The Vineyard Sisters: A Wayfarer Inn Novel

by Grace Palmer

  That sort of thing, Tony had said. As though the charges were no big deal. As if he’d been caught jaywalking and handed a fifteen-dollar ticket.

  Michelle couldn’t move. Couldn’t seem to leave the kitchen. When she’d walked into the room, her biggest problem had been Tony staying late at work.

  Now, she had no idea when he’d be coming home. Maybe he would never be.

  Her chest tightened.

  When Tony had proposed to her, he’d just been starting out in his career. He had money—enough to buy a ring that made all of Michelle’s friends swoon when she showed them—but not enough for Michelle to be thought a gold digger. That had all come later.

  The gold band around her finger was a promise she had desperately craved. That Tony would love her forever. That he would never leave. That they would build a family and live happily ever after.

  Naïve, she thought now. Childish.

  How many people would have to leave her before she learned there was no such thing as forever?

  Her phone vibrated again. Michelle launched herself towards the island, scrambling for the device. Maybe it was Tony calling to tell her it had all been a horrible joke. Or a mistake. Some clerical error. Knowing Tony, he’d take the entire department to court over this. No one would sully his good name.

  But it wasn’t Tony.

  Even though they never spoke anymore, Michelle had never deleted her sister’s number from her phone. She’d left it there, along with her contact photo—a funny school photo of Leslie when she was eleven. She had two missing front teeth and a beehive of curls piled on her small head. Every time she saw the picture, she smiled.

  Not today, though.

  Any other normal day, Michelle would have ignored the flash of her sister’s name and the picture on her phone screen. She would have set the phone down on the counter and walked away, pretended she didn’t see it. She had no interest in talking to someone who wanted to tear apart her family.

  But today wasn’t a normal day. And Michelle desperately wanted to hear a familiar voice.

  “Hello?” She sounded raspy even to her own ears. Like her throat had been scraped dry. That’s what it felt like, too. She needed a drink of water.

  “Michelle?” Based on the tone of Leslie’s voice, she was also surprised Michelle picked up the phone.

  Leslie’s forty-fifth birthday was a week ago, but Michelle had decided not to call or send a card. They’d long ago dropped the pretense that they were a normal, functioning family. Their relationship had broken irreparably. There was no sense pretending otherwise.

  Michelle pulled a glass water bottle out of the fridge and screwed off the cap, taking a long drink before she answered. “Hi, Les.” Her throat felt better, but her voice still came out pinched.

  “Hi.” Leslie sounded dazed, the word coming out airy and distant. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect you to answer.”

  “So why did you call?”

  As kids, they’d joked about being able to read each other’s minds. Michelle always knew what Leslie wanted for dinner before she said it. Leslie would start singing a song that had been stuck in Michelle’s head all day.

  Maybe this was like that. Maybe Leslie knew Michelle needed someone to talk her down.

  Her girls were gone, her husband was in jail, and Michelle didn’t know how she’d survive all alone in this big, empty house.

  When Tony had first taken Michelle to view this house, she hadn’t been able to get over how cold it felt. The neutral colors, the shiny surfaces, the sharp corners. It didn’t feel anything like the warm, worn edges of her house growing up. Michelle couldn’t imagine defacing any of the door frames by marking the heights of their future children in pen dashes. How could anyone feel cozy in a room with a black marble fireplace?

  “The house may not be warm, but we’ll make it that way,” Tony had said, tucking her in close. “Our kids and our love will make it warm. You’ll learn to love it.”

  Tony had been right, but Michelle wasn’t so sure that was a good thing. Their entire marriage had been like that.

  Tony made decisions and Michelle learned to love them. Now, his decisions had imploded the life they’d built. How could Michelle learn to love that?

  Leslie cleared her throat a few times, the way she would whenever she was trying not to cry. Forgetting her own problems for a second, Michelle stood up taller and pressed the phone tighter against her ear. As if she could actually get closer.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry,” Leslie said, taking a deep breath. “I’m not exactly sure how to say this.”

  Did she know those were the exact words she’d spoken all those years ago, when the chasm between them had first opened up? Michelle guessed not. If Leslie knew, she wouldn’t have said them.

  Whatever her sister was going to say, it would be bad news. That much was clear.

  “If this is about Tony, I already know,” Michelle said sharply. She’d known for all of three minutes, but Leslie didn’t need to know that.

  “It’s not—wait, what about Tony?” Leslie asked. “What did he do?” It had been so long since the two of them had talked, especially about Tony.

  It was easier not to talk to Leslie at all.

  What did he do? The question was accusatory. Though it was the same one Michelle had asked Tony on the phone, but it sounded much worse coming out of her sister’s mouth. Almost sinister.

  Of course Leslie had been waiting for this. Waiting for Tony to slip up, to make a mistake so Leslie could point to it and stick her tongue out and snarl, I told you so.

  If Leslie didn’t know about Tony, Michelle didn’t intend to tell her. She could find out in the news like everyone else.

  Michelle set the bottle down on the countertop and ran a hand down her face. Ugh. The news. This story wouldn’t escape the notice of local reporters. Maybe it would even make a few national headlines. Their friends would know by morning. The day after, at the latest.

  “If there’s no other reason you called, then I’ve got to go,” Michelle said.

  And do what? She had no idea.

  She should call the girls. Except she didn’t want to. Despite all the holidays Tony was late to and all the games and cheer competitions he was out of town for, the girls adored their dad. They always had. Michelle didn’t want to be the one to change their image of him. She didn’t want to do to her daughters what Leslie had tried to do to her.

  “Wait,” Leslie said, letting out a long breath. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Tony. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I called because… because Dad is…”

  “Out with it, Leslie,” Michelle said, her frustration overflowing.

  “Dad is dead.”

  Michelle blinked. Her throat felt tight again, but she couldn’t lift her hand to reach for the glass bottle on the counter. She watched a trickle of condensation slip down and pool around the base of the bottle.

  “Our dad?” It was a silly question, but Michelle didn’t know what else to say.

  “Yes,” Leslie said. “I thought you should know.”

  “Of course I should know!” Shock turned to anger in an instant. “I’m part of this family, too.”

  This family… that was now just the two of them. Her and Leslie. And they could barely even have a conversation. Not much of a family, was it?

  “I just meant, I wanted to be the one to tell you,” Leslie said. “I expected I’d have to leave a message.”

  Leslie had left messages at the beginning of the rift. Then, slowly, she stopped. Even when Michelle listened to them, she never called back.

  “How did he—how did it happen?” Michelle asked. None of this felt real. She was still reeling—first from her conversation with Tony, and now this. It had to be a dream. Had to be.

  “A heart attack, I think. Or, that’s what the coroner thinks.”

  “The coroner has already been there?” She didn’t mean the question to c
ome out accusatory. There was probably a lot to deal with. Leslie couldn’t have called immediately. Michelle knew that.

  “She left a few hours ago. It has been a whirlwind.”

  “Did you find him?”

  “When I went to take him his dinner,” Leslie explained. “I made him spaghetti.”

  His favorite. Michelle had tried cooking for the family in early high school, but Leslie was always better at it. Even with her own family, Michelle had to work hard to be good at the “mom things.” She picked it up eventually, but not as easily as Leslie did. Funny, then, that Leslie never had children of her own.

  “Is he still there?” Pointless question. As if Leslie could hand the phone to him and he and Michelle could talk one more time. She just didn’t know what else to ask. Didn’t know what to do.

  “No. He was taken to the funeral home.”

  “The one by the high school?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. I talked to the director a little bit ago.”

  “Already?”

  Leslie hesitated. “Yeah. I figured I should give them the basic details.”

  “Like what?”

  “What day we want the funeral. Whether he wanted to be cremated or not.”

  “He didn’t want to be,” Michelle said quickly.

  “I know. I told them.”

  They’d talked about death starting at a young age. You have to when your mom dies young. There isn’t another choice. Their dad had always made it clear that, when he went, he wanted it to be a party.

  Easy for him to say. He wouldn’t have to attend.

  Michelle closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I can get a flight out first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “You don’t have to if you don’t want,” Leslie said. “I already called the lawyer about the will. Things are moving. I can keep you updated if you’re too busy to come.”

  Michelle dropped her hand, letting it slap against her thigh. “You’ve talked with a lawyer, too? Is there anyone you didn’t call before me?”

  “I was making plans,” Leslie said defensively.

  “You wanted to get the will sorted out before you told me my dad was dead?”

  Michelle gritted her teeth. She tried to imagine how her sister was reacting, what her face looked like, what she might be feeling. But if they’d ever had the ability to read each other’s minds, it was long gone now. Visualizing her sister felt like trying to recall the hazy details of a dream. As soon as she landed on something concrete, it slipped away.

  When Leslie spoke, her voice was even, measured. She always was the peacekeeper. Which is why her betrayal had shaken Michelle so much.

  “I wasn’t trying to leave you out. I just didn’t know what to deal with first, and there was so much going on. I did what I thought—I did what was best,” she corrected, her voice filling with confidence. “I handled it the best way I knew how.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe wait until I get there tomorrow before you ‘handle’ anything else,” Michelle bit out.

  With that, she hung up the phone and collapsed on the kitchen floor.

  5

  Jill

  Amelia Ruthers’ Home—Two Days After Warren’s Death

  Warren Townsend.

  Her father.

  Deceased.

  How many times had Jill asked about her dad? Too many to count. “You don’t have a dad,” her mom had said once when Jill was fifteen years old. “You have a father. A biological father. There’s a difference.”

  “Neither of them are here right now, so not really,” Jill had sassed back.

  Amelia had spun around, a dish towel draped over her shoulder, leaving a wet spot across her t-shirt. “Exactly! He isn’t around and he isn’t important.”

  “We’re learning about dominant and recessive traits in biology. Wouldn’t it be good for me to know my medical background?”

  “If anything comes up, I can find out for you.”

  “Does that mean you know where he is?” Jill had asked.

  “It means I can find out for you. That’s it.” And as far as her mom was concerned, that had been it. She’d refused to say more than that.

  Now, Jill had a name: Warren. Warren Townsend.

  “Miss Ruthers?” the lawyer asked. “Are you still with me?”

  The honest answer was no, not one bit. Jill had been “wandering” since the second she’d realized the call wasn’t a scam. Now, she was trying to pull herself together.

  She stood up, shook out her arms, and nodded. “Yes, I’m with you.”

  But the words kept circling in her head. Warren Townsend. Her dad. Dead.

  “The funeral is tomorrow, which I realize is short notice. I would have told you sooner if I’d known no one else had,” he said. “Arrangements may be difficult to make, but—”

  “Where is the funeral?”

  “At St. Elizabeth’s.”

  “St. Elizabeth’s… in what city?”

  “Oh,” John said, clearly surprised. “Martha’s Vineyard. Edgartown.”

  Martha’s Vineyard? The only thing Jill knew about the island was that rich people vacationed there. She’d seen it on television and movies, but never actually heard anyone talk about it in real life. Her dad lived on Martha’s Vineyard? Had her mom lived there, too?

  “The funeral is tomorrow morning at eleven. And then the reading of the will—”

  “There’s a will?”

  Jill tried to keep track of the growing list of facts she knew about Warren Townsend.

  Her dad. Dead. Martha’s Vineyard. A will.

  There was too much going on. Too much changing. Jill had spent her life wondering about her father. Scouring through her mom’s personal papers and in online searches for any morsels of information whatsoever.

  She’d come up blank time and time again.

  Then, all of the sudden, here it was. All of it at once.

  He was dead and there was a will and that will mentioned Jill, which meant that Warren knew about her and she didn’t know about him.

  Jill couldn’t talk about this anymore. She needed to go. “Thanks for the information, John.”

  “I was just going to say that if you can’t be at the reading of the will, then—”

  “Goodbye.” Jill hung up before the man could finish.

  She couldn’t take any more facts. Her mind was a cup and it was overflowing, spewing out her ears.

  Without thinking, she called the only person she thought might understand.

  “My meeting is in ten minutes,” Grayson grumbled. “What do you—”

  “Our dad is dead.” Jill hadn’t processed the information fully enough to be more eloquent.

  Grayson let out a long breath. “What?”

  “His name is Warren Townsend. He died two days ago. And his funeral is tomorrow,” she said, ticking off the facts on her fingers.

  She could have told Grayson about the will, too. And Martha’s Vineyard. But she wanted to know what Grayson thought before the money got involved.

  “And how do you know this?”

  “Someone just called and told me.”

  “Okay. So you know who our dad is. That’s cool, I guess.”

  Grayson sounded annoyingly casual about all of it. Jill didn’t know what she really expected.

  “Cool? You think it’s… cool?”

  He sighed. “I really don’t have time for this right now, Jill.”

  “I know who our dad is!” Jill repeated in case Grayson hadn’t understood the first time. “The man who gave us life. Father. Dad. Daddy. Pops.”

  “No need for the dramatics. I’m not stupid. I understand.”

  “And you don’t care? I thought he was dead!”

  “Then you thought about him more than I did,” Grayson said, a bitter edge to his voice. “I didn’t think about him at all.”

  Jill knew that wasn’t true. When they were kids, before Grayson decided stoicism was his most attractive quality, they’d thought
about him a lot. Who he might be. Where he might be.

  “Maybe he was a spy and he had to go undercover to protect us,” Grayson had theorized one day. “One day, he’ll come back and take us to wherever he lives.”

  Jill had wrinkled her nose at that idea. “If he was a spy, he’d send us coded messages so we could talk to him. He’s probably lost on a deserted island somewhere.”

  “Then he’s crazy by now. That many years alone would do anyone’s head in,” Grayson had said.

  Grayson’s theories became more and more bleak. Eventually, he stopped coming up with theories at all.

  In the present, Grayson sighed loudly, pulling Jill from her thoughts. “Listen, whoever this guy was, he’s dead. If someone called to tell you he died, it means he knew about us and he didn’t care. That’s all I need to know.”

  Jill hadn’t thought about it like that. Some part of her—the part of her that still thought her dad might be trapped on a deserted island somewhere, longing to find his way back to her—had just been pleased he’d put her name in his will.

  Shame warmed Jill’s cheeks. How desperate could she be? She was a forty-seven-year-old woman. She didn’t need some strange man for her life to feel full.

  “I guess you’re right,” she said finally.

  “I know I am.” Grayson muttered a curse word under his breath. “I’ve only got a few more minutes before this call. I have to—”

  “So you wouldn’t go to the funeral?” Jill knew the answer already, but she had to ask.

  “I wouldn’t even read his obituary.”

  Jill let out a humorless chuckle. “Okay then.”

  “I really have to go now.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Go be an international businessman,” she said. “Love you.”

  “Okay.” Without another word, Grayson hung up.

  Maybe their dad was like Grayson, too—cold. “Logical,” he liked to call it, but that felt like splitting hairs.

  Jill shook her head, trying to clear the thought from her mind. Grayson was right. If Warren Townsend didn’t bother calling Jill while he was alive, why should she bother going to his funeral? Why should she bother thinking about him for a single second?