Love Finds You in Martha's Vineyard (7 page)

“Eggs?”
she said, as if he really was trying to poison her. “Are you kidding?”

“No. Eggs happen to be a good source of protein and omega—”

“And
fat
!” She firmly shook her head. “No way am I eating an egg, Dad.”

He thought hard. “What if I make yours with only the egg whites? I heard the white is very low-fat.”

Her brow creased as if considering this. “What else would be in the omelet?”

“Veggies,” he said cheerfully, opening the fridge and taking out the lovely produce Vivian had brought over. “Onions, spinach, tomatoes, peppers, and—”

“I don't like any of those,” she informed him.

He blinked. “None of them?”

She shook her head no.

He thought hard. Well, to be fair, she had never been fond of those vegetables. But he figured with her new focus on nutrition, she should've been now. However, he was not going there. Not today anyway.

“Okay, how about an egg-white omelet with some, uh…” He considered his words. “Some
low-fat
cheese.”

“Low-fat cheese?”

“Yes. Some cheeses are very low in fat.” He was backpedaling now, digging in the cheese drawer of his fridge, hoping for a miracle. “Like Swiss,” he proclaimed.

“Swiss is low-fat?” she asked a bit skeptically.

“Absolutely,” he said with mock confidence. “That's what those holes are for.”

She gave him a funny look. “Okay.” Then she went back to playing her games.

Feeling like maybe he'd just won that round, he proceeded to make her a “low-fat” omelet. What was it with women and diets anyway? Who had been brainwashing her about this garbage—and how long would it take to unbrainwash her? Or was that even possible? He wondered if there was some kind of hotline for things like this: 1-800-DAD-HELP.

He finished the first omelet and, to his relief, she ate most of it, as well as the apple slices he'd put next to it. However, she turned her nose up at the chocolate milk. That was disheartening, because that had always been the one thing he could count on her eating before. Now she proclaimed it “full of fat and carbs.”

After he finished his omelet, he began cleaning up in the kitchen, and she wandered out to the TV. But she soon discovered he had no cable and, minutes later, proclaimed his new collection of DVDs “childish.” He was fearful she was about to return to her video games again.

“Maybe we can shop for some different movies together,” he offered as he hung the frying pan on the pot rack over the stove.

“Do you even
have
a video store here?” she asked sarcastically.

“Sure,” he said. “Martha's Vineyard isn't exactly the sticks.”

“That's not what Mom said.”

“There's a lot to do around here,” he told her. “Beaches to explore and—”

“Does the video store carry games?”

He shrugged as he dried his hands. “I don't know.”

“It figures. Alex told me I'd be bored out of my gourd here.”

He chuckled. “Bored out of your gourd, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Has Alex even been here?”

“No, but her friend was here one summer.”

“I see.” Blake was desperately trying to think of something to say that would bring back that old sparkle in her eyes. “I made friends with the neighbors,” he tried, “and we're invited to their house for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Do they have kids?”

“Uh…” He thought of Janice now. “Yeah, one of the ladies has a daughter.” Misleading, yes, but it wasn't exactly a lie. Mostly he simply wanted to pacify her, to assure her that they could do this…it would get better. Wouldn't it?

“Okay.” She nodded like she was envisioning a young friend for her to hang with during the summer. “I'm kinda tired, Dad. I think I'll go to my room now.”

“All right.” He felt a mixture of relief and disappointment as he watched her turn and go into her room, firmly closing the door as if to tell him to “stay out.” But to be honest, it was mostly relief he felt. He had no doubts that he was in way over his head. It seemed crystal clear: Sicily had no intention of making this easy. At this rate, he wasn't sure which one of them would give up on this summer first—her or him?

The next day started out as one of those delectable June mornings—a warm breeze wafting off the water, a few clouds wisping across a pristine blue sky. Perfect. As Blake leaned back into his Adirondack chair, gazing out toward the Sound, he stretched his long tanned legs out onto his porch and sipped a hot mug of coffee. Life was good. His daughter was sleeping in this morning. He suspected a better father would rouse her out of bed, invite her to walk on the beach and look for sea glass or shells, but he knew he wouldn't. Not today, anyway.

Despite the soft marine air drifting through his open bedroom window last night, Blake had not slept well. Instead of relishing the notion that his only and beloved daughter was finally safe and sound beneath his very own roof, the only thing Blake could think was that he'd blown it. No matter which way you sliced it, he'd messed up. The fact that Sicily was acting like a spoiled, bratty pubescent was his fault.

He'd tossed and turned, running the past ten years through his head with enough regret to make a grown man cry. He'd shed a few tears as he punished himself by replaying his many mistakes. If only he hadn't worked so much. If only he'd taken a more active part in raising Sicily. If only he hadn't moved all the way to Martha's Vineyard.

Or the biggie—if he'd somehow been able to keep his marriage together—which would've been a challenge since Gia had indulged in more than one affair during their relationship. Her rationale had been that “everyone did it,” and it was the only way to secure a role. Not that she'd scored any big contracts from her couch sessions. But she did manage to hook Gregory. Not that she was happy with him now.

On and on he'd gone, torturing himself by the light of the moon until he finally saw the gray light of dawn creeping in. Then, feeling raw and hopeless, he got up and made coffee. The sun's rising, combined with coffee, improved his outlook. Some of his old optimism was returning. He and Sicily were merely going through a rough patch.
Give her a few days to get used to things, and she'll return to her old self
. Or so he was telling himself.

“Hello there,” called a woman's voice.

Blake turned, looking toward Louise and Vivian's place, seeing a tall, unfamiliar woman coming his way. As she got closer, he could see her dark hair was cut short, curling around her face in a becoming way. She looked stylish in a turquoise polo shirt and bright-colored, madras-plaid capris. Waving toward him, she called out, “Hey, neighbor, I'm your neighbor.” She waited at the bottom of the porch steps. “Mind if I intrude?”

“Not at all.” He stood to greet her.

“I was sent over here by my mother to see if you happen to have a stick of butter we can borrow.” She smiled brightly, revealing straight white teeth.

“I'm Blake Erickson,” he said as they shook hands.

“So I've heard.” She studied him closely now. Judging by her eyes, she liked what she was seeing.

“I'm guessing you're Janice Grant.”

She looked slightly surprised. “You
already
know who I am?”

“Your mother, uh, may have mentioned you…in passing.”

“Oh.” She smiled wryly. “Well, now it makes more sense.”

“What makes sense?”

“Why my practical mother was making hotcakes without a speck of butter in the house.”

He frowned. “I'm not following you exactly.”

She laughed. “My mother's way of forcing an introduction. Sorry about that. She's not the most subtle person on the planet.”

“So do you need the butter or not?” he asked.

“Good question. I'll bet my mother
does
have butter somewhere, but she's tucked it out of sight, probably in a cupboard. I've got a mind to go back there and force her to dig it out, so I can rub her nose in it.”

“Or I could just loan you some, which I do happen to have by the way. I put in provisions a couple of days ago. In fact, I got so much stuff, you'd think I was planning on entertaining a full house”—he lowered his voice—“instead of one slightly anorexic daughter, who wouldn't touch butter with a ten-foot pole.”

Janice blinked. “Your daughter is anorexic?”

He posed a forefinger over his lips now, tipping his head toward Sicily's bedroom window, which thankfully was closed.

“Oh.” Janice nodded. “I see.”

He continued talking quietly, feeling the need to unload his worries on someone. “I picked her up yesterday. She's only nine, but she's acting like a snotty teenager already. It's like an adolescent alien invaded her being and took over. The last time I saw her, a few months ago, she was a sweet, adorable child.” He sadly shook his head. “Now she is…well, something else. And I blame myself.”

“You blame yourself?”

He nodded, noticing that his coffee mug was empty. He held it up. “Care for some coffee?”

She appeared to consider this. “Maybe so. It might do my mother good to have to wait for me to come back. Teach her a lesson about honesty.”

He opened the screen door. “Come on in.” So while he made a fresh pot of coffee, she wandered through the kitchen and great room, peppering him with questions. He told her a little about his past and unfortunate marriage, even confessing about his addiction to work. “Which is one reason I moved here…to slow down.” He handed her a cup of coffee. “I've discovered that being a driven workaholic comes with a high price, especially in relationships.”

“That's one reason I've never married.” She poured some cream into her coffee. “I knew that a husband would play second fiddle to my work.”

“At least you had the sense to figure that out first,” he said as they went back outside. “Some people have to learn the hard way.”

“So are you
still
a workaholic?” she asked as she sat down.

“No. I'm recovering…hopefully.” Then he explained about leaving the rat race behind. “So my buddy Lincoln took my condo and I took his house. We have a two-year agreement, though Lincoln is hoping it'll become permanent.” He smiled. “It's a pretty nice condo…good location.”

“And you'd give that up to live here?” She looked shocked.

“For now, and maybe longer. Mostly I just want to learn how to slow down and live my life differently.” He looked out over the water and sighed. “I'm still getting used to the pace, but I think I like it.”

She frowned slightly. “I like it for a while,” she told him. “But I couldn't handle a steady diet of this.”

“It's definitely not for everyone. I hear the winters can be hard.”

“And they're not just talking about the weather either,” she said in a warning tone. “This place empties out right after Labor Day. I was here once in midwinter, and it was a ghost town—or a ghost island. They say the population goes from fifteen thousand in off-season to a hundred thousand at the peak.”

He nodded. “I've heard that too. Some of the locals go around saying, ‘See you next fall,' because a lot of them go completely underground during summer, becoming recluses until the tourists go home.”

“Where's the fun in that?” she said. “I like the idea of popping over here from time to time in the hopes of spotting some of the rich and famous. I've hinted to Mom that I expect to get invited to some of the exciting parties I've heard about. Now that she's a full-time resident, she could rub elbows with some big names.” Janice laughed. “Although it's widely accepted that Republicans aren't terribly popular on this island.” She wrinkled her nose. “Thanks to predecessors like Clintons and Gores. But it's a free country, and I'm not afraid to express my opinions in front of anyone willing to listen, especially if they have a vote.”

“Yes, I hear you're running for state senate,” he said. “Impressive.”

“Don't be too impressed. I might not win. Not this time anyway. The first go-around is more about getting your name out there…again. My father was a senator, but it's been a long time. It's not that I'm trying to ride on his coattails. In fact, there was a time when I was certain I would never pursue politics. In a way, I think politics came after me.” She finished her coffee and smiled. “Now, as pleasant as this has been, I think I better get back to check on those hotcakes.”

“And the butter?” he offered.

“I think I'll force my mother to come clean about that.” She handed him the empty coffee mug. “Thanks, neighbor.”

“See you around,” he called as she went down the porch steps.

“Yes, I hear we're having guests for dinner tomorrow evening. I suspect that means you.”