And then, out of desperation, he’d called Carter Mayne.
Aunt Dot’s house was on a road that few people knew about. The first thing Reed did when he got to the cottage—after stocking up on groceries at the Stop & Shop in Edgartown, which was so overrun with tourists that again he went unrecognized—was to shut off his cell phone. And then, because he feared that shutting it off wouldn’t be enough, he threw it into the woods behind the house. He was tempted every minute of every hour to call Harper. Greenie had, somehow, heard that Harper had lost her job and left the island, although even Greenie admitted that this was merely the “word on the street.” Reed had driven by her duplex and had not seen her Bronco out front, but that didn’t mean anything. Was Harper gone? Where would she go? She had never expressed any desire to be anywhere but Martha’s Vineyard. In this they were alike.
Reed’s summer had been quiet—indeed, silent—until Sadie had somehow discovered where he was. She was the one who had wanted him out of the house, wanted him gone—she didn’t care where, just gone—and yet apparently she had called Carter and bullied him into telling her the truth: Reed was staying at Aunt Dot’s house. Or maybe bullying hadn’t been required; Carter had always been weak when it came to women.
Sadie had stopped by the house only once, ostensibly to see if he was “okay,” but she had ended up calling him names, calling Harper names, hurling insults, and then, finally, tear-stained and hiccupy, she had asked, “Do you love her?” She had not been brave enough to ask before, and Reed had been grateful.
He said, “You left a vacuum. And as I’m sure you recall from reading Aristotle, nature abhors a vacuum.”
“That’s not an answer to my question,” Sadie said.
The answer to Sadie’s question was yes: he loved Harper. To say so seemed cruel, but Sadie must have read it on his face, because she turned and left before he could say anything.
Reed lived a quiet, deliberate life in the manner of Thoreau. Being without a phone, without any way to communicate, was rather like ceasing to exist except in the present moment. He rose at four thirty (a benefit of living at the far eastern edge of the time zone, light this early) and biked to Great Rock Bight to swim, returning along North Road by six or six fifteen, before the rest of the island—most of them on their summer vacation—thought to stir. He hermited himself most of the day, reading paperback novels from Aunt Dot’s shelves. He read Elmore Leonard’s Get Shorty and Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. He read Jaws and The Caine Mutiny and This Side of Paradise, which put him to sleep four days in a row until finally he gave up on it.
He biked again at night, after dark. He fixed himself a simple supper at ten or eleven and slept fitfully, dreaming of Harper.
His neighbor two doors down was an executive with Coca-Cola from Atlanta named Dick Davenport (Reed wondered whether this was a made-up name) who stopped by to ask if Reed would mind picking up his newspaper while he was away; he had daily delivery of the Vineyard Gazette. Reed didn’t love agreeing to a regular obligation, but no sooner did Dick Davenport ask than Reed realized Dick must have mistaken him for Carter, so Reed felt he had to say yes. He then took to reading the Gazette every day—and this was how Reed discovered that Brendan Donegal had died.
Reed’s heart broke for Harper. Brendan had been Harper’s friend; he was a person she had steadfastly visited on Chappy twice a week, no excuses. The obituary in the paper detailed Brendan’s early life on the Vineyard and his surfing successes—major competitions won, endorsements. Then it described the accident on South Beach, drugs the likely culprit. He convalesced from the accident with his mother, in her home on East Beach. And a couple of days earlier, he had suffered an “accidental” pharmaceuticals overdose.
Reed feels certain that wherever Harper has been hiding, she has heard the news of Brendan’s death and will return to the Vineyard, even though the newspaper explicitly mentions that there is no service planned. Reed awakens the day after he reads the obituary and feels Harper drawing closer to the island. She’s on the ferry. She’s with Fish. She’s wearing her white denim shorts and Billy’s light-blue golf shirt; her hair, which normally hangs heavy and long, is in a ponytail, a concession to the heat.
Reed has half a mind to drive to the Vineyard Haven ferry dock to pick her up. But then he realizes he has completely abandoned all reason. He isn’t picking up Harper’s aura or her energy. Reed is a scientist. He doesn’t have a mystical bone in his body. He only pictures Harper in the white shorts and blue shirt because that was the last outfit he saw her in. It was a day or two after Billy’s reception. Reed had chanced a drive past Harper’s duplex because he had been powerless against his desire to see her and talk with her in person about what happened. He had sent her a text message asking her not to contact him, which was curt and cruel. He wanted to remedy that. But when he was on approach, he saw Harper coming out of the house. She climbed into the Bronco and drove off in haste. She was going to meet someone, Reed had thought. Probably Drew Truman. Reed had carried on to the hospital.
And as for him envisioning Harper with Fish, well, that was a given. If Harper returned to the island, she would have Fish with her.
But still, the feeling lingers—insistent, pervasive. Harper is coming home.
It’s no real surprise, then, when Reed hears the knock on his front door. It’s ten past eight at night; the sun has descended past the tree line on Sheep Crossing. It’s dusk, but not dark.
Reed tries not to anticipate. It might be the goofy neighbor or a Jehovah’s Witness, although the hour is a little late for both.
He opens the door, and there she is. She is not as he imagined her. She’s wearing jeans shorts and a Hot Tin Roof T-shirt, neither of which he’s seen before. There is something off about her face that he can’t quite pinpoint. But then again, he thinks, he isn’t the same, either. He must look like a different person to her as well.
“Harper?” he says.
She goes to him.
TABITHA
He kisses her, long and deep. It’s a skillful kiss, she thinks, but she feels nothing except a sharp stab of longing for Franklin. Chemistry between two people is a slippery, elusive thing. Love is not transferable.