“Auntie,” she scolded in a hushed tone. She was going to say, “Don’t talk like that!” But her aunt was already snoring softly, so she kissed her again and slipped from the room.
* * *
Since Zoey and Gabi had agreed not to go to the hospital until Mark finished his private discussion with Ivy, on Saturday morning Gabi decided she’d attend her group meeting and Zoey walked to the farm stand for fresh eggs. The air was oppressively steamy, the scratches on her arms and legs from the rose bushes were stinging, and she was bleary-eyed because she hadn’t slept for more than three hours the night before, even though she’d been completely drained.
So when she slogged up the driveway and saw Mark patrolling the stretch of bricks in front of his convertible, she bellyached to herself,What’s he doing here anyway? He’d said he’d text. He probably came over because he expects me to make him breakfast.
When he turned in her direction and she noticed his face was red and contorted into a menacing grimace, almost all of the compassion she’d felt toward him the previous day evaporated. She understood it must have been a shock for him to see a large section of the fence flattened and splintered and a small crater dug around the roses, but couldn’t he exercise a little mercy, considering their aunt’s condition?
“Hey, Mark,” she said but didn’t pause on her way to the back door.
“Zoey!” He blared, storming toward her.
She refused to engage with him when he was this angry and when she was this emotionally fraught. “Nick and Aidan are going to fix everything. I’m going to pay for it. It’ll be taken care of before Aunt Ivy gets back. That’s all you need to know and that’s all I have to say.”
She let herself into the house and Mark followed her to the kitchen, where she set the eggs on the table. When she turned toward the sink to wash her hands, he was right in front of her, looming, physically stopping her from advancing.
“What is your problem? Move!”
“Zoey!” He took hold of her shoulders. “Listen to me. I—”
“Let go!”
She tried to shove his arms away but he pressed one hand against her back and cradled her head to his chest with the other. And that’s how she knew Ivy was gone—because her cousin, who had never been good at demonstrating affection, embraced her.
When Gabi returned from her meeting an hour later and came into the living room where they were sitting on the sofa, Zoey looked up and shook her head, unable to break the news to her. So Mark recounted a second time how he had arrived at the hospital just as Ivy was being rushed into emergency surgery, but that she died before the doctors could operate. Then Gabi dropped onto the cushion on the other side of him and he wrapped an arm around her, too. And the three of them held onto each other and wept, their aunt’s chair empty beside them.
Chapter Fourteen
Because Ivy had specified in her funeral arrangements that she wanted the reception hosted in her home, Mark agreed Nick should focus on finishing the kitchen remodel rather than tackling the attic floor project. Nick told Zoey that was a big relief, since it gave him more time to figure out how to explain that he didn’t actually know anyone who was interested in purchasing the reclaimed wood.
They were both surprised Mark didn’t want to alter Ivy’s kitchen design, but he said since the remodel was nearly done and he was in a rush to lease the place out, Nick should keep going. Without their aunt in the house, Zoey and Gabi felt strangely comforted to have so much remodeling activity going on, as a distraction from their grief. And the final result was striking, from the black granite countertops and white subway tile backsplash to the pendant lighting and new fridge that matched the oven.
Gabi loved it because it still looked retro, and while Zoey agreed, she thought it had a decidedly contemporary feel to it. “Aunt Ivy would have been thrilled. This is exactly the effect she envisioned,” she complimented Nick when he finished the project on the Tuesday after Ivy died.
“I’m sorry she didn’t get to see it…” He puffed out his cheeks and let the air leak through his lips. “And I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye to her.”
Zoey touched his arm. “I think she was saying goodbye that day you carried her upstairs. Remember what she told you?”
“She said that I’m a true gentleman and the finest craftsman on Dune Island.” Nick rubbed his brow. Or was he hiding his eyes behind his hand? “But I wishItold her how I felt about her.”
“You didn’t have to tell her. She knew because you showedher every time you were with her,” Zoey assured him.
Their conversation was interrupted by the doorbell: another fruit and cheese gift basket had arrived. Because of the year-round islanders’ bent for gossiping, word about Ivy’s death had spread quickly and the residents responded with such a generous outpouring of sympathy that Zoey could hardly keep track of all the flowers, baskets and cards they sent. She offered to share the goodies with Nick for lunch but he had to go make an emergency repair to a client’s staircase. So after saying goodbye to him, Zoey sorted the mail.
She was halfway through the pile when she opened an envelope containing a black and white photo, without an accompanying note. Glancing at the snapshot, she recognized that the young, leggy woman wearing Bermuda shorts and a crisp, white blouse was her aunt Ivy. But she wouldn’t have guessed the young man standing beside her was Mr. Witherell, were it not for his keeper’s uniform and Sea Gull Lighthouse in the background. She’d never imagined his hair as being anything other than white, wispy strands, so she was caught off guard by the dark, thick, curly locks sprouting from beneath his bell-top cap. She was also surprised to see that standing full height, he’d been taller than Ivy by about three inches.
Who sent me this?Zoey flipped the photo over. “Ivy Winslow,” was inscribed in faded black ink beside a date that was too indistinct to read. Zoey suddenly remembered her conversation with Mr. Witherell’s niece, Melissa. How she’d said there was only one girl her uncle had ever been interested in, the “Winslow girl.” Because Zoey thought of Ivy asIvy Cartwrightand Sylvia asSylvia Winslow,she had assumed Mr. Witherell was interested in Sylvia. But now she realized Melissa had been referring to Ivy by her maiden name.
Her aunt had never mentioned any romance between her and Phineas. Because Zoey knew the story of their friendship, it was now easier to believe his niece’s claim that Phineas’s feelings hadn’t amounted to more than a passing crush. But if he hadn’t been interested in Sylvia, why had he written her such upsetting letters and come to the house to speak to her, as Ivy had told them?
Maybe Ivy had been right; Mr. Witherell believed Sylvia was only marrying Marcus for his money. Perhaps in a misguided attempt to protect Ivy and her brother, he had decided to intervene? Zoey could feel her shoulders tighten as her mind began churning with other possibilities.I can’t go down that road again.
She set the photo aside so she could share it with Gabi as another reminder not to take gossip at face value. And to prove to her that Mr. Witherell hadn’t been in love with Sylvia and he hadn’tkept a photo of her by his bedside. But hehadkept an old photo of Ivy in a box in his attic, probably as a treasured memento of their youthful connection at a time when they both needed it.
Knowing how much Ivy’s friendship must have meant to him, just as it had to her aunt, Zoey included the photo on the memory board she created in Ivy’s honor for the funeral. The display also consisted of photos of Ivy as a young girl, posing with her brothers and parents. Ivy with her high-school friends. Ivy on her first day of college. Several pictured her with her sister-in-law, and several more with her extended family, including Zoey, Mark, Jessica, Gabi and their parents.
But Zoey’s favorite was the black and white photo of her aunt breaking a bottle of champagne over the bow of theBoston Ivy, with Dennis eyeing her. “Oh, what a smile he had,” she had once said and in this photo, Zoey could tell it was Ivy who’d put the radiant grin on his face.
