Love Finds You in Martha's Vineyard (2 page)

“Thank you.” Waverly looped a strap of her bag over her shoulder with a very forced smile. “I appreciate your time.”

Mrs. Tremble walked her out of the office and into the spacious gallery, where electricians were working on the lighting system that, even at a glance, was state-of-the-art. At the front door, Mrs. Tremble had given Waverly a weak handshake, saying, “Thank you, dear. Have a nice day.”

Waverly politely exited the sleekly designed gallery. Then, pausing in the shade of a canvas awning over the restaurant next door, she'd let out a long, exasperated sigh. She could not believe that Mrs. Tremble had refused to even consider her for the sales position. It was as if the old woman had made up her mind from the very get-go. But, good grief, how hard would it be to sell art? After all, the salespeople worked mostly on commission anyway. What was that mumbo-jumbo about special gifts and a sixth sense? It seemed clear—Mrs. Tremble simply had someone else in mind. Waverly watched as a precisely groomed and well-dressed man paused by the door to the gallery. Checking his image in the shining plate glass, he smoothed his short hair, made a self-satisfied smile, and, holding his head high, went inside. Yes, he was probably the exact sort of person Mrs. Tremble was looking for. Well, good for him!

Waverly had tried not to show any signs of her disappointment as she returned to work. Not that anyone would notice, since her job was a fairly solitary one—one of the many reasons she was seeking something different. The place was even more quiet than usual since she was now working through her traditional lunch hour. As a result, no one was around to notice her tears as she meticulously cleaned a 350-year-old alabaster bust of a middle-aged Italian woman. The woman's expression, at first glance, had been pensive…thoughtful…even wistful. But the more Waverly worked on Antonia, the name she'd given the sculpture, the more Waverly realized she was wrong. Antonia was not meditating on her lover or pondering the mysteries of the universe. The woman was plain sad. Perhaps even clinically depressed.

Was it possible that Antonia, like Waverly, was disappointed in life? Maybe she too had lost her beloved husband at a young age. Perhaps she felt disillusioned about her future. Disenchanted with life. Hopeless. Or maybe Waverly had simply been superimposing her own emotional state onto this cold gypsum form.

As Waverly entered the shabby courtyard of The Hampshire, the apartment complex where she had resided for the past seven years, she wondered, not for the first time, what had attracted her and Neil to these dowdy brick structures in the first place. Oh, certainly, they had been newlyweds and filled with wide-eyed optimism and high hopes. Plus, neither had ever lived in a big city like Chicago before.

“We'll only stay a year,” Neil had promised her. “Two at the most. Just until we figure things out and find a place to buy.” A year had quickly turned into two and then three. But they had been happy years, and Neil and Waverly Brennen made several good friends at The Hampshire. Plus they'd discovered it was handily located close to the “L.” And by keeping expenses down, Waverly was free to pursue her art. So, really, life was good. Then, shortly after their third anniversary, Neil had gone into the hospital for what was supposed to be a “routine surgery.”

As many times as Waverly had replayed the four-year-old scenario, as many times as she'd blamed herself, blamed the doctors, even blamed Neil, she now found herself replaying it all over again. Maybe it was the weather or the disappointing day, but as she climbed the metal stairs to her apartment, it came flooding back at her.

“Just go in and get it done while our insurance is still good,” she'd told Neil after his doctor had recommended a cartilage replacement in his left knee. Neil wasn't even thirty yet, but an old soccer injury had been making him walk like an old man. With summer coming on, Waverly had wanted to get out their bicycles. Plus, she knew Neil had been considering a job switch where the pay was significantly better but the insurance was not. So it had made sense. Or so it seemed.

Waverly had gone in with him for the surgery. Then she'd brought him home and followed the doctor's instructions regarding rehabilitation. But two days after the surgery, Neil had complained of a stomachache. Waverly had suggested the usual remedies, like Pepto-Bismol and TUMS, and she'd even made him a cup of ginger tea. Then she'd gotten lost in a painting, a seascape that was still unfinished. By the time she'd checked on Neil again, she assumed he was asleep, but on closer inspection, she saw how pale and cool his skin was to the touch. And she realized he was unconscious.

By the time the paramedics arrived, his blood pressure had dropped seriously low, and by the time he was examined in the ER thirty minutes later, he was in septic shock. He died the next day. The doctor was sympathetic, telling her such a reaction to surgery was statistically quite rare. But that did not bring her husband back.

She unlocked and opened the door to her stuffy apartment. Despite having left blinds closed and windows open, the space was even hotter than outside. She checked her landline phone to see if the super had called back—since he hadn't called on her cell phone—but no one had called. She stripped off the remainder of her interview outfit, replaced it with a tank top and shorts, then went out onto the terrace where, thanks to the shade of another building, it was only 88 degrees. She sat down in her favorite wicker rocker, which was starting to crack and disintegrate, thanks to the harsh winter it had recently survived. Rocking back and forth, she simply stared out onto…nothing.

It had been more than a year since the last of their friends had moved from The Hampshire. Not that she'd been terribly involved with either of the couples after Neil's death. Oh, the Picketts and the Garcias had tried to include her at first, but as time passed, it got harder and harder to pretend that nothing had changed. Or that no one missed Neil and his slaphappy sense of humor. In a way, she had been relieved when the Picketts had gotten pregnant and moved to the suburbs. It made things simpler. Loneliness had simply become a way of life. Work and loneliness, combined with a bit of house-cleaning and shopping—that was her routine.

Waverly noticed something tucked behind the decrepit old barbecue that Neil had gotten them shortly after they'd moved in here. She pulled out the warped piece of cardboard and stared at the faded images pasted onto it. Oh, yes, she remembered now. This had once been her “vision board.” Rita Garcia had talked Waverly into attending a woman's seminar awhile back. One of their “exercises” had been to create a vision board. This visual image was supposed to help Waverly focus on her hopes and dreams for the future, perhaps even make them come true.

Waverly had reluctantly cooperated in the project. For nearly a year she had focused on the sweet images she'd cut and pasted onto her board. She'd study those slick magazine photographs of a happy-looking couple, several children (two redheaded girls and a little blond boy), a beagle puppy with a blue collar, a stripey cat with amber eyes, a farmhouse, and even a dreamy cook's kitchen. For a short time Waverly almost believed it would work.

But then winter came—one of those harsh Chicago winters that feels endless. When she was alone and depressed at Christmastime last year, she had taken the detestable vision board and, despite the howling snow and wind, had shoved it out onto the terrace, wedging it behind the barbecue grill with plans to torch it later.

The flimsy paper shredded easily, crumbling in her hands like sawdust as she dumped the whole mess into the rusty barbecue. She was just going into the apartment to search for matches when the loud jangling of the landline made her jump. She was tempted to let the obnoxious interruption go to voice mail, but thinking it might be her slacking super calling about her useless AC, she hurried to get it. “Hello?”

“Waverly!”
gushed what sounded like her mother's voice. “I can't believe I caught you at home!”

“Vivian?”
Waverly had been taught early on to call her mother by her first name, and anything else at this stage of the game would feel awkward.

“Yes, darling, it's me.”

Now Waverly jumped to the worst conclusions—the natural thing to do since her mother rarely called and, as far as Waverly knew, she was out of the country. “Are you all right?”

“Of course, I'm fine. I'm over here in—” The line crackled apart and the words were lost.

“You're breaking up on me,” Waverly warned loudly.

“Sorry. This connection is a little iffy.”

“But you are all right? Nothing is wrong?”

“I'm perfectly fine,” Vivian assured her.

Waverly was relieved but curious. “So what's up then?”

“Oh, it's very exciting. Aunt Lou and I have just—” Suddenly the connection broke up again, crackling so loudly that Waverly's ears rang and she had to hold the phone away from her head.

About to hang up, Waverly shouted into the receiver, “Why don't you call back later when you have a better connection and I can hear—”

“You don't have to yell at me.” Her mother's voice came through quite clearly now.

“Sorry, but I couldn't hear—”

“Yes, yes, but as I was saying, Aunt Lou and I took the plunge and bought the gallery. It's so groovy.”

“Huh?” Waverly tried to piece this together. “What gallery? Where
are
you?”

“Martha's Vineyard!”
Vivian exclaimed. “Weren't you listening to a single word I said?”

“You were breaking up on me and—”

“Anyway,
we were just talking over dinner. Oh, you wouldn't believe the lobster here. Delightful. Although this is a dry town, if you can believe that.” She laughed. “I tried to order a bottle of cabernet and was informed that was not possible. Not a drop of alcohol can be sold here in Vineyard Haven. Can you imagine? And we're staying at this adorable little inn that looks out over the harbor and even has a cupola on top. You can walk all the way around it and—”

“You purchased a gallery?” Waverly asked for clarification. “In Martha's Vineyard, Massachusetts?”

“That's right. And we're sitting here making wonderful plans together, and Aunt Lou came up with the best idea just now, Waverly.”

The phone connection fell apart again. While she waited, trying to decipher her mother's words, Waverly tried to wrap her head around what Vivian was telling her. It made no sense, so she suspected she'd heard it wrong. Had Vivian really said she was with her right-wing, polyester-wearing, Bible-thumping sister? Vivian usually avoided Aunt Lou like the plague. How was it possible the two were presently in Martha's Vineyard, where they were dining on
lobster
and buying real estate together? The last Waverly had heard, her free-spirited, tie-dyed, vegetarian mother had been visiting a guru in Nepal. Really, Waverly had to have missed something.

“So what do you think?” Vivian's voice broke through the static.

“
Think?”
Waverly tried to remember what her mother had last said. “Think about what?”

“About coming out here to give us a hand?”

“A hand?” Waverly frowned. “You mean you want help?”

“Of course we want help. That's what I told you, dear.”

“Help with
what?”

“With the gallery, Waverly. Weren't you listening to me?”

Waverly was about to remind Vivian of her bad cell phone connectivity but knew it was pointless. Besides, it was as if a light had just gone on inside Waverly's troubled brain. She got it. Her mother was inviting her to join them in this venture—
operating a gallery in a very desirable location.
What was not to like? Yet it sounded too good to be true. “So, what do you mean
exactly,
Vivian?” Waverly asked carefully. “You want my help? You want me to give you a hand with a gallery? I want to be certain I understand you correctly.”

“Well, Louise and I aren't getting any younger, you know. We got to thinking how lovely it is here in the Vineyard. And Lou said, ‘Call Avery.' And I thought,
That's exactly what we need—youth and energy.
So we decided to see if you could come out here for the summer. Or longer if you like it. I'd love to spend some time with you, honey. Aunt Lou and I just made a cash offer on a nice little bungalow, right on the beach and not far from the lighthouse. Absolutely charming. We'll find out if we got it or not tomorrow.”

“Oh…” Waverly considered this. A
beach
house? “It's wonderfully tempting, Vivian. Martha's Vineyard sounds heavenly, but I don't know that I can get away from my job for the whole summer. Then there are finances to consider.”

“We'll pay you fair wages, honey. Plus, we'll split the gallery's profits with you. I'll gladly pay your airfare. And you can stay in the studio apartment above the business, so that would be free. The studio is a very cool place…with some work anyway. But great bones and good feng shui. I can just imagine how nice it will be. All the buildings in this town are so quaint and charming. The studio has a delightful view. Right out over the docks and the water and—”