The Vineyard Sisters: A Wayfarer Inn Novel

by Grace Palmer

  “I, uh, didn’t know you slept down here,” she stammered to her sister.

  “I was tired of sleeping in a guest bed,” Michelle said. “I wanted to be in my old room.”

  Leslie hummed in understanding, doing her best to bite back a smile. Since Michelle arrived, she’d been sleeping in one of the guest rooms like she was a stranger here. It seemed like a good sign that she was finally reclaiming her rightful place in the house.

  “I’m sure you slept much better surrounded by all the magazine cutouts of a young Johnny Depp still taped to your walls.”

  “Hey, I have no shame about any of that. I mean, have you seen Cry-Baby?”

  Jill piped up. “Ooh, the leather jacket and the one tendril of dark hair over his forehead? Swoon.”

  “Exactly,” Michelle said. Then she scanned the breakfast offerings on the counter and frowned. “Wait a second, is that a salad? For breakfast?”

  “Sure, why not?” Leslie shrugged.

  Michelle poked at the spinach leaves with a fork. “If this is what you’ve been serving the guests for breakfast, I think I might have an idea why the Wayfarer hasn’t been doing so hot.”

  Leslie groaned. “Don’t be mean. I ran out of milk and eggs and syrup. Plus, I forgot to cancel my order of fruits and veggies, so—”

  “You’re trying to pawn off your extra food on us so it doesn’t go bad,” Michelle finished.

  “Oh, that makes more sense,” Jill said quietly.

  “Yes, but also, this could be a potential dish for the new restaurant menu. I’d love to have your feedback.” Leslie gave them each a pleading smile. “It would really help me out.”

  Michelle’s shoulders sagged in resignation as she dropped down in front of a bowl. “Fine, but I’m picking around the blue cheese. It’s too early for that.”

  “And if there’s toast, I’d still like some of that,” Jill added. “I need some carbs if I’m going to get started on renovations today.”

  “Fine and done.” Leslie agreed. She bustled over to toast some whole wheat bread for Jill. “So you think you can get started on renovations already?”

  Jill blew over the surface of her coffee and nodded. “Considering you’ve already punched a hole in the entryway, I figured we might as well start there.”

  Hammering a hole in the wall had been a bit spontaneous. But as they stood in the entryway after the full tour the night before, Leslie could feel enthusiasm for the remodel waning. Leslie didn’t know if she’d be able to handle her hopes being dashed again so soon, especially when there was now a chance she could keep the Wayfarer Inn operating.

  So she’d done something drastic.

  “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have done that.”

  Jill waved away her apology. “I watched a few tutorials last night. After a quick run to the hardware store for some supplies, I’m confident I can patch it up and have it looking way better than before.”

  “I can help if you want,” Leslie said.

  Michelle waved a hand. “No, you need to cook. Work out the meals you want to serve and put together a rough menu. The sooner we can open the Wayfarer Kitchen, the better.”

  “She’s right,” Jill agreed. “Leslie will make the food, I’ll patch the wall, and Michelle will…”

  “Paint,” Michelle offered at once. “I’m sorry, but no one wants to sleep in a room with pastel yellow walls. It’s like sleeping inside an Easter egg.”

  Leslie held up her hands in surrender. “Fair enough. But this isn’t some sleek, shiny, black-and-white affair like you’re used to. It’s still a beachside inn, so—”

  “Shades of blue and white and seashells. Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Michelle bobbed her head as she crunched into her first bite of the salad. “I got it. Also, this salad is good… but not for breakfast.”

  “Agreed on both points,” Jill said. “Vinaigrette is not a morning food.”

  “Noted.” Leslie pulled out the yellow legal pad she’d snagged from her dad’s office and wrote the salad down on the top of the list. “One menu item down… a lot more to go.”

  Jill and Michelle were in and out all day, running to Phillips Hardware for a tool they’d forgotten or more paint. Every time one of them passed through the kitchen, Leslie shoved something in their mouth.

  “I’ll buy the lobster fresh for the real deal, but what do you think of this lobster roll?” Leslie asked, holding the bun up to Jill’s mouth as she carried a sheet of dry wall through the kitchen. Her hands were full and she couldn’t move fast enough to escape, so she took a bite.

  Immediately, her eyes lit up. “Add it to the list. That’s amazing. What’s in it?”

  “Have you never had a lobster roll?”

  “Landlocked, remember?” Jill said. “No such thing as fresh lobster where I’m from.”

  Leslie couldn’t imagine a diet without a steady supply of fresh seafood. The horror.

  “It’s just lobster meat and seasoned butter on a hotdog bun. A little tarragon, some scallions, dash of lemon juice and Tabasco. Nothing fancy. With the right ingredients, some meals don’t need to be complex to be delicious.”

  Leslie made sure to clarify the butter beforehand, preferring the nutty aroma of the milkfat without the water and milk solids, and always topped her lobster rolls with scallions. But otherwise, it was a “no muss, no fuss” kind of meal, as her dad always said.

  To use up the rest of the lobster, Leslie spent the afternoon perfecting a lemon garlic cream sauce she could melt parmesan in for a lobster mac n’ cheese. She made a basic garlic roux with fresh-minced garlic, butter, flour, and heavy cream. Then she grated in a wedge of parmesan and sprinkled in freshly-chopped parsley.

  Just as she was mixing in the cooked pasta and lobster chunks, Michelle shuffled into the kitchen, covered in paint splatters.

  “Were you painting the inn or yourself?” Leslie teased.

  Michelle pinched a strand of what used to be dark hair but was now a pale blue between her fingers. “I’m honestly not sure. I’m so glad the clerk at the hardware store convinced me to buy sheets of plastic for the floors. Otherwise, we’d be looking at refinishing the hardwood, too.”

  “Let’s avoid that if we can.”

  Leslie’s heartrate ratcheted up at the thought of yet another big-ticket renovation item to add to the running list Jill had going. She’d commandeered the dry erase board on the fridge that morning to help keep track of the mounting needs she and Michelle noticed while working. As far as Leslie could see, more things were being added than being ticked off.

  Worrying about money gave her hives, so she tried her best to focus on the food. That was where she could help out the most.

  “Try this lobster mac and cheese.”

  Michelle wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never liked seafood in my pasta. You know that.”

  “Which makes you the perfect person to taste test. If you like it, that means I’m probably the greatest chef the world has ever known.”

  Michelle grabbed the fork out of Leslie’s hand. “I do have an enviable palette. If you have talent, I’ll know for sure.”

  Leslie fought an eyeroll, and then watched her sister chew with intense focus, trying to read the annoyingly blank expression on her face. The clock ticked off agonizingly long seconds from where it hung on the wall.

  Finally, when she couldn’t stand it anymore, Leslie tapped her foot on the floor. “Well?”

  “Good,” Michelle said, handing the fork back. “Very good. Really good, actually.”

  “Really?”

  “Your false modesty is showing, Les. You know it’s good.”

  Leslie knew she and her dad liked it, but that didn’t mean anyone else would. And after everything they’d been through—and everything they had yet to go through—it was nice to hear her sister say something sweet and genuine.

  The kitchen door swung open and Jill walked in, a metal trowel in one hand. Her eyes darted around the room mischievously. “Is there another taste test g
oing on? Nothing should go on the menu without my input, I think.”

  “Another enviable palette, I see?” Leslie smiled and handed a bite to Jill.

  Unlike Michelle, Jill raved about the pasta. “Exquisite. Perfect. The best thing I’ve ever eaten.” That sort of thing. So Leslie added it to the menu as well.

  Then she got back to work with a smile.

  The next few days passed in the same way. Leslie stayed in the kitchen, working on chicken salad sandwiches and quinoa bowls, a rotating list of salads with homemade dressings and in-season fruits and veggies, and her personal takes on East Coast comfort foods.

  Her sisters—goodness, saying that as a plural sure took some getting used to—worked around the inn. Jill, armed with the internet and an energy that never seemed to wane, repaired leaky sinks in several of the guest rooms and replaced a copper pipe to the shower in the State Beach Suite.

  Meanwhile, Michelle repainted over the most offensive wall colors, going after the lime green in Room # 3 with what Leslie could only describe as a personal vendetta.

  “Who would ever choose this color for walls?” she groaned. “My eyes are burning.”

  Michelle’s gripes and complaints came straight through the vents into the kitchen. Leslie couldn’t help but stifle a laugh as she worked.

  At lunch on the third day, Leslie tested out her bacon, white cheddar cheese, and spinach quiche on her sisters. Based on the sudden lull in conversation as soon as the first bites went down, Leslie figured it was a safe bet to toss on the menu as well.

  Only when the meal was done did Jill lean back in her chair and sigh. “Well, I’ve got some… news,” she announced.

  “Good or bad?” Michelle asked.

  “Unsure.” She crossed her arms. “Aside from a few leaks here and there, most of the en-suite bathrooms are fine.”

  “Most?” Leslie asked.

  Jill nodded. “Yeah. One of the rooms—#6—needs some updating. Mainly the sink. It’s… a purple and blue inverted seashell. I think.”

  “With a mermaid sitting on top of the drain plug at the bottom,” Michelle laughed. “I forgot about that sink. You picked it out, didn’t you, Les?”

  “Well, yeah.” Leslie shifted slightly. “A long time ago.”

  “Oh, then I suppose that’s kind of cute. You got to help design things when you were kids?”

  Michelle’s smile was mischievous now. “Not quite. If I remember right, that bathroom had a major leak that required a full renovations about… fifteen years ago?”

  Leslie shot her a dirty look. “Something like that.”

  Jill’s brow furrowed as she did that math. “Oh. Not quite kids, then.”

  “Yeah, okay.” Leslie stood up and collected the empty plates. “I was thirty and I had bad taste. Ha-ha-ha. Laugh it up.”

  Michelle did just that, cackling hysterically. “A mermaid sink! That’s almost as bad as high heels on the beach. What were you thinking?”

  Before Leslie could respond, Jill seemed to sense a potential fight brewing and stepped in. “The real trouble is that the sink is heavy and I don’t think we can lift it by ourselves. Plus, I’m not sure online video tutorials qualify me to do anything more than easy, cosmetic plumbing work. We need a professional. Maybe a contractor we can bring in to take on the big fixes?”

  “That would be great because I can’t paint anything else until some of the bigger issues are addressed first,” Michelle added. “We definitely need someone to come in and do a lot of the more technical labor.”

  “And what will we do in the meantime?” Leslie asked.

  “Thrift shopping. Lots of it,” Michelle said. “I’ve been researching how to flip furniture and that’s definitely our most affordable option. It will be a lot of sanding and painting, but nothing we can’t handle. Right?”

  Jill seemed surprised Michelle was looking at her, but she nodded excitedly. “Yes, definitely. I can totally help with that.”

  Michelle turned back to Leslie. “So maybe Jill and I can tackle that, while you can take a break from the kitchen and go hunt down a contractor to help us out?”

  “Why me? I don’t even know what a contractor does.”

  “You know the people on the island, though,” Michelle countered. “You and I both know locals get preferential treatment when it comes to this kind of stuff.”

  On that point, Leslie couldn’t argue. But it didn’t make her any more excited about it. Still, everyone was being a team player and she didn’t want to slow down the momentum they’d built up.

  So, stopping just short of a “Go Team!” huddle, the three women separated after lunch to get stuff done.

  Heading into downtown Oak Bluffs, Leslie realized it was the first time she’d really been out of the house since the funeral. Aside from a quick trip down to the corner grocery store in her pajama bottoms to buy more milk, butter, and eggs the day before, she hadn’t gone hardly anywhere.

  In the height of summertime, Circuit Avenue was always stuffed with traffic without an open parking space in sight. Tourists and seasonal islanders packed onto the sidewalks that ran past the charming brick buildings and wood-shingled shops. Restaurants would be bursting at the seams with scores of people waiting outside in the lovely weather for a table or a space at the bar.

  But today, given that it was late March, Leslie had the street mostly to herself.

  It was too cold for many people to be out enjoying what Oak Bluffs had to offer, though a few folks still meandered by here and there. As she passed her fellow pedestrians, she tucked her chin tighter into her coat and pulled her hood down.

  She didn’t want to be recognized.

  Not today.

  Not yet.

  On some level, she knew she was hiding away in the inn, closing herself off from the outside world so she wouldn’t have to deal with people’s sympathy, with their questions, with their flowers and casseroles and “how ya holdin’ up?”

  But she couldn’t bring herself to feel ashamed. That is what people did when they were mourning. They hid. They retreated. It was normal.

  Maybe Michelle would try to spin it as yet another example of Leslie burying her head in the sand and avoiding her problems, but she’d be wrong. Leslie was just taking time for herself. Trying to get her head on straight before she found a new normal.

  That’s what she’d done before, too. And there wasn’t a thing in the world wrong with that.

  Leslie walked past a custom t-shirt shop advertising an “End of Winter Sale” in their paned-glass front windows, an empty arcade, and an old-fashioned ice cream parlor that was closed for the season.

  Finally, just on the other side of a dog groomers, she found Vineyard Remodeling. It was a small, nondescript brick building, easy to miss amongst all the brightly-colored store fronts around it. But it looked tidy and well-maintained. She took that as a good sign.

  She lowered her hood just before pulling open the front door. Inside, the lobby had a few chairs situated around a circular table. Tool catalogs and hobby magazines fanned across the table top and a mini-fridge filled with bottled water wrapped in the company’s logo sat in the corner.

  “Hello! May I help you?”

  Leslie cleared her throat and stepped up to the receptionist’s desk. “Hi, yes. I don’t have an appointment or anything, but—”

  “Walk-ins are always welcome,” the receptionist beamed. She was young, probably in her mid- to late twenties, but had done her best to look professional in a navy blue jacket over a high-necked cream sweater.

  “Oh, great,” Leslie said. “Well, I’m co-owner over at the Wayfarer Inn, and we’re looking to have someone help us with some renovating. I wish I had a specific list I could offer, but we’re in early stages. We just want someone reliable who—”

  “Reliable. That’s us!” She lifted halfway out of her seat and grabbed a brochure from a plastic tray on top of the desk along with a business card and a free pen. “I mostly work on the schedule, so I wouldn’t b
e able to help you much with the details, but luckily, the boss is in today. Take a seat and look over our list of services in the brochure while I grab him for you.”

  Before Leslie could say anything, the woman spun around in her office chair and then sling-shotted herself down the short hallway.

  At the very least, she seemed eager to help. If “the boss” was equally as excitable, Leslie felt the odds were good they’d found their contractor.

  She flipped idly through the brochure, which was mostly stock images of smiling models holding power tools and photographs of projects Vineyard Remodeling had done.

  A deep voice floated down the hallway. Leslie looked up just as a tall, thin man in a long-sleeved Nantucket red button-down and jeans came out of his office. He was so tall he had to duck, showing Leslie the graying top of his head.

  He was talking to the receptionist, laughing as she said something.

  But the words were lost to Leslie when the man looked up.

  Suddenly, all she could hear was the blood roaring in her ears like the ocean. And the ba-boom of her heart rattling her rib cage.

  Her hands shook. Her eyelids twitched. And the brochure fell from between her fingers, fluttering down to the floor.

  The man in red had a distinctive face. One that would be hard to forget.

  Leslie certainly hadn’t forgotten it. For twenty-four years, unbidden, she’d seen this man’s face. The face of the man who had changed everything for her. Who, in one moment, had set her life on a new course.

  She’d seen his mugshot in the newspaper, of course. Heavily-lidded eyes red and bleary. Wideset mouth turned down at the corners.

  But she’d seen him in her mind, too. In her memories. In her nightmares.

  Twenty-four years ago, just moments before her world crunched down to nothingness, Leslie had looked up, blinking against the brightness of oncoming headlights veering into her lane. She’d had just long enough to catch a glimpse of the man’s face.

  Even to this day, she could remember how calm he looked. How neutral. How relaxed. That was the alcohol, of course. He hadn’t even realized what was about to happen. Leslie had, though. She’d had just long enough to scream, “My—!”