They each had another glass of wine, then a glass of some persimmon cordial that the bartender pressed on them—she had received a complimentary bottle from her wine rep and was anxious to be rid of it—and the next thing Harper knew, she and Dr. Zimmer were kissing like teenagers in the backseat of his Lexus. The details were hazy, but Harper knows that she did not invite herself into his car, so he must have enticed her.
It went on like that—clandestine meetings whenever Reed worked late. They would meet by the East Chop Beach Club or in the back parking lot of the ice rink. And then, in the spring, Reed finally agreed it would be safer to meet at her duplex. Three weeks ago, when Harper told Reed she was going on a date with “Sergeant Andrew Truman of the EPD—you know him, right?” Reed had left the hospital to meet her at her duplex in the middle of the day.
He was jealous, he said. He knew it was unfair, but he didn’t want Harper to start dating Drew.
She had laughed. You can’t ask me to do that, she said. You can’t ask me to do anything. You’re married.
Harper stares at the Lexus a few seconds longer. It’s a black car, baking in the sun.
Good-bye, Reed, she thinks. Her stomach is hollow and sour. She wants to leave him a note or a sign—a heart drawn in the yellow pollen on his back window—but she can’t.
She pulls out of the parking lot and considers driving by the Upper Crust to see if it’s open, if Sadie is there. Harper would just as soon believe that Sadie is back at work as that she has hung a sign on the door that reads: CLOSED: HUSBAND CHEATED ON ME. Harper is afraid to drive by the shop; she’s afraid that Sadie will see her. She’s afraid to drive around the island. She could bump into Dee, Billy’s nurse, who sold Harper and Reed out, or she could bump into Franklin Phelps, Sadie’s brother, whom Harper had always counted as a friendly acquaintance. She loved going to hear Franklin sing at the Ritz—now she can’t show her face in the audience again. She could bump into Drew or Chief Oberg or one of the Snyder sisters, all of whom would know by now that Harper is a faithless catastrophe.
But Harper has to drive through Edgartown—right down Main Street, in fact—to get to the Chappy ferry. There’s simply no way around it.
Before this week, Harper had loved Edgartown. There are certainly things to love about the rest of Martha’s Vineyard—the low stone walls, the farms, the cliffs of Aquinnah, the wild beauty of Great Rock Bight, the gritty fishiness of Menemsha, the Methodist campground and Tabernacle in Oak Bluffs—but Edgartown is still the crown jewel of the Vineyard, in Harper’s mind. Or maybe that’s just because of a snobby aesthetic preference she inherited from Eleanor. Edgartown is like Nantucket: it has an architectural integrity and an elegance that Harper finds powerful. The Old Whaling Church and the Daniel Fisher house are like the grandparents of town—old, white, and stately. Harper loves all the clapboard homes with the voluptuous window boxes on North Water Street. Main Street has the best shopping and the restaurants with the most delicious food. Edgartown has the prettiest harborfront and the most picturesque lighthouse.
Edgartown would be a fine place for Eleanor to open a boutique. Harper had long thought this and even suggested it once, but her mother had merely laughed.
Not on Billy’s island, she’d said. That would be the last place I’d pick.
Harper lines up for the Chappy ferry. She has to say good-bye to Brendan, not only for her own peace of mind but also because she can’t stand to think of him wondering why she’s disappeared.
How can Harper explain what exists between her and Brendan Donegal?
Harper had known Brendan when she was younger, in her twenties, and spending every spare moment on South Beach. This was before she worked for Jude. Back in Harper’s first days on the Vineyard, she scooped ice cream at Mad Martha’s and sold tickets at the Flying Horses carousel. On her days off, she cultivated a group of friends at South Beach—surfers and the girls who loved them. Among this group, Brendan Donegal was legend, the best surfer the Vineyard had seen in fifty years. He had been sponsored by Rip Curl since he was in high school, and although he had traveled all over the world—Oahu, Maui, Tahiti, Sydney, Perth, South Africa—he always spent the month of August at home on South Beach.
He drank and smoked pot at the bonfires. Everyone did.
Harper lost track of Brendan for a bunch of years. They had never been close, never hooked up. Harper had been downright thrilled when Brendan had, one day, wandered into Mad Martha’s, ordered a double scoop of shark attack ice cream (vanilla ice cream colored blue, with white chocolate chunks and raspberry swirl, a wonderfully sick joke and very, very popular), and called Harper by name.
He had returned to the Vineyard for good, people said, to establish a surfing school. But shortly thereafter, he had an accident.
He’d been high on something stronger than weed, and he’d gone out in prehurricane swells. The waves were real monsters, although presumably nothing Brendan Donegal couldn’t handle. But the combination of the drugs and the waves got him. People spotting thought he was gone. He was under forever, his buddy Spyder said. But then they saw his board pop up, and shortly thereafter Brendan became visible in the washout. Spyder dragged him out and performed CPR; the Edgartown Fire Department showed up seconds later and brought him back from the dead.
It was a tremendous story—until it became clear that Brendan wasn’t the same after that. Simple tasks eluded him. He could watch TV but couldn’t read. He could ride a bike but couldn’t tie his shoes. He could not surf, could not own or operate a surf school. That dream was over.
Thank goodness Brendan’s mother, a woman who was only ever referred to as Mrs. Donegal, was wealthy and owned a house on Chappy’s East Beach that had a guest cottage where Brendan could live; he went to occupational therapy once a week in Falmouth to try to regain at least part of what he once had.
After Harper got fired by Jude, she was left with nowhere to go during the day. It was autumn, and Harper had wanted to ride her mountain bike, but she feared that one of Jude’s work trucks would run her off the road. She couldn’t take Fish to Great Rock Bight or take yoga—too public—nor could she drink all day at the Wharf or the Ritz because Joey Bowen still had friends there.
And so, at that confusing and painful time in her life, Harper went to the place many Vineyarders go when they want to get away: Chappaquiddick. She started out by packing up for the day with Fish and heading out to Cape Poge with her surf-casting rod, but the weather soon grew too chilly, at which point Harper sought refuge at Mytoi.