The Little Bookshop by the Harbor

Book 2: Up Island Novel

by Jean Stone

Genres: Friendship; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

A new life filled with the celebrated seaside charm and small-town heart of Martha’s Vineyard, a newfound family, romance—and an exciting venture. What more could Maddie Clarke ask for?
And why would anyone want to stop her?

It’s been a life-changing year since Maddie moved to the picturesque, historic fishing village of Menemsha on Martha’s Vineyard, where her late mother was born. Maddie has rediscovered her grandmother as well as her own Indigenous roots as half Wampanoag, along with the tribe’s rich history and traditions. She’s also found an unexpected second chance at love with restauranteur Rex Winsted. And then she spots a vacant shop right on the harbor . . .

Maddie boldly decides to end her days as a college journalism professor and open a bookshop that will also serve teas her grandmother makes from island herbs. Maddie’s son, Rafe, a college senior, plans to craft baskets in the ancient Wampanoag way, sell them at the store, and donate the profits to benefit Wampanoag kids. For Maddie, it’s all too good to be true . . . until the threats begin.

Not wanting to spoil the dream, Maddie tells no one. But an unexpected incident makes the situation worse, and just as the shop is about to open, revelations from the past erupt. And another surprise ahead could radically impact not only Maddie’s future, but Rex’s, too. Facing a decision she never saw coming, Maddie learns that even peaceful waters must weather storms . . .

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

October

Seven months earlier

“Wake up!” Grandma Nancy bellowed, jostling Maddie from sleep.

Maddie, however, was done grading students’ papers and had earmarked a few days for taking a break to have fun. She hadn’t expected it would start so soon after dawn.

“I hear a car out on the road!” Grandma prattled as she stood in the bedroom doorway, her frail, wiry frame lightly bouncing in her ancient slippers that might have been as old as she was. Her dark eyes were wide with joy, her chestnut-shaded skin multiwrinkled yet radiant, her stubborn white hair only partly corralled by a beaded headband.

The dirt road wasn’t often used off-season; the vehicle on it most likely was a taxi, with Maddie’s son, Rafe, in the passenger seat. To have caught the first boat, he must have left Amherst in the middle of the night; he’d planned to get a cab at the ferry terminal because, as a college senior, he’d said he did not need his mother to trek down to Vineyard Haven on a Sunday morning simply to greet him.

Oh, how Maddie loved her kid.

“I bet he’s excited about Cranberry Day!” Grandma’s ninety-year-old body seemed exhilarated, as if, like Maddie and Rafe, this would be her first time taking part in the centuries-old tradition.

Maddie rubbed her eyes. “I’m excited, too, Grandma. I never expected I’d be part of a cranberry harvest.” Her voice was still filled with sleep; she hadn’t intended to sound snide.

“You have much to learn, Granddaughter.” The old woman pretended to huff as she spun around and probably smiled as she faced the front door where Rafe would enter. After all, Nancy Clieg’s great-grandson was a gift that had resurrected her gusto for life. Maddie was grateful for that.

And though she was looking forward to the festivities, she was even more thrilled to have time with her son, a luxury that had been scarce since she’d come to the island last summer and stayed to look after her grandmother.

Pulling herself from beneath the quilt, she grabbed her clothes and headed for the bathroom to perform her ablutions—a favorite old British expression for grooming that her father once said was appropriate since they lived on the second floor of a nineteenth-century Victorian mansion in Green Hills, as far west in Massachusetts as one could get before falling into Upstate New York. Maddie had been born and raised in that house; it also was where she’d returned after her divorce, toting her then three-year-old son, and where she’d become determined to reinvent herself as a single mom and career woman. So she and Rafe had lived in the house with her father, Stephen Clarke, a retired professor at the local college where Maddie wound up teaching, too, though she now did it remotely. Life in Green Hills had been quiet, predictable, safe; their home hadn’t burned down the way that Grandma’s almost had two months ago.

Maddie sighed, then quickly bundled into an alpaca sweater and yesterday’s jeans. The cabin, where she and Grand ma were staying until renovations to the cottage were done, was cozy and well heated. One drawback, however, was the persistent autumn wind that often swept up from Vineyard Sound and circled around and around the compact but somewhat drafty two-bed, one-bath structure that had been built fifty years earlier and was mostly used in summers.

Bang, bang, bang. A fist hammered on the bathroom door.

“Hurry up!” Grandma barked. “They’re pulling into the driveway!”

“Yes, ma’am!” Maddie saluted because Grandma couldn’t see her.

Dabbing light blush on her coppery-burnished cheeks (a shade lighter than Grandma’s) and a touch of gloss to her lips, she heard Grandma open the front door and shout: “You’re here!” which was followed by Rafe’s jubilant laugh.

Maddie slipped into the living room as her six-foot-one, or maybe -two now, one-and-only child stepped inside and nearly swallowed her grandmother into his long arms. Though Grand ma was, indeed, spunkier since they’d reconnected last summer, sometimes she looked tinier by the day.

“Hi, honey,” Maddie said after waiting her turn, then hugging Rafe, who, though seven or eight inches taller than his mom, did not swallow her. “How was the trip?”

“Long.”

He looked even more handsome than when she’d last seen him. If nothing else, Maddie’s ex-husband, Owen, had given their son a few decent genes, though she was proudly accountable for Rafe’s shining charcoal hair (identical to hers) and his perfect, coppery skin (lighter than Maddie’s)—testaments to their Indigenous ancestors. But though she’d also like to lay claim to Rafe’s clear blue eyes (a shade of the island sky), Owen’s eyes also were blue, so she supposed it was a draw. At least Rafe had Maddie’s father’s sharp mind and her sensitivity, the latter of which was why, when Rafe had come to the Vineyard for the first time in August and learned of his true heritage, he’d wanted to stay. Thankfully, Maddie convinced him to return to college and finish his degree. With his academic focus on economics and environmental studies, she knew he’d be able to contribute a lot to the island and the Wampanoag tribe—now that he knew he was one of them.

“Never mind the hugging,” Grandma Nancy interrupted. “I want to know if Rafe has a girlfriend. I want a great-great-grandkid before I croak.”

“I’m waiting to find a nice Wampanoag girl,” he said. “So I can carry on our Indigenous line.”

“Well …” Grandma replied, unexpectedly flustered, “stop dilly-dallying, okay? I’m not getting any younger.”

“Yeah,” a familiar voice mocked from the porch. “Stop dilly-dallying. I’ve got berries to pick.”

Maddie laughed with surprise as Rex Winsted (the gentle giant, as she liked to think of him) entered the cabin, which he owned. He also owned—and was the chef at—the fabulous Lord James restaurant on the water in downtown Edgartown. He was the same height as Rafe but broader, and unlike Rafe’s full head of hair, Rex was totally bald. “By nature and Norelco,” the fifty-something man once told her.

“Don’t tell me you were Rafe’s taxi driver.” Maddie’s gaze darted between Rex and her son.

“A coincidence, Mom. He called late last night and said he had to come up-island early this morning, so he offered to pick me up at the boat.”

“You ‘had to’ make a trip up here at this hour?” Grandma asked Rex.

“I did,” he said, his bright, cinnamon eyes twinkling impishly, as they sometimes did. “In case you didn’t know, it’s not only Indigenous Peoples’ weekend. It’s also the last long weekend for leaf peepers and tour busses, so we non-Indigenous folks have to work. Which includes picking the last of my berry crop so I can make today’s special—blueberry buckle—always a hit with visitors.” He held out an empty tin pail as proof of his mission. “But have a great day Tuesday. I’ve heard it’s a memorable event.”

“Easy for you to say,” Grandma grumbled. “I haven’t foraged for anything, let alone cranberries, since I was eighty-nine. We’ll see how long I last.”

“Right,” Rex said. “My bet is you’ll survive.”

Rafe thanked him for the ride, then Rex waved his pail in good-bye, and jogged back down the porch steps and around to the backyard—his backyard—where Maddie hoped she’d left enough blueberries for his buckle, whatever that was.

After whipping up pancakes and adding the berries she’d looted the previous day, Maddie joined Grandma and Rafe at the small table that abutted the kitchen counter. Tucking into his breakfast, Rafe shared stories about college life, his studies, and his favorite thing, the rowing team. Two important regattas, one in Cambridge, the other in Saratoga Springs, New York, were still on the horizon before the fall season ended. Grandma nodded, mesmerized by all he said. Watching her watching Rafe made Maddie think about her father, alone in the Victorian back in Green Hills: He would love to be with them.

“I’m here until Wednesday morning,” Rafe continued, “so can I camp out on the couch ’til then? I promised to help Joe set up tables and stuff tomorrow for the potluck dinner on Tuesday. Which leaves today and cranberry-picking day for us to be together. Okay?”

Joe was Grandma Nancy’s much younger half brother, who’d helped Maddie in many ways since she’d showed up in July. Surprisingly, she’d remembered his lanky frame, his soft mahogany complexion, and the trademark ponytail he’d had even when she was a little girl. Rafe had developed a special bond with Joe, who was close to Maddie’s father in age, yet worlds apart in spirit, style, and outlook on life. Where Stephen—like those of his 100 percent White, British heritage—was pensive and reserved in manner and dress, Joe was casual and open, and exuded innate calm. He’d introduced Rafe to their Wampanoag culture, and Rafe gobbled every morsel.

“The sofa’s yours if you want it,” Maddie said, sipping her strong coffee. “And I’m glad you’ll be helping Joe.”

“My brother isn’t getting any younger,” Grandma butted in. “Despite that he tries to act like he’s still twenty-five when his half great-grandson is around.” Nancy and Joe were born nearly two decades apart, yet they were close. Unlike Grandma, Joe hadn’t married or had children, and he seemed to like having a family—especially with Rafe now part of it.

Rafe flashed a white-toothed smile. “Thanks. And Grandma? Not to change the subject, but I’ve been wondering if you’ll help me with something.” He leaned closer. “Will you teach me how to weave your baskets?”

Grandma Nancy’s eyebrows shot up, their spikey white and black hairs springing out in every direction. “What?”

Her handmade baskets were legendary. Maddie had learned about them when Rex and his friend Francine showed up at Grandma’s cottage in July, wanting to buy one for a friend’s baby. It turned out that for carting pies and cakes to potlucks, keeping knitting and embroidery essentials together, and even safely toting babies, Grandma Nancy’s handwoven Wampanoag baskets had been in demand for decades.

“Joe says nobody makes them like you do,” Rafe continued. “I saw some in your storage unit at the airport when I was here before. They’re so cool. And traditional, right?”

“Y-y-yes,” Grandma stammered, as if she’d suddenly become confused, an occasional occurrence. “But I never taught anyone how to make them. I-I-I don’t think I know how to do that.”

“Sure you do,” he said. “I’m a fast learner. Besides, somebody taught you, right? Was it your mother?”

She shook her head. “No. My grandmother Gladys. Gladys Nightingale.”

Spotted Fawn. Maddie remembered finding the names of their ancestors in an old family Bible. Spotted Fawn had been Nancy’s grandmother’s Wampanoag name—Maddie’s maternal great-great-grandmother, and Rafe’s great-great-great. Wow, she thought. How wonderful that Rafe wants to revive a tribal art.

“How about if we start over Christmas break?” he was asking. “I’ll be here a couple of weeks, so maybe you’ll have time to teach me then?”

Maddie didn’t ask what he thought Grandma did that could possibly keep her too busy to be with him. Nor did she ask how he would spend the rest of his winter break beyond the “couple of weeks” he’d be there. Chances were, Rafe’s father had booked what had become an annual New Year’s cruise-ship Caribbean vacation for him, his second wife, their twin daughters, and Rafe. Owen didn’t know that his son hated the crowds, the ridiculous games (as Rafe called them), and the midnight buffets. Or that Rafe mostly occupied himself by babysitting his now nine-year-old half sisters because, as he’d told Maddie, it was more fun. Every year, he read Treasure Island to them, showed them magic tricks, and helped them master swimming, though the pool was jam-packed and the water too warm. He also said he counted the hours until each cruise would be over.

Grandma lowered her voice and said, “I stopped making baskets because of my arthritis. I’m not sure I can do it anymore.”

“Maybe you can if we work together?” Rafe asked. “I bet there’s still a good market for them. And the project might help keep both of us out of trouble.”

Maddie stifled a giggle; Grandma, however, let out a big laugh, and, of course, would not say no to him. So she spit out a string of questions about what size baskets he wanted to make, and if he’d like to use ash or hickory, wide planks or thin strips. As they exchanged ideas, Grandma stuttered less and became more animated, and Maddie’s heart swelled with love for them both. Then, as Maddie finished her breakfast, she spotted a figure outside passing by the window. Rex. She quickly stood, then scooted out the front door and down the steps.

“Did I leave you enough?” she asked, prepared to apologize for having raided the last of his blueberry crop.

“Got plenty.” He tipped his pail to show a hefty mound of luscious-looking blue orbs. “I know where they hide.”

“Great. Well, happy cooking. Or baking. Whatever it entails.” She brushed back a runaway shock of her not-quite-shoulder-length hair, shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans, and rocked back and forth a little. “And thanks again for picking up Rafe.”

“Happy to help. Like I said, I had to come up-island anyway.” He gestured to the pail again.

“Well, my son has asked Nancy to teach him how to weave her baskets. He feels like he fits in here, so thanks for all you’ve done to help make that happen. But I’ll be sure he doesn’t designate you as his personal chauffeur.”

“Ha ha. I don’t mind. And he does fit in, Maddie. The same way you do.” The big man shifted onto one foot, and the other. Then he paused and looked at the ground. For a second, it seemed like he wanted to say something more. But instead of speaking, he lifted his chin, gave her a nice smile, and walked away toting his berries. He hopped in his truck and, as the ignition hummed, he raised his hand in a short wave. Then he deftly backed out of the bumpy, narrow dirt driveway as if he owned the place. Which, of course, he did.

As Maddie watched him go, she wondered why she felt disappointed that he hadn’t said more. Trying to shrug it off, she fixed her eyes on her footing and climbed the few steps back onto the porch.

Which was where Grandma now stood at the screen door, hands on her hips.

“He left awfully fast,” she groused, speaking her piece, as Grandma liked to do.

Maddie tried to act unaffected. “The Lord James will be busy today.”

“Well, while you two were jabbering, Rafe and I decided we’ll take a poll at the potluck about which style of baskets we should make.”

“Great idea.” Maddie offered half a grin and hoped that cleaning up the kitchen would dissolve her frustration. But as she maneuvered around her grandmother and went back inside, she saw Rafe standing at the sink, rinsing the dishes, and humming, so she refused to spend another second thinking about Rex. After all, life was beautiful, and friends didn’t always need to know what was going on in each other’s head.

And Rex was, indeed, just a friend.

Which was good, because Maddie had too much going on in her life to have room for anything more.

Grandma announced she needed a nap, that she’d been up too dad-blasted early and had eaten too darned many pancakes. She teetered off to the bedroom; Maddie pitched in and she and Rafe had the kitchen spotless in no time. When they were done, she asked if he wanted to go with her to Morning Glory Farm to buy fresh ingredients for her potluck contribution.

“Corn, squash, beans,” she said as they donned zippered fleeces and went outside to her old Volvo. “The Wampanoags call them the Three Sisters; they’ve been tribal staples for hundreds, if not thousands of years. When I was cleaning out Grandma’s closet, I found her well-worn recipe for ‘Three Sisters Stew.’”

“Cool,” Rafe said. “But isn’t it late for corn?”

She shook her head and tossed him the car keys. “No. But I have no idea why.” In the Berkshires, fresh corn was gone by mid-September, but supposedly, the Vineyard often got an extra month out of its crop. She’d also heard a rumor that it didn’t get as cold there or have as much snow as her hometown in the hills. As a runner, not a skier, Maddie hoped that part was true.

From his brief stay in August, Rafe remembered the way to State Road and how to get down-island to Edgartown. They rode in silence a while, each glancing outside now and then to take in the October vistas of ocean, ponds, and rolling green land decorated with red- and gold-leafed trees and white clusters of grazing sheep. “Calendar pictures,” she suddenly remembered her mother calling the island views.

“This place is neat.” Rafe interrupted her thoughts as he wheeled the car through Chilmark and into West Tisbury.

She agreed. A moment later she asked, “Have you thought any more about grad school?”

He paused, cleared his throat, and nodded. “Yup. And I’ve decided to hold off for a year.”

Unlike Owen, Maddie rarely challenged Rafe’s point of view. Instead, she gave him space, the way her father had given—and still gave—her. Rafe’s father, however, was going to be livid. “Are you still thinking about moving here in May?”

“No,” he replied.

Her heart sank a little. As badly as she’d like to see him go to grad school, she also pictured him at home here on the island, even more than she pictured herself.

Keeping a steady focus on the road, he said, “I don’t have to think about it anymore, Mom. I made my decision to live here the day you told me we’re Wampanoag. Maybe even before then. Like when I stepped off the ferry the first time.”

Reaching across the console, she gave his shoulder a light squeeze. Then she sighed. “But if we’re both living here, what will we do about your grandfather?” Though she hoped to stay with her grandmother until, well, until Nancy died, Maddie wasn’t sure she could abandon Green Hills—or her father—forever. She liked it there. The upper floor—their floor—of the house was spacious and comfortable; each room was filled with shelves packed with volumes of books—eclectic titles of fiction, biographies, history, science, politics, art, and more. When Stephen had still been teaching, he often said his dream for his “later years” had been to have a part-time job in a bookstore. Instead, since he’d retired, he’d become hooked on TV soap operas and game shows.

She shook off that last thought.

“You don’t think Grandpa will want to live here if we do?” Rafe asked.

For years, Rafe and Maddie had been Stephen’s only family. Other than a few distant cousins scattered in other states who communicated solely through tedious holiday letters, Stephen had no other relatives. And though he’d reconciled—sort of—with his mother-in-law, Grandma Nancy, last summer, he’d made no overture toward visiting again.

Maddie sighed. “Not counting a few long-ago memories, I’m afraid your grandfather has no reason to move here.”

“But he’d have us.”

“True. But let’s take it a step at a time, honey.” She looked out the side window as the up-island countryside glided past. She wasn’t sure how to tell her son that she couldn’t picture her reserved, white-shirted father—in his dress pants and leather slip-ons—relaxing on the Vineyard for more than a few days at a stretch. The closest he’d come to softening his sports-jacket-and-tie image that he’d had in the classroom was to dismiss the tie. Even now, he remained a long way from collarless, casual, denimed.

Rather than elaborating, she added, “It’s hard to imagine him being happy here, Rafe. The same way I can’t picture Grandma Nancy being happy in Green Hills.” She didn’t add that, as hopeful as she was that she’d remain there as long as Grandma was alive, Maddie also knew that one day her father might need looking after, too. With luck, the situations would not overlap one another.

Rafe laughed. “I get it. But you raised me to ‘never say never’ if I really want something.”

“That I did,” she said.

After they passed Alley’s General Store, she directed him to go right; they soon reached Morning Glory and bought more things than they needed, including a cranberry-apple pie and a jug of cider. Once on the road again, Rafe asked if they could stop at Grandma’s cottage so he could see how the restoration and renovations were progressing.

“Only if you tell me you meant it when you said you want a girlfriend who can carry our Indigenous line.”

“I meant it. If you think it would be good.”

“I think it would be wonderful. As long as you don’t base your decision on that alone. Make sure you’re a good match, and that you’re totally, head-over-heels, crazy in love.” She hoped he wouldn’t ask if that’s how she’d felt about Owen on her wedding day. Rafe did not need to know that her answer would have been no, that she’d mostly been trying to please her father by having his only child be married-with-children and living a life that might help him, a single dad, feel as if he’d done right by his little girl. Not that he’d ever said it.

“Mom!” Rafe cried. “This might shock you, but I’ve learned a few things about girls. And I do have a pretty good brain.”

She laughed. “Yes, you do.” But Maddie also knew when it came to relationships, bookish brains didn’t always equate to being smart. At fifteen, Rafe had been in love with Kiera, a sweet girl who attended public high school and whose parents owned a luncheonette in town where Kiera worked on weekends. Maddie once thought one of the good things about the small town was that kids were protected. True, Green Hills was a college town, but other than an occasional uproar during finals week, it was peaceful. Scholarly. Secure.

Kiera O’Neill had seemed like a perfect first girlfriend for Rafe. He often came home on weekends from Deerfield, where Owen had ensconced him at the noted academy. On Saturdays, after the luncheonette closed at three o’clock, the young couple walked down Main Street, holding hands, as if they were in a G-rated film. They stayed together throughout high school until Kiera’s graduation, when she told Rafe she was pregnant. Or rather, that she had been pregnant, but her mother had taken her to have an abortion because Rafe “would leave for Amherst soon,” “would rarely be home,” and “would most likely find another girl, a college girl.” With Kiera pegged for the local community college, her mother had predicted that her daughter would end up “being heartbroken, anyway.”

Rafe was the one who’d been heartbroken. He left for college and, other than Christmas break, avoided going home. One night he told Maddie he kept hoping to hear from Kiera, saying she was sorry, that they’d get back together. There would be plenty of time for them to marry and have many kids, maybe even adopt one to make up for the one she hadn’t had.

That was what he’d hoped.

Knowing her son was sensitive, yet strong, Maddie knew Rafe would weather the storm. And he did, though not until the end of his college freshman year when he came home and found out Kiera was married to a young man from North Adams who worked in the IT department at the art museum.

Rafe said he hadn’t known that she even liked art.

Maddie refrained from pointing out that one thing had nothing to do with the other.

After that, he claimed to date “now and then.” In his junior year he was with a sophomore girl (whose name Maddie couldn’t remember) for a few months, but she dropped out of Amherst because she said she wanted to travel (though he later learned she’d flunked out). Rafe weathered that, too, but Maddie knew it was more like a rainy day than the Arctic blast of a Kiera-storm.

Tipping her head against the headrest now, she closed her eyes to the hum of the engine with her son adeptly at the helm. She decided that because he’d pronounced his brain as “pretty good,” she’d let him find the way back to Menemsha.

And that’s what he did, without assistance from his mother or GPS. Or from a girl from Green Hills or Amherst or anywhere else.

It wasn’t long before they reached the cottage.

Once inside, Rafe let out a whistle. “Wow. It looks different.”

Though severe fire damage had been confined to the kitchen and living room, Maddie—with Grandma’s blessing—had decided to update much of the 1940s-era abode. New windows were in place; Sheetrocking would start in a few days. It would be a while before painting, light fixtures, and the grand finale, new furniture, would wrap up the goal of creating an old-but-brand-new home. For now, they had to dodge a sea of tarps and scaffolding and use their imaginations to envision the finished product.

“It won’t be dark and gloomy anymore,” Maddie said.

“Grandma’s gonna love it,” Rafe added.

Though, technically, Nancy was Rafe’s great-grandmother, he, too, simply called her “Grandma,” because it was easier. Besides, he’d never known his real maternal grandmother—Maddie’s mother, Hannah—who’d been killed by a hit-and-run driver when Maddie was only five. As for Owen’s mother, Rafe called her by her first name, Suzanne, because that was what the self-proclaimed socialite preferred.

“Grandma told me to pick out whatever I wanted . . .