There it was again. The nightmare. Creeping up, invading.
She was running, faster, faster. Stumbling across the dusty, damp grounds of Riverwild. Over a soggy lawn, through the weed-strangled garden, to the top of a slick hillside.
She stopped, breathless, her chest heaving; gazed up at the night sky; and tried to quiet her wildly thumping heart. Then she peered down below. The waters of the mighty Potomac River spread out before her, raging to and fro. She glanced back at the mansion, looming tall and menacingly, its dark and deadly secrets now completely exposed.
Standing there on the hill all alone, she felt a wailing cry bubble up in her throat. She was more confused than ever. She had anticipated a life filled with love, joy, tenderness. Not secrets and lies. Not bullets and blood.
That wife of yours is dangerous . . . Caught her snooping . . . How much does she know?
Nothing. Not a single thing.
That was then.
Now she knew everything.
And she had never been more frightened.
The day had started out decent enough, with bright clouds floating above.
Then thunder clapped. The sky went dark.
Not the kind of weather you hoped for when boarding the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard, Angel thought, her flip-flops squeaking across the damp passenger ramp at the Steamship Authority terminal. Wheeling her luggage along, she dashed inside and made her way to a seat just as heavy rain fell.
This was her third year visiting Martha’s Vineyard while working as a private chef but the first time she’d traveled in such miserable conditions. Unless one counted the last of many summers she’d visited with her parents as an enthusiastic young girl who loved to sketch and dreamed of someday becoming an artist. That had been twenty years ago, when the family ended up stuck on the island for three frightful days as an unusually early hurricane pummeled the land and all transportation to and from it was halted. Now she traveled by plane and bus, but back then she and her parents always made the nearly five-hundred-mile trek by car from Washington, DC, to Woods Hole, Massachusetts, then hopped on the ferry. That had been the summer ritual for their little family of three right up until the year of the hurricane. The same year her dad lost his restaurant business and the family lost their precious Victorian-style house in Northwest DC, along with their Volvo station wagon. And her mother eventually walked out and left their tidy little family.
She had been barely twelve years old the summer her world toppled upside down. Neither of her parents would talk to her in much detail about what had happened between them, or why. Angel had often imagined that if her mother had run off and left her only child, it must have been to go someplace very special. Maybe some magical destination in a faraway land. Angel would eventually pick up bits of the ugly truth here and there from soft whisperings among cousins and aunts at family gatherings. Would see the quiet look of desperation on her father’s face whenever she stole a glance as he whipped up a meal for the two of them in their tiny, sparsely furnished two-bedroom apartment. Still, she clung furiously to the belief that nothing could have enticed her mom away from them short of a place resembling paradise.
That childhood fantasy was shattered when her mom remarried about a year after taking off and sent for her daughter. That was when the annual summer visits to Richmond, Virginia, began, and her dreams of becoming an artist came to an abrupt halt. By then she was thirteen and eons wiser about the temptations and jealousies that could quickly sour a relationship.
Her current boyfriend, Gene, seemed to be on a mission to prove this very point. She and a few co-workers had dropped into the neighborhood club late one summer night after work and one of them pointed out that the sexy drummer onstage was eyeing her. She’d turned and given him a little smile, and one thing led quickly to another. He had the kind of seductive look that sent chills up and down a girl’s spine. Within days she and Gene were an item, going everywhere together—concerts, parks, his place or hers.
After a couple of happy, carefree months, it slowly dawned on Angel that other women were probably having similar experiences with Gene. That she wasn’t all that special. She’d been down this route a time or two before and knew what it looked
and felt like when a man’s interests had drifted elsewhere. He didn’t call or text as often, didn’t compliment her as frequently. Didn’t even look at her in the same way. He would become furtive, evasive.
By the time she left for her stay on the island in early August, she and Gene had agreed to take a temporary break. When she got back to DC at the end of the month, they were going to have a long talk. She was still into Gene and really wanted to work things out. Not to mention that she was thirty-three years old and hated the thought of facing yet another failed relationship.
She settled into a seat near the window on the ferry, nursing a cup of black coffee. Odd that all these negative memories came flooding back to her at this moment. It must be the sight of rain and rough seas relentlessly pounding the boat as they ripped and rocked across the choppy sound. At one point she had to grab the paper coffee cup to keep it from sliding off the table. She glanced around, anxiously wondering if she should be concerned for her safety while on these choppy seas. Others on the boat, most probably year-round residents or decades-long summer vacationers, seemed completely unfazed. Still, she couldn’t help feeling rattled. She was not used to being heaved and hurled about in the middle of the Atlantic. Maybe she should have stayed at home. Had that heart-to-heart talk with Gene sooner rather than later. At least it was safe there. She had taken up sketching again last summer while visiting the island, having been inspired by the sheer beauty of the landscape just as she had been as a girl. She decided to try drawing the blurry shore of Cape Cod as it slowly disappeared beyond the thick raindrops glistening on the window. Hopefully that would calm her nerves.
At last the sun peeked out from the clouds just as the boat docked at the Oak Bluffs terminal forty-five minutes later. The moment Angel reached the end of the ramp and hit the sidewalk, her mood brightened. The old memories fell away. The island was a far cry from her life in the city. Everything felt different here—the pace slower, the sky brighter, the ocean breeze cooler, the people friendlier. The place had a magnetic pull on all who landed on its sandy shores, encouraging them to leave their troubles behind—and goodness knew she had her share—to allow the wholesome aura to envelope and soothe their weary souls—old and young, Black and white, businessman and beachgoer, rich and poor alike. And they heeded the call. Their differences—often crushingly disruptive at home—were willingly tossed aside into the depths of the sea. At least on the surface.
She smiled at the touch of the salty ocean breeze gracing her brown cheeks and skipping through her curly shoulder-length hair as she tugged her luggage along Seaview Avenue. The roar of the mighty waves ripping along the sandy beach beside her was like music to her ears. She had about a six-block-long walk to the Harrison house and had long since learned to pack lightly, even though it was a monthlong
trip—a few sundresses, shorts and capris, and short-sleeve cotton tops and tees, all folded neatly and stuffed into a single suitcase and one tote.
She squinted ahead until she could make out the grand covered porch wrapped around the Victorian house owned by the Harrisons. The sprawling, weathered shingle-style home sat among a row of large houses overlooking Nantucket Sound. Many of the Black families who had summerhouses in this section of Oak Bluffs had owned them for more than a century, having first purchased in the early 1900s, when hotels in the area had turned them away. Now they passed their cherished houses along from one generation to the next.
The Harrisons were an exception as relative newcomers to the area, having purchased their house a mere decade earlier. They summered on the island every year, from June to August. Jillian Harrison usually spent the entire three months there, whereas her husband Irvin and their twenty-nine-year-old daughter, Norma, traveled back home to Washington, DC, during the week to work. They joined Jillian for the month of August, when the family threw a lavish garden party on the expansive lawn attended by about one hundred guests.
Jillian and Irvin had a strange relationship, at least in Angel’s opinion, she thought as she wheeled her luggage through the door of the white gate that surrounded the property. They were in their fifties and had been married for a few decades. The honeymoon phase was long since over, and the distance between them seemed vast. Angel could never once remember seeing the two touch each other. Or even smile at each other. He did his thing—mainly tennis and golf; and Jillian did hers—lunch and gallery events with friends. Their bespectacled daughter, Norma, seemed to have few friends on the island and could usually be found down on the nearby Inkwell Beach in the early-morning hours before the crowds descended or somewhere on the grounds of the house reading a book. The family came together now and then at social gatherings for what seemed to Angel to be purely for the sake of appearances.
Angel knew that many of the Black colleges had a huge presence on the island. As did Black students who had attended the Ivy Leagues and other prestigious schools. Jillian had attended a small college in Georgia. Her husband had attended Cornell University, and many of the Black alumni spent summers there. But Irvin had little interest in their social events. So Jillian had had to work tirelessly to make acquaintances over the years, with help here and there from her better-connected sorority sisters. She wanted everything at her annual gathering of doctors and lawyers and businessmen and businesswomen to be absolutely flawless. She had
convinced Pierre, the chef at Georgia’s, one of her favorite restaurants in DC, to allow Angel, a sous-chef there, to take the month of August off to come and work as a private chef for the Harrison family. A little gift of several thousand dollars donated each year to Pierre’s favorite restaurant charity had helped secure the favor.
Angel had no real complaints. Although she found some people on the island pretentious and uppity, including Jillian’s friends, she readily welcomed the break from the hot, humid, and tourist-filled summers in DC. And the brief chance to enjoy living life as the other half did. With its soaring ceilings, spacious rooms, and multiple screened porches, the house was a far cry from the small cottages and hotel rooms she vaguely recalled staying in with her parents when they’d visited. As lovely as their lodgings had been, they couldn’t compare to this, one of the premiere houses in Oak Bluffs. The massive chef’s kitchen was a dream to work in.
As Angel let herself into the foyer with her key, her mind quickly turned to the busy days she had ahead as they prepared for Friday’s event, only a couple of days away. It was already nearly two o’clock, and she had to get together with Jillian to plan the menu, shop for food, and begin early preparations. On the big day she would help Jillian supervise the temporary staff that would set up tables, decorations, and food on the lawn. Angel only hoped neither Irvin nor Norma had taken the family Benz SUV. She hadn’t seen it parked in the driveway or along the street and would need it for shopping.
She was about to climb the wide staircase just off the center hallway to go to her room and freshen up—Jillian was not a fan of the cutoff jeans and flip-flops she was wearing, or any kind of jeans for that matter—when she heard her boss’s voice calling from the rear of the house.
“Angel, is that you?”
Angel immediately picked up the hint of annoyance in Jillian’s voice and braced herself. Jillian paused as she emerged from the kitchen area, the skirt of her flowered dress blowing breezily with each step. Her plump figure, youthful and fair-complexioned face—courtesy of expensive spa treatments galore—and boundless energy level helped Jillian appear ten years younger than her fifty-two years. “Goodness. Thank God you’re back, finally,” she said upon laying eyes on Angel. Her face wore a half smile, half frown. “I was expecting you hours ago. We have so much to do.”
Angel cleared her throat. “Yes, Mrs. Harrison. My flight was late leaving DC and . . .” Not entirely true, a tiny voice in Angel’s head whispered as the words she had rehearsed on the plane tumbled forth. The embarrassing truth was that Gene had been late picking her up to take her to the airport and she’d missed her flight. She hated lying but didn’t want to admit that her boyfriend was getting so unreliable. Besides, she knew Jillian would never understand, given that she considered this the most important event of the year for her. As pushy as Jillian could be, Angel loved spending summers on the island
and would hate to lose this job.
“I’m really sorry, Mrs. Harrison,” Angel said. “I just need a minute to freshen up and . . .”
“Well, go on then,” Jillian said abruptly, giving a firm look of disapproval to Angel’s attire and a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. “And be quick about it. We must finish planning this menu so you can get going with the shopping. Irvin is out playing tennis but promised me he would be back by three so you can take the car and . . .”
Angel didn’t hear the rest; she dashed up the stairs as quickly as she could manage with her luggage. In the hall bathroom she splashed water on her face and washed up. Then she changed into an off-white linen dress and skipped quickly down the stairs.
* * *
She and Jillian were sitting at the long, rustic walnut kitchen table finalizing a menu consisting of several fruit-and-cheese boards, salmon sliders, and berry and seafood salads with macarons for dessert when Irvin returned. She heard him drop the keys on the table near the front door and bound up the stairs without uttering so much as a syllable to anyone. Jillian’s phone rang, and Angel picked up the menu and stood, preparing to leave. She had her work cut out for her and wanted to get going.
Jillian had other ideas. “Hold on just a minute,” she said, lifting a finger to silence Angel as she continued speaking into the phone. Angel waited patiently until she hung up. “I need you to do something else for me first.”
“If you mean dinner, I can start on that as soon as I get back. The market closes at five and . . .”
“There’s been a change of plans,” Jillian said abruptly. “You’ll have time to shop tomorrow morning if you go early. And we won’t be eating in tonight. We’re having dinner at Nancy’s. I just heard that none other than Everett Bruce will be there.”
Jillian smiled so broadly that Angel had the feeling she should know who this Everett Bruce was. But she hadn’t a clue. She frowned with puzzlement.
“From the look on your face,” Jillian said, “I take it that you have no idea who he is.”
Angel shook her head. “Should I?”
Jillian scoffed, strode to a bookcase, and began to rifle through a shelf full of books and glossy magazines. “Now where did I put my copy of Executive Magazine?” she said, rifling through copies of Forbes and Fortune. “He was on the cover of the last issue. In fact, he’s been on the cover a few times. I’m shocked you’ve never heard of him. He’s a billionaire, founder and CEO of a private equity firm.”
Angel shrugged. As a private chef, she considered herself an entrepreneur and definitely took an interest in business. She had even read Executive Magazine a few times and knew that despite being a newcomer, it was quickly climbing the ranks
in readership. But what Jillian was talking about seemed to be a whole different level of “business,” far removed from anything remotely connected to her. “Can’t say that I have.”
Jillian scoffed again at the expression on Angel’s face. “Good grief. There are only about fifteen Black billionaires in the entire world according to Forbes, you know. And half of them are in Africa. Everett Bruce is American born and bred, from a small town in Virginia. He owns a fabulous estate on the river in Potomac, Maryland, called Riverwild. It was once owned by Arabian royalty.”
Jillian whispered that last bit like it was a highly guarded state secret. Angel nodded, now mildly impressed but still confused as to what all this had to do with her.
“He’s donated millions to support Blacks in higher education and . . .” Jillian paused, slipped the magazine back onto the shelf. “I can’t seem to find the piece about him. Although I shouldn’t be surprised you have no interest in these things.”
Angel winced at her boss’s words. Jillian was always comparing Angel’s community college associate of arts degree unfavorably to Norma’s bachelors from Smith College, or any four-year college. Angel wanted to remind Jillian that her little two-year degree in culinary arts was good enough for her to cook at the posh events she threw every summer and deserved more respect. ...
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