The Vineyard Sisters: A Wayfarer Inn Novel

by Grace Palmer

  Then came the crash.

  In the years that followed, on nights that the echoing crunch of metal wouldn’t leave Leslie’s mind, she opened the windows and listen to the ocean instead.

  She didn’t want to remember the man in red or the accident he caused. She didn’t want to relive the night she’d spent in the hospital. When the doctor had looked at her and told her there was nothing they could do.

  The baby had been too small. It was too early. They couldn’t be saved.

  Leslie hadn’t even known if it was a boy or a girl yet. But she’d known she was pregnant for weeks. Long enough that the shock had given way to excitement.

  Then this man had turned that excitement to grief.

  Standing in front of Leslie, after twenty-four years, was the man who’d broken her heart and stolen her baby.

  Leslie forgot how to breathe.

  13

  Michelle

  Furniture Shopping In The Afternoon

  Michelle hadn’t been shopping on a budget since she and Tony were furnishing their first apartment in San Francisco. Now, Jill kept pointing out furniture shops through the car window as they passed and Michelle had to keep shaking her head.

  “This one?”

  “Too expensive.”

  “Okay, how about this one?”

  “Way too expensive.”

  “And this one…?”

  “Way, way too expensive.”

  “You’re kidding,” Jill said, sagging down in the leather passenger seat. “It’s called ‘Grannie’s Attic.’ That does not sound fancy.”

  “Well, that particular grannie runs a consignment shop and she only accepts the nicest pieces. I actually ordered an Art Deco mirror from there and had it shipped to our house in California after it was built.”

  It was an oval mirror with gilded cat eye details on the top right and bottom left corners. It still hung above the vanity in Michelle’s master bathroom.

  Or rather, Michelle’s former master bathroom. Depending on how the charges against Tony played out, it might not be her master bathroom ever again.

  But she tried not to think about that. About any of it, really. She hadn’t heard a peep from her husband since their last phone call. Even if she wanted to talk to Tony—which she firmly did not—Michelle had no idea how to get in touch with him. Could she just call the jail? Hello, is Tony home?

  “I’m starting to think dumpster diving is our only option,” Jill said, pulling Michelle from her thoughts. “Where I grew up, thrift stores are actually, y’know… thrifty.”

  “Don’t worry. We still have options. And if they don’t work out, I know where all the best dumpsters are.”

  In a shabby, wood-shingled strip mall, wedged between a used computer parts store and a laundromat, was what Michelle hoped would be the answer to the Wayfarer Inn’s décor problem.

  “The Three R’s?” Jill read out loud. “Rest and relaxation and…?”

  “Recycle, Re-use, Repurpose. Everything here is worthless in the technical sense, but if you have an eye for DIY, then it’s a treasure trove.”

  This was Michelle’s first time in the store, mostly because the closest she’d ever come to a DIY project was when she’d tried to make the girls matching jack-o-lantern costumes for their first Halloween. The black felt faces she’d spent two days cutting and super-gluing on fell off in the car, so she had to tell everyone they were mandarin oranges instead.

  “Do you have an eye for DIY?” Michelle followed up, hoping at least one of them knew what they were doing.

  Jill planted her fists on her hips proudly. “You’re talking to a woman who only bought clothes at the thrift store and taught herself how to alter them with nothing more than a needle and thread. So, yes, I think I can manage.”

  A rusted bell clanged above the door when they walked in, but Michelle didn’t see a check-out counter or any signs of any employees. Just a sea of scuffed desks with lopsided drawers, office chairs with no cushions and missing wheels, and couches in every horrid floral pattern imaginable.

  “Skip the upholstered stuff,” Jill advised as they wandered through the maze. “All of these would need to be reupholstered or covered, so we might as well invest in covers for the furniture already at the inn.”

  “So what are we looking for?”

  Coming to The Three R’s had been Michelle’s idea, but now that they were inside, she was quickly losing faith. All of this stuff looked like junk.

  She was used to walking into stores where she had to make appointments. Where she was greeted by name and handed a glass of champagne. In comparison, this place was beyond bleak.

  She tried to lift the cover on a dark-stained roll-top desk and the gold-plated handle immediately snapped off in her hand. Horrified, she hid the handle in the top drawer and scurried after Jill.

  “Vintage lamps,” Jill suggested. “Wooden end tables and night stands we could sand and refinish or paint to update the bedrooms. Cute knickknacks—globes, clocks, figurines. Anything that screams ‘character’ or ‘personality.’”

  They’d already worked themselves around to the right-hand side of the store, moving away from the bigger items and into the nightstands and small shelves stuffed with dishware, embroidered tea towels, and mismatched cutlery.

  Michelle reached for a lighthouse that had clearly been painted by a twelve-year-old. Green and purple stripes—a unique choice, Michelle had to admit—bled into one another and the name “Annie” was written on the underside in crayon.

  “What about this?” Michelle joked. “It certainly has character. Annie’s character, but still…”

  Jill didn’t laugh, but instead, tilted her head to the side, giving the failed craft project serious consideration. Then she plucked it out of Michelle’s hand and nodded. “If we spray paint this gold and shine it up with a coat of polish, it will look great on the bookshelves in the sitting room.”

  Michelle frowned. “Wow. You’re right. I didn’t even think of that.”

  “You’ll pick it up in no time.” Jill held up a white lace curtain panel and a plain flat sheet with a rip in the bottom corner. “If we sew these two together, it could make a nice tablecloth for at least two of the tables in the dining room.”

  Again, Michelle shook her head. “Those look like two useless pieces of fabric, but as soon as you say it, I can see the potential. You’re good at this.”

  Jill grinned and shrugged. “We didn’t have a lot of extra money growing up, so we made do with what we had. I suppose it’s pretty useful.”

  “I’d say so.”

  Michelle looked around the store and tried squinting her eyes. Maybe if her eyes weren’t drawn immediately to every imperfection, she’d be able to see the same potential Jill could see so easily.

  But everything just looked like blurry junk to her.

  She sighed. “My only skill was having the money to hire other people for theirs. Not very helpful these days.”

  “Hey now, you fully painted five of the guest rooms in three days.”

  “Don’t compliment me until you see them in the harsh light of day. I think I may have missed some spots.”

  “Either way, you’ve been a big help. You found this place, number one, which is going to save us thousands of dollars. I can already tell.”

  “Sheer dumb luck and quick Google thumbs, that’s all that was.”

  Jill dismissed her modesty. “Plus, when we get back to the inn today, you can help me sand down these end tables, patch the gouges in the legs, and paint them forest green.”

  So long as her sisters didn’t think she was a useless member of the team, that was all that mattered to Michelle. She sighed and fell in step alongside Jill.

  Jill squeaked in excitement and hurried across the aisle to a wooden rocker with an intricately-carved sailboat in the center of the backrest. “Twenty dollars. What a steal! This can be painted green, too. It will look gorgeous.”

  “You really love this stuff, don’t yo
u? The DIY stuff, I mean.”

  “I do,” Jill said, eyes bright. “Especially when it means I’m not at work. I’d rather be here having fun than stuck behind a reception desk all day. This is practically a vacation.”

  Michelle nodded in what she hoped looked like understanding. But really, she didn’t relate at all.

  This was fun? Jill considered renovating the Wayfarer Inn to be a vacation? In Michelle’s mind, it wasn’t a vacation unless she was suntanned and holding a margarita. What they were doing was the furthest thing from that. It was hard work!

  Eventually, they worked their way through the entire store until each of them had their arms loaded down with linens, lamps, and the price stickers from at least eight different furniture pieces they wanted to buy and pick up later.

  But they still hadn’t seen a checkout counter.

  “Where do we pay for this stuff?” Jill asked, spinning in a circle, looking for any signage.

  Before Michelle could answer, a crackling noise sounded from overhead and an old woman’s voice blared through the store. “If you’re ready to check out, come to the back of the store.”

  Jill yelped in surprise as Michelle whipped around. Immediately, she saw something she’d missed before—a security camera. A lot of security cameras, actually, positioned at regular intervals around the perimeter of the store. Mixed in amongst them were a few speakers, too.

  Michelle pointed them out to Jill. “I think the owner has been watching us.” In her head, she wondered if her handle mishap on the way in had gone unnoticed after all.

  “Well, that isn’t creepy in the least,” Jill whispered sarcastically.

  Following the direction of the disembodied voice, they both walked back to the back of the store and along the entire back wall before they saw a wooden door with a tiny sign above it that said, in faded letters, “Office.”

  Michelle knocked on it. “Come on in!”

  The room was small, windowless, and lit with fluorescents. Behind a metal desk sat a tiny old woman. Her shoulders were sloped forward and her gray hair was pulled back into a wispy bun.

  “Sorry if I startled you,” she said. “I can’t get the volume on the intercom to turn down and I’m too old to be hoofing it around this whole store checking in on customers.”

  Michelle and Jill unloaded their items on the woman’s desk and waited patiently as she entered the prices on a calculator on her desk.

  “We can’t take the larger items with us today,” Michelle said, “but we could rent a truck and come back tomorrow. Unless you do deliveries, that is.”

  “As a matter of fact, we do. Twice per week, my grandson comes in and delivers pieces for me. He’s coming in tomorrow.” She pulled out a planner and flipped to the next day. “What’s the address?”

  “The Wayfarer Inn,” Michelle said, knowing that was as good as an address for locals on Martha’s Vineyard.

  The old woman looked up. She stared up at her until Michelle began to grow uncomfortable. Even Jill shifted slightly on her feet.

  Then, all at once, a smile split the woman’s face. “Michelle Townsend? Is that you?”

  “Uh, yes,” Michelle said. How long had it been since she’d heard her maiden name? “I’m sorry, but how do you—”

  The woman pressed a wrinkled hand to her chest. “Mabel Robbins. I was a friend of your mother’s. I haven’t seen you since you were… oh, six or seven, probably?”

  Hazy memories flicked through Michelle’s mind like an old slideshow machine until Mabel Robbins clicked into place.

  “Of course! Mabel!” Michelle smiled. “I had no idea you owned this place.”

  “Entirely my husband’s idea. Why retire and enjoy old age when you can start a new dead-end business and work until you’re dead?” Mabel drawled. “It barely pays the bills, but it keeps me busy. I suppose that’s a good thing.”

  “How is your husband?” Michelle remembered meeting the man once when she was a little girl. He’d given her and Leslie both a fudgesicle.

  Mabel’s smile faltered. “He passed away a few years ago, actually. A heart attack.” She tipped her head to the side. “Same as your dad, if the island gossip can be believed. I was sorry to hear about that.”

  “The gossip is accurate,” Michelle murmured. “Thank you. I’m sorry for your loss, too.”

  They smiled at one another, a unique understanding passing between them, and then Mabel flicked her eyes to Jill. “And this must be Leslie! As a girl, you were the spitting image of your mother, but now you look just like your dad.”

  Jill’s face flamed. “Oh. Well, actually, I’m not—or rather, I’m not exactly—”

  “This is Jill,” Michelle said. None of them had quite worked out how to explain their situation just yet. “Still my sister, but not Leslie.”

  “Oh. Lovely to meet you, Jill.” The woman took it all in stride and finished punching in the prices on the furniture tags. “You two have just earned twenty percent off your entire order.”

  “Mabel, that’s not necessary—”

  “Nonsense. Of course it is. Your mom was a dear friend. And it has been a while since I’ve been able to give out the friends and family discount, anyway.” Mabel drew up a handwritten receipt and slid it across the desk to them. “Cash or check?”

  Luckily, Jill had a checkbook on her and she paid for all of the furniture, though Mabel insisted the delivery fee be waived to boot.

  They thanked the woman and then wandered back through the store, arms full of discounted junk, and stepped out into the brisk air. Together, they filled the back of Michelle’s Lexus and then slid into the cabin of the car.

  “I’d call that a talent,” Jill said.

  “What? Knowing an old woman? I don’t think having grown up on Martha’s Vineyard is a talent. She just gave us a gift.”

  “Talent, gift, what have you,” Jill shrugged. “My gift may have found all of the items, but yours saved us sixty dollars. I’d say that’s worthwhile.”

  Michelle had never considered growing up on Martha’s Vineyard to be a gift. Especially not in the last few years. But Jill had a point. And either way, Michelle wasn’t in a position to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  If she had to lean into her Martha’s Vineyard roots to get this renovation done and save The Wayfarer, she’d do it. There wasn’t much of a choice.

  Besides—at the end of the day, this was home, wasn’t it?

  14

  Leslie

  Afternoon In Downtown Oak Bluffs

  Standing in the lobby of Vineyard Remodeling, Leslie was reliving that day twenty-four years earlier.

  She could see the flash of police lights. Hear the wail of the ambulance. So vivid, a dizzying mix of sound and noise that nearly brought her to her knees.

  Leslie had been thirteen weeks pregnant. As it turned out, that was as pregnant as she’d ever be.

  She knew she’d talked to officers and EMTs in the immediate aftermath, but she mostly remembered laying on the table in the emergency room, nothing but a thin paper sheet over her legs, while the doctor delivered the terrible news.

  “You’ve lost the baby. I’m so sorry.”

  Leslie thought she was going to be sick, both then and now. Her stomach churned and she stumbled away from the nice receptionist’s desk.

  The man in red was still talking to the receptionist. He hadn’t seen Leslie yet.

  Would he recognize her? Maybe, maybe not. He’d been drunk. Very drunk. And her dad had done his best to keep Leslie’s name and story out of the papers. Reporters reached out, wanting to turn her story into a Public Service Announcement piece about the dangers of drunk driving.

  But Leslie couldn’t talk about it. She’d hidden away in the back of the inn while her dad shooed people away again and again until they stopped coming.

  Until they forgot.

  Until Leslie herself could forget.

  Until now.

  She turned on her heel and practically sprinted for the d
oor. As she grabbed the handle, she heard the receptionist call out for her. “Ma’am? Sorry for the wait, I have Mr.—”

  Before she could finish saying his name, Leslie burst through the door and into the bitter cold of the afternoon.

  Except it wasn’t as cold as it had been before. Leslie was sweating, in fact. Shrugging out of her coat, she draped it over her arm, doing her best to convince herself everything was fine. That she was fine.

  Or rather, that things would be fine—if she just kept walking. Kept moving. Didn’t look back.

  If she just made it back to the inn, everything would be fine.

  Leslie walked back towards her car without looking up, without seeing anything. The world around her might as well have not existed. She kept her eyes on her shoes. One foot in front of the other following the lines in the pavement. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale.

  She fished her car key out of her coat pocket with shaking fingers and hit the unlock button.

  As soon as she did, her car let out a faint honk. She heard a man’s voice. “Oh, good timing. Or bad timing, depending on how you look at it.”

  The thought of a social interaction made her want to scream. But Leslie pasted on a smile and looked up…

  Into the face of a different kind of nightmare from the past.

  Shane Murphy.

  “Leslie?” Shane’s heavy brow furrowed in confusion for a second before his eyes went wide. “Leslie Townsend. Wow, it’s you.”

  You. Him.

  First, the man in red at Vineyard Remodeling. And now, Shane Murphy.

  He’d left not long after the accident. When it became clear Leslie had no plans of following through on the deal they’d made. She couldn’t. Not after…

  “Shane,” Leslie croaked. “Hi.”

  He shook his head. “How long has it been? I thought… I didn’t know you were still here. I—” His voice trailed off, lost to the ringing inside Leslie’s head.