Two sisters living on Martha’s Vineyard during World War II find hope in the power of storytelling when they start a wartime book club for women in this spectacular novel inspired by true events, from the New York Times bestselling author of Lilac Girls.
“A dreamy beach book that also sizzles with tension . . . another winner by one of the best historical fiction writers around.”—Fiona Davis, author of The Stolen Queen
2016: Thirty-four-year-old Mari Starwood is still grieving after her mother’s death as she travels to the storied island of Martha’s Vineyard, off the coast of Massachusetts. She’s come all the way from California with nothing but a name on a piece of paper: Elizabeth Devereaux, the famous but reclusive Vineyard painter. When Mari makes it to Mrs. Devereaux’s stunning waterfront farm under the guise of taking a painting class with her, Mrs. Devereaux begins to tell her the story of the Smith sisters, who once lived there. As the tale unfolds, Mari is shocked to learn that her relationship to this island runs deeper than she ever thought possible.
1942: The Smith girls—nineteen-year-old aspiring writer Cadence and sixteen-year-old war-obsessed Briar—are faced with the impossible task of holding their failing family farm together during World War II as the U.S. Army arrives on Martha’s Vineyard. When Briar spots German U-boats lurking off the island’s shores, and Cadence falls into an unlikely romance with a sworn enemy, their quiet lives are officially upended. In an attempt at normalcy, Cadence and her best friend, Bess, start a book club, which grows both in members and influence as they connect with a fabulous New York publisher who could make all of Cadence’s dreams come true. But all that is put at risk by a mysterious man who washes ashore—and whispers of a spy in their midst. Who in their tight-knit island community can they trust? Could this little book club change the course of the war . . . before it’s too late?
Release date:
May 27, 2025
Publisher:
Ballantine Books
Print pages:
336
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I hoisted my backpack over my shoulder and joined the crush of people streaming down the ferry’s gangplank.
I’d made it to Martha’s Vineyard at last, that storied island. I’d heard it was almost too charming. That Princess Diana had stayed there. Lots of presidents. Carly Simon and James Taylor once upon a time. There had to be something cool about it.
I stood under the canopy and scanned the people coming to meet their friends and families. Mrs. Devereaux had been so vague in her letter. Take the 9:30 ferry. I’ll fetch you in Vineyard Haven. Had I gotten the day wrong?
I wiped the sweat off my upper lip. I’d forgotten my sunglasses and was beyond jet-lagged from taking the red-eye from L.A. to Boston.
An amped-up bridal party pressed by me in a haze of Miss Dior, gold Mylar balloons bobbing above them; matching straw hats identified them as Bride and Bride Squad, as if the world didn’t know. I stepped back to let a couple not that much older than me walk by, a toddler in the father’s arms and a sweet-looking mutt leashed behind. The perfect family.
I walked across to the gray-shingled terminal building, the asphalt radiating heat, and sat cross-legged on a bench, watching the crowd of rich-looking tourists, flannel-shirted farmer types, and lunch-tote-carrying workers from the mainland. Were some headed to those stately white houses that lined the harbor, the ones probably built by men with names like Ichabod, the kitchens done over with double Sub-Zeros and too much white marble? Life was good for people here in almost-too-charming land.
I held my suede fringe bag close, one of my mother’s favorites. My high-waisted jeans and halter top had seemed right at the time when I left L.A., but from the few stares and glances cast in my direction, I now knew I looked out of place. Not that I cared much about dressing for others. I dressed for joy. And my dwindling bank account.
I’d eaten nothing since the peanuts on the plane, because the ferry snack bar offered only industrial-looking clam chowder and some shriveled hot dogs. And a ten-dollar deck of playing cards featuring a vintage Martha’s Vineyard map, which I’d bought in a moment of impulse and regretted as soon as cash changed hands.
I called Nate’s number. “This is Nate. Sorry I’m not here right now, but we’ll talk soon.” Why did he never pick up? He was always so busy with his tech start-up, which was taking forever to start up.
I sipped my bottle of club soda, an economical drink since the bubbles made me feel fuller, and watched my fellow passengers match up with their rides. A white Range Rover arrived, and the bridal party wrangled their balloons into the car and piled in. Soon a white-haired woman wearing a pink button-down shirt waved to the perfect family, and off they went, the mother fussing over the daughter or daughter-in-law.
It made me miss my own mom. Not that my mother would’ve worn anything remotely buttoned down. If a shirt didn’t have a seventies vibe, Nancy Starwood wasn’t wearing it. We’d spent hours browsing the L.A. thrift shops as a team, hunting through the racks on Melrose, on the lookout for band T’s and vintage Levi’s. All the shop owners loved her charming way and always saved her the good stuff.
Soon the crowds thinned. Where is Mrs. Devereaux? I checked my phone and found it nonresponsive. Maybe a new phone with some battery life would be a good thing to save for.
I turned the golden bracelet on my wrist, a habit I’d just acquired. Before I left L.A., I found the circle of gold hearts in the electric-pink sock my mom used to store her jewelry in. The hearts were kind of corny and the bracelet wasn’t really my mother’s style—or mine, either—but it gave me an odd sort of comfort now.
I approached a woman wearing an orange vest, who stood waving cars onto the ferry to return to the mainland. “Where’s the closest public phone? My ride hasn’t shown up.”
“Across the street,” the woman said. “Vineyard Bikes will let you use theirs.”
I dodged cars and hurried into the shop. Bikes filled every inch of the place, even hanging from the rafters, and I ran one finger along the seat of a tandem bike resting against the wall. That much togetherness would be a mistake no matter how good the relationship.
A guy I guessed was in his mid-thirties, maybe two years older than me, stood bent over an overturned bicycle, his hair pulled back in a messy bun. He spun the wheel with a satisfying ticking sound. I basked in the cool darkness of the place and admired his strong-looking back, a body part underappreciated in men.
I waved. “Hey.”
“Hey.” He looked up and tucked a stray lock behind one ear. “Great bag.”
I ran one hand down the suede, taken aback that a male human had admired a piece of my clothing, a first for me. “My mother’s. I’m sorry, but the person I was supposed to meet is a no-show. Mind if I use your phone?”
He nodded toward the counter. “Have at it.”
I dialed the number from the letter, and while it rang, I considered the bike man’s profile and decided if he’d been born in the seventeenth century he could have passed for a Flemish painter or composer.
“Is it always this crowded here?” I asked, phone to my ear.
“It’s an August Friday, so yes. March, not so much.”
I liked the way he said Mahch in that famous Massachusetts accent.
I hung up the phone. “No one there.”
I stepped to the window and checked the ferry terminal again. After paying my mother’s funeral expenses, I couldn’t afford a long cab ride.
“I’m here from L.A. Just flew into Logan this morning. How much to rent a bike to ride to Chilmark?”
“Twenty bucks a day.” He glanced at me. “But it’s a tough ride.” He straightened, brushed off his jeans, and gave me his full attention. “Used to biking?”
“I went on a Berkeley trip once back in college—toured Hershey, Pennsylvania.”
“Oh, that garden spot.”
“But it was really fun, actually.” I shooed away the image of my ex-boyfriend, Justin, riding off with Jennifer Sibley down Chocolate World Way.
“Well, you’d be fine biking the flat roads along the coast, but the roads Up-Island are hillier. Trust me, just take Stagecoach Taxi.”
“How much would that be?” I asked.
“Around sixty bucks.”
I pictured the inside of my wallet and the two twenty-dollar bills and change there. At thirty-four I should have been well past the backpacking phase of life and able to afford a taxi. Just a late bloomer, my mother had said. “That’s kind of a lot for me right now . . .”
He reached up into the rafters and pulled down a pale-green bike, a surprising feat of strength, and I stepped back to watch. I’d always found men who did physical labor more attractive than their office-working counterparts.
“I get it. It’s possible to live out here without a lot of money, but you have to be creative. I can do it for ten if that helps.”
“It does, thanks.”
He went to the counter and hovered his pen above a form.
“Name?”
“Mari Starwood.”
He smiled. “You could be a movie star with that name.”
I’d actually been christened Marigold Violet Starwood, named after a British soap my mother had a passing fancy for, but I rarely shared my full name. Not because I didn’t like it; more to avoid people’s same old jokes about it.
“Are you an actress? Being so . . .”
“So what?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” He searched my face for a few long seconds. “Beautiful.”
I glanced away, hiding my smile. He was just flirting, but that wasn’t a word I’d use to describe myself. Interesting, perhaps. But black hair and Elvira-white skin wasn’t the most sought-after vibe in L.A., where blonds ruled. Just the thought that there might be a more relaxed beauty standard here in the land of farmers and fishermen made me feel newly buoyant.
I told him I had to leave tonight on the seven-thirty ferry. I’d scored a quick turnaround flight out of Boston for less than three hundred dollars round trip.
“You’ll want to stay longer. It’s a unique place. The air alone here helps people reconsider things.”
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