island’s ferry docks were located, but it was more picturesque. She never tired of gazing at the bay’s cobalt-blue water during high tide. The vivid green grass and blanched sands at low. Or at the white brick, black iron-capped lighthouse—Sea Gull Lighthouse, the one Mr. Witherell used to keep—standing tall among the bayberry bushes and juniper trees on the flat sea-level peninsula. In the summer, she could spend hours sitting on one of the many wrought-iron benches and watching boats navigate past the long, narrow jetty as they entered or exited the harbor.
There weren’t many vessels docked in the slips this early in the season, but because it was such a pleasant day, the waterfront park was humming with activity. Families with small children walking dogs. Teenagers playing ultimate frisbee on the beach. Couples strolling hand-in-hand. Joggers and cyclists exercising in T-shirts and shorts. And just past the harbor, where the pavement gave way to cobblestone, people were strolling along Main Street, browsing in shops and dining al fresco at the numerous restaurants boasting water views.
At another time, Zoey might have hustled the rest of the way down the hill to be in the thick of things. But today, she chose a bench at the edge of the park so she’d have more privacy to collect her thoughts. Because of the way the bench was angled, she had a view both of the harbor and of several of the houses lining the bottom half of the hill.
Despite their differences in size and design, virtually all of them were painted white, with their doors and shutters such a dark shade of green they almost appeared black. Invariably, the yards had lush, manicured squares of lawn—or they would, once spring had fully sprung—bordered by picket fences just like her aunt’s. Zoey loved the clean, simple architecture of the residences on Main Street in Benjamin’s Manor. This place had always provided her a sense of order and stability whenever it seemed her own world was in chaos. Like when her parents were getting divorced. Or her college boyfriend, her first love, broke up with her. When her mother died of an aneurysm. Her father of heart failure. And especially after her sister’s brief, intense battle with cancer…
Oh, Jess, I wish you were here with me now, she thought, as she’d done countless other times during the past six years. Jessica had been Zoey’s best friend, as well as her big sister, and she still missed her like crazy. Unfortunately, Zoey had had enough experience with mourning to know how to endure her own sorrow over Sylvia’s death, but she wasn’t as confident about her ability to buoy her great-aunt through such a loss. Jessica, on the other hand, would have known exactly how to comfort Ivy.
She also would have known how to respond to Mark’s suggestion that their great-aunt would benefit from moving into an assisted living facility. Although the incident with Ivy leaving the gas on had initially given Zoey pause, nothing like that had ever happened before. So, whether her aunt had forgotten to turn it off or just hadn’t completely twisted the knob around, Zoey figured it was a one-off, a mistake anyone could have made. Still, she wished her sister were there to give her a reality check. And to back her up. Jess could always see through Mark’s ruses but she had a lighthearted way of calling him out on his behavior without overreacting or offending him, the way Zoey did.
How am I going to handle this kind of family stuff without Jessica’s advice and humor to get me through? It’s going to be like… like not having an anchor in a storm, she lamented, already feeling adrift.
If she wasn’t careful, Zoey was going to cry and it still wasn’t time for that. She stood and took a few tentative steps toward home but her blisters were killing her feet. If she took her shoes off to walk back, she’d get runs in her newly purchased pantyhose. Who cares? I’m never going to wear them again. Zoey had only put them on today in deference to her aunt Sylvia’s belief that a lady never wore a skirt or dress bare-legged to a formal event, like a wedding or a funeral. But the funeral was over and besides, it was stinking hot outside. Too hot for her to trudge back up the hill wearing nylons.
Zoey pivoted toward the park so she could take her hosiery off in the public restroom, some twenty yards away. But when she hobbled over to it, she found the facility was still locked for the off-season. She surveyed the area around her; not a soul in sight and she was hidden from view, too.
“Sorry, Aunt Sylvia,” she apologized, removing her shoes. With her back to the wall so she could see if anyone was coming, as well as to prevent them from catching a glimpse of her derriere, she discreetly slid her hands beneath her skirt and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of the hosiery. As swiftly as she could, she brought the pantyhose to her ankles. She intended to quickly step out of them but when she lifted one leg, the nylon clung to her foot, turning inside out, so she had to roll the stockings over her toes.
“Ah, freedom!” she proclaimed when her second foot was finally bare. She flipped her hair back over her head as she stood upright again, thrusting the ropey ring of hosiery in the air like a hard-won trophy.
At that moment, a man wearing a suit came around the corner of the building. Not just any man. It was Nick. The guy whose tie she’d cried on. He stopped abruptly, a wry smile on his face. Mortified, Zoey scrunched the hosiery into a ball and hid it behind her back.
“The bathrooms are closed,” she snapped as if it were somehow his fault, and tore off across the grass instead of using the walkway.
“Zoey” he called after her. When she sped up instead of slowing down, he called again. “Zoey, wait!”
Couldn’t he take a hint? How could he possibly expect her to stop and chit-chat after she’d just been caught disrobing in public, especially since he knew she had a funeral reception to get back to? Then she was struck by a discomfiting thought: He probably has women throwing themselves at him all the time. What if he misread my little teary-eyed lapse in the driveway as flirting?
Under different circumstances Zoey might have been interested in getting to know him, but her aunt had just died, so she couldn’t trust her emotions right now. Plus, she had sworn off dating—for at least six months, anyway—after breaking up with Erik. And that had only been two months ago. Not to mention, Nick was pals with Mark.
After years of giving Mark’s friends the benefit of the doubt, Zoey had learned the hard way that in her cousin’s case, birds of a feather really did flock together. The people he attracted tended to be duplicitous, self-centered and combative. Mark had no affinity for honest, giving, easy-going types and they usually didn’t stick around him long, either—with the exception of his family, of course.
So, no. Zoey wasn’t interested in Nick. She hurried across Main Street, refusing to slow down even when she heard his footsteps right behind her.
Suddenly, he had outpaced her and was walking backwards up the hill. “You forgot your shoes,” he informed her, holding them out.
Still clutching her nylons in one hand, Zoey took the shoes with other. “Thank you,” she said. Brusquely sidestepping him to conceal her humiliation—he must have thought she was ridiculous—she continued her trek and to her relief, he didn’t follow.
Zoey felt like a sponge that had reached saturation and tears began to seep from her eyes. No, no, no, she told herself. Not now. Not yet. This time, it didn’t matter; she was going to cry. In public. On Main Street, no less. She plodded onward another ten yards before giving in. Hugging one of the island’s ubiquitous, colonial-style post lanterns for balance, she wept openly. The tears came hard and fast, like an April shower. Then, just as abruptly, her crying jag passed.
She was wiping her eyes when a red convertible came flying down the hill, its stereo blaring, the top down. From behind the wheel, Mark flashed his perfect white teeth and waved at her, as if today was just another day at the beach.
Chapter Two
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it to Hope Haven yesterday,” Lauren apologized when she called early the next morning.
Zoey understood; her closest friend and colleague had also been laid off in December when their branch closed and she’d just begun working at a library
in Cranston three weeks ago. As the newest member on staff, she had been relegated to the Saturday shift and she hadn’t accrued any time off yet. “That’s okay. I’d rather have you visit on a happier occasion, anyway.”
“Yeah, but I wanted to be there to support you. How did things go?”
Zoey told her about the lovely memorial service and reception before confiding how ticked off she was at Mark for insinuating their aunt wasn’t fit to live alone and for apparently trying to squeeze her out of her house.
“She doesn’t want to move?”
“No way. That’s one of the reasons she was so grateful I came to help when my aunt Sylvia got pneumonia. She was afraid the doctor was going to suggest that she go to a skilled nursing center off-island to recover. Neither of them has left Hope Haven for longer than a night or two for the past fifty or sixty years,” Zoey answered. “I don’t get it. Mark has never shown this level of interest in the house before. He’s going to inherit it eventually, so what’s the big rush to get his hands on it now?”
“Maybe he’s hard up for money? Oh, that reminds me—I have a lead for you!” Lauren told her about a librarian in one of Providence’s universities who was pregnant with twins and would be going on maternity leave in August. Supposedly, the woman had indicated she didn’t plan to return to her post after the babies were born, so the position had a high likelihood of becoming permanent. “I get it that you need to start earning an income again, but if this job is a good fit, you could spend a few more months on Dune Island before it starts.”
“You’re right. It might be ideal, as long as my tenant wants to lease my townhome through the summer and I can keep on top of my mortgage payments,” Zoey said. “I’d love to be able to stay with my aunt until she’s a little stronger. Emotionally, I mean.”
Aunt Ivy's Cottage: A totally gripping and emotional page turner Page 2
