by Luanne Rice
“How will it affect what happens going forward?” Dar asked. “We still can’t afford the taxes on our land.”
“Not to mention estate inheritance tax,” Raymond reminded them.
“Perhaps you could pay all of it,” Jack said, “if you were to sell a portion of the land, retaining the rest. You might decide to sell the McCarthy section that, according to the title search, is the easternmost section of your family property, marked by four granite posts hidden by brush, and with an easement to the salt pond and beach.”
“Or,” Raymond said, “we could enter the document into the real estate records, certifying a copy, and you could sell the original to a collector or dealer—many of whom we know directly—possibly for more money than you could get for the land itself.”
“That paper is worth more than oceanfront property?” Rory asked. “It’s barely legible.”
Raymond nodded. “That wouldn’t matter to a collector. Of course, as we said before, we’ll call experts to take a look, but I am positive it’s the real thing.”
Dar and her sisters exchanged glances.
“Well, the three of you have a lot to think about and talk over with your families, and then we’ll have some decisions to make. Meanwhile, Jack and I will investigate the buyers—the Littles, I believe Bart told us was their name—and assess how litigious they might actually be.”
“We can’t afford high legal fees,” Delia said. “We don’t have the means, which is how we’ve gotten into this in the first place.”
“Understood,” Raymond said. “Certain concessions will be made out of respect for your father’s determination and the pride he brings on Ireland and Cork, and also for the honor of your leaving such a rare and important document in our vault.”
“That’s not to say there won’t be a charge,” Jack said. “But as Raymond says, concessions will be made.”
“Thank you,” Dar said. She and her sisters rose, shook the Fitzgerald brothers’ hands. Then they left the office, went down the elevator to the gray and white marble lobby, out the doors to Rowes Wharf, where they again stood holding hands, facing out to sea with the wind in their hair, toward Ireland.
It wasn’t until they had all returned to Logan Airport, heading off in three separate directions, that the reality hit them.
“We might actually be able to keep the house,” Delia said. “Can you believe it? All of us spending the summer together again.”
“That would be the best part,” Dar said. “I’m already imagining all the spring garden things we usually do. The post-winter repairs I’ve let slide. The family together for the summer.”
They grinned to think of it, hugging and kissing. Rory headed to the parking lot for her car, and Dar and Delia walked slowly toward the sitting area for Cape Air. While they waited for their flight, Dar called Andy to tell him they were on the way.
“That’s the best news ever,” he said. “I can’t wait to see you.”
“Neither can I,” Dar said. “He did it, Andy.”
“What?”
“My father. He made it to Cork and found what he was searching for.”
“Dar,” Andy said, his voice filled with emotion, “I know what it means to you.”
“You do,” she whispered. “We’ll be there in an hour.”
She hung up, and she and Delia sat silently, Dar thinking of those four granite posts hidden by brush and how she and her father had looked for them so long ago.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Martha’s Vineyard welcomed them home. As the plane banked for landing, Dar could see the salt ponds stretching all along the south shore. She remembered her grandmother telling her that in winter the ponds would freeze, and they would skate all the way from Chilmark to Katama. But for now they were brilliant blue, rippled by a sea wind.
From the air she saw that the island had turned green while they were gone; the brown grasses of winter had come back to life. Tips of the tree branches were pink in the late-afternoon light. A green island in the middle of the blue sea.
The plane landed smoothly, and when they got out, Andy was waiting just outside the terminal. His crooked smile grew wide as Dar got closer, and they hugged hard and long, as if no one else were there. Delia went inside the long, low terminal building, claiming her bag and Dar’s as they came off the plane, wheeled in on metal carts.
They all climbed into the front seat of Andy’s truck and drove home with the windows open. The air had a slight chill, but it smelled spicy, with all the springtime changes: soft earth, new grass, daffodils and jonquils blooming in the moors. She stared down ravines leading to the ponds, the barrier beach, and the ocean beyond.
Andy drove past their driveway to Beetlebung Corner, and they all went into the Chilmark Store to stock up on food and supplies. Andy held the basket while the sisters filled it with fresh bread, apples, baby spinach, milk, cheddar cheese, potatoes, a steak.
Driving home, Dar felt peace overtaking her. The hills of Chilmark were lifelong landmarks—Alice’s Hill, Abel’s Hill, Mosher’s Hill, Whale Hill, Peaked Hill. She thought of all the times she and her sisters and best friends had ridden their bikes up the steep slopes, wanting to see their island from every perspective.
She thought of McDonough McCarthy, his fighting and rebellion. She wondered if her chieftain ancestor had ever set foot on the Vineyard, ever lived on the land given him by the king.
Andy pulled into the farmhouse driveway, and they all jumped out of his truck. The yard was filled with yellow daffodils and white narcissus. The setting sun painted the white house butterscotch. Walking inside, Dar crouched down so all the animals could circle her. She rubbed noses with Scup, felt the cats walking all around against her legs.
“It’s so good to be home,” Delia said, in spite of the fact almost everything had been packed away. She found the box holding kitchenware, and unpacked three plates, three sets of silverware, a tarnished copper pan, and a cruet of virgin olive oil.
Andy fired up the Weber grill on the side porch, set about seasoning the steak with coarse sea salt and freshly ground pepper. It hit the fire with a satisfying sizzle.
“Steak always tastes better at the beach!” Delia called to him as she chopped garlic, sautéed it in the copper pan, then threw in the baby spinach leaves.
Dar wanted to be in the kitchen helping, but first she felt the need to run across the yard. Scup followed, wagging his tail, as she ran straight toward the easternmost edge. The brambles were thick, a hedge of abandoned wild roses and scrub yew. As she reached in, thorns scratched her hands. She heard a phone ringing in the distance, parted the branches, found nothing.
“Dar!” Delia called. “Telephone!”
“In a second!”
Dar tried to remember whether she and her father had ever looked in this exact spot. She thought they had—they’d covered pretty much every inch of the property, but Delia was calling again. Wiping her hands on her jeans, Dar tapped Scup on his back, making him turn and follow her back to the house.
“It’s Raymond,” Delia said, smiling as she handed Dar the phone.
“Hello?” she said.
“I’ve already told Delia, but I want to tell you as well,” Raymond said. “We have our two best authenticators here—called them the minute you and your sisters left, and they came right to our office. Rafe Belladonna, a document specialist from MIT, and Susan Mallory, a conservator from Harvard. They were as excited as Jack and I by the prospects of what we have here . . .”
“What do they say?” Dar asked.
“With initial analysis, the ink and vellum are authentic to the period. The parchment, signed by both King Charles and McDonough McCarthy, states that in return for land in the New World, McCarthy will leave Ireland forever. There is language indicating that as chieftain, he was devoted to fighting the English, and perhaps capable of driving them out of Ireland more efficiently than the Spanish Armada was able to do. There is not another document of its kind in the United States. Yo
u come from fighting stock, Ms. McCarthy!”
“What does it mean in terms of our land here?” she asked, staring at the beloved vista of yard, marsh, ponds, dunes, and sea.
“It most likely means that you will be able to pay back your buyers, fulfill your tax obligations, and keep your family home.”
Dar was silent for a minute, taking that in. “How?” she asked.
“It may mean selling this document at auction. We often use Sotheby’s, but we can discuss that later. One thing, it is sure to bring a very high price.”
“Thank you so much, Raymond,” Dar said, her voice breaking.
“We’ll be in touch soon. And thank you. I can’t remember the last time Jack and I were so emotionally engaged by a case.”
Dar thanked him again and hung up. Dinner was ready, and they decided to eat at the table outside, on the porch facing the beach. They were hungry, glad to be home and together, eager to tell Andy the story in all its details.
Andy held her hand under the table. They listened to waves breaking on the sandbar, sand blowing all along the beach, the friction sounding like a bow playing a stringed instrument, music carried on the soft breeze, saying welcome home, welcome home.
That night Dar and Andy stayed in the Hideaway. Wrapped in each other’s arms, they huddled under the quilt. When Dar thought of home, this was it. Andy kissed her gently, but their lovemaking was anything but.
“I missed you, Dar,” he said when they were still again, covers untangled and tucked around them. “I have to tell you something.”
She closed her eyes, wanting him to think she was asleep, but he knew her ways. He held her close, mouth against her ear. “Two things to tell you and show you,” he said. “Not tonight.”
“Not tonight,” she whispered, turning on her side, feeling time speed backwards and forwards, lulled to sleep by Andy’s closeness, the freshness of the air, the music of the sea.
Back home in Old Lyme, Rory waited for Jonathan to drop the children off at their white colonial on Lyme Street. She sat on the front steps, hearing crickets in the hedge. Connecticut was weeks ahead of Boston and the Vineyard in terms of spring. The daffodils had already come and gone. The oak leaves were the size of squirrels’ ears, meaning that shad were already swimming upriver. Tall bushes of white-blossomed shadblow swayed in the warm breeze.
Closing her eyes, she heard Jonathan’s car before she saw it. It was a habit—she’d memorized the sound of his engine and could tell when it was a half block away. He parked at the curb. The children piled out of his Jaguar, flying into her arms. She started to wave at him, sure he’d just drive away. But he didn’t. He walked up the blue stone path right behind the kids.
“They’re sure happy to have you home,” he said.
She smiled, arms around all three of them—Sylvie, Obadiah, and Jenny. Her throat ached. This was her home—but it was Jonathan’s, too.
“I missed you,” she said to the kids, but she meant him as well.
“Yeah,” he answered. “We all missed you, too.”
Tingles down her spine. What did he mean?
“Mom, can we go inside? I have to finish my homework,” Sylvia said.
“Yeah, and can we watch TV? Just for half an hour?” Obadiah asked.
“No TV at Daddy’s,” Jenny said, shooting him a scolding look.
“Go on in,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”
Jonathan sat beside her on the steps, so close their knees almost touched. They’d done this a thousand times. While the kids were inside, absorbed in their lives, Rory and Jonathan would sneak out for some air and time alone. This felt the same, but so different from all those times before. Her hands were shaking as she reached into her pocket for a cigarette. Jonathan took her lighter and lit it for her.
“So, how did the trip go?”
“How do I even start?” she asked, blowing a plume of smoke up toward the sky.
“Did you like Ireland?”
“I barely noticed it after the first night. Dar was right. Our father had gone there on a mission. He did it for us, and died trying to sail home.”
“I’m so sorry,” Jonathan said.
“Thank you,” Rory said.
“I remember your father,” Jonathan said. “He taught me and Harrison to sail.”
“Harrison remembers that, too,” Rory said. “He said my father never would have been lost at sea, he was too good a sailor.”
“He was great,” Jonathan said, and they sat silently for a while. “How are your sisters?”
“They’re fine. We were all shaken up, but there’s a happy ending. We might not have to sell the house.”
“Really? That would be amazing.”
Rory shrugged. “I don’t know, and I can’t explain this, but part of me doesn’t care. It’s hard for me to be on the Vineyard.”
“Is that because of me?” Jonathan asked.
Rory gave him a long gaze. She’d always found him so beautiful, and still did. His long, graying brown hair curling behind his ears, his gray-green eyes, sharp cheekbones, wide mouth. She’d never, ever looked at his mouth without wanting to kiss it.
“Because of us. Do you know how hard it is to spend time in the place where we fell in love? Where every road, tree, beach, reminds me of you?” Rory asked.
“I do know,” he said. “I took the kids out to see my parents. And to give Andy some advice on a house he’s building for some art collectors.”
Rory turned her head away so he wouldn’t see her eyes. She had hoped this moment here on the steps would lead them back together. That’s not how it sounded. He would go back to the Vineyard before long, showing Alys all the magical places.
“Are you saying you don’t want to keep the property?” he asked.
“I don’t know. It would have been different if we hadn’t had to sell in the first place, if the taxes hadn’t murdered us. I steeled myself back then. Packing made it real, and the trip to Ireland was something like a dream . . . it felt vivid while we were there, but it will fade away.”
“What will your sisters say?” Jonathan asked.
“I don’t want to tell them,” Rory admitted. “They’re both excited, and have hope that they can pull this off and hold on.”
“Mom!” Jenny called from inside. “Come in and talk to me.”
“She missed you,” Jonathan said.
“Sylvie was okay?”
“Yes. She’s wonderful.”
“That shouldn’t come as such a big discovery,” Rory said. “For so long, you raised her as your own.”
“I know it was just a few days, but she called her father while you were gone. He offered to come get her. Thought I should give you a heads-up.”
Rory nodded. She stood, stepped toward the door. Her body ached for Jonathan to hold her again, to want to be a family again. He’d only moved a few miles up the Connecticut River. But to Rory it felt as absolute as her father sailing to Ireland. Leaving broke up the family; the distance didn’t so much matter.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
They had begun to unpack boxes containing the items Dar and Delia needed most: kitchen goods, bedding, family pictures. They found several of their father; they had been tucked away in the back of their mother’s bottom drawer. They had gone through them last night, but now Delia was alone while Dar did some yard work, and she took her time.
One photo showed him in work clothes, when he first got to the Vineyard, a cocky expression and big friendly grin on his face. Another, their wedding picture, showed him in a morning coat and their mother in the beautiful lace wedding dress and veil her mother, then Rory, then Delia, had worn. She paged through an album of snapshots from a time when they were a young family.
The photos were arranged by year, and Delia saw the happy young father in the first few albums give way to a man emotionally weighed down in later ones. When Dar came in, all dusty and muddy from digging in the hedge, Delia got her a tall glass of water.
“Did you fin
d the posts?”
“Not yet.”
“What if they’re not there?”
“They have to be,” Dar said. “You’re looking through the pictures again?”
“Yes,” Delia said. “I love seeing the ones where Mom and Dad look happy. I know they were separated when he left, but do you think they’d have gotten back together?”
“I do,” Dar said. “I really want to believe it.”
“So do I,” Delia said, thinking of how complicated marriage was, how transformed it could be by events and feelings you never saw coming.
“Has Rory called back?” Dar asked. “I’ve left her two messages.”
“No,” Delia said. “What do you think is going on?”
Dar didn’t reply. She just walked over to the porch rail, tested it with her right hand, to make sure it hadn’t loosened in winter storms. Then she turned around, streaked her thumb across a first-floor window, coated with dust and salt. Delia heard a truck pull into the driveway. Probably Andy.
“It’s almost lunchtime,” Delia said. “I’ll make some sandwiches.”
“Wait here a minute,” Dar said. “Andy said he’s bringing a surprise.”
“I’m not sure I can handle one more surprise,” Delia said, only half kidding. “Do you know what this is?”
Dar shook her head. “He wouldn’t tell me. He wanted you to find out at the same time.”
The two men came around the corner of the house. They were about the same height, over six feet; Andy was rugged and muscular, and the other man was skinny, hunched over, head averted. From the side, Delia could see he had scabs on his cheeks. She heard herself gasp, recognizing him just as Dar said his name.
“Pete,” Delia said, running straight to her son, standing on tiptoes to hug him tight.
“Mom,” he said.
