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CHAPTERTWENTY-FIVE
Tuesday, June 29
The five-hour trainride and two-hour ferry ride to Martha’s Vineyard is my least favorite part of the trip. I miss the Minnow Bucket and the private closeness Connor and I had while we traveled in it. But the reward of finally reaching Connor’s house along the quiet New England village is worth it all. It is small, exactly as he described — only two bedrooms. But a castle compared to the Minnow Bucket.
It’s a powder blue-shingled building with white trim and a bright yellow door. It reminds me of the sun is rising into a blue summer sky. Inside, a palette of cream, beige and light blue flow from one room to the other. A small kitchen gleams in all white, but it doesn’t appear sterile at all. Personal and eclectic accessories that look like they have been collected over many years fill the counters and cabinets in every room.
It’s a family home. His family’s home. The one bit of his parents that remains for him and Tori.
Well-loved books with familiar titles fill the bookcases in the small living room just off of a quiet eating area in the kitchen. The bookcases are flanked by two blue and white checked chairs and two long white slipcovered sofas. A light blue and beige rug covers whitewashed wood floors, and a well-used white brick fireplace anchors the entire room. A wall of French doors leads out to a deep porch decorated like an extension of the living room complete with lamps and thick, comfy blankets. Beyond that is the cape, shining and sparkling, as the sun dances off of the quick little waves that lap the shore like an eager puppy.
Connor shows me around, stopping to introduce his parents and his childhood through photographs scattered around the house. Family snapshots show smiling faces and a trouble-making little boy who looked like he was a real handful. Connor was a lion cub.
The bedroom we share has a big king-sized bed with a linen-covered headboard. The bedding is solid white, simple and elegant. A light yellow chair sits propped against the window, well-worn and faded from the sun streaming in. The only other piece of furniture is a small double dresser painted in a cornflower blue.
“What do you think?” Connor asks, stowing our luggage in the closet.
“It’s gorgeous,” I say, taking it all in again and again. Each time I scan the room, my eyes find another small treasure — a clock, a glass jar filled with broken colorful sea glass, a piece of driftwood acting as a bookend — that makes the space feel like a home.
“I can see why it’s your favorite place on earth. It would be mine, too. I can’t believe you brought me here, Connor. It’s lovely.”
“You’re lovely.” His hands move to my jaw, capturing my face in his hands, and he bends down to kiss me. His lips are warm and inviting and press against me in a tender display of emotion. “I love you,” he says. I will never grow tired of hearing the words. Nor will I ever grow tired of saying them.
“I love you back,” I repeat.
