Roiled by memories, for the first time in ten years Adam drove to Quitsa Pond.
Benjamin Blaine’s classic wooden sailboat, a beautifully maintained Herreshoff built in the 1920s, was still moored where it had been when he first set foot on it. Though less painful, the image was as vivid as the last day Adam had seen this boat, in the race where he had beaten Ben for the sailing cup they both coveted.
“Well into this century,” Ben had explained to the seven-year-old Adam, “the Herreshoff brothers designed eight consecutive defenders of the America’s Cup. They built boats like this for the richest, most sophisticated families of their times—the Vanderbilts, the Whitneys.” His voice lowered, to impress on Adam the import of his next words. “To own one is a privilege, but to race one—as you someday will—is a joy. I mean for you to learn the primal joy of winning.”
Too late, Adam had discovered what it meant to surpass this man, on this boat, on these waters. Or where and how their competition would end.
Sitting at the end of the catwalk, he gazed out at the Herreshoff, then heard the soft footfalls on wood. Instinctively, he was on his feet before he saw the young woman walking toward him.
There was something familiar about her, though he could not place where he had met someone so striking and distinctive—a tall, lean body, fuller where it should be; curly black hair that ended in a widow’s peak; olive skin; large brown eyes that suggested a touch of amusement and, he somehow sensed, a volatility of mood; chiseled but strong features that, taken together, lent her an offbeat and distinctly exotic appeal. The smile she gave him contained a hint of challenge and adventure, though Adam could not imagine what he had done to earn this. Then she said, “Hello, Adam Blaine.”
“Hello.”
His tone of puzzlement caused her to appear even more amused. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
“I should, obviously. I just don’t know for what.”
The woman laughed. “Nothing a man should be embarrassed to forget. The last time you saw me you were twenty-three and I was seventeen, and a little gawky. Since then, I’d like to think I’ve ‘blossomed,’ as they say in those terrible romance novels.” She extended a cool, dry hand for him to shake, a gesture clearly meant to be ironic. “So let me reintroduce myself. I’m Rachel Ravinsky.”
“Whitney Dane’s daughter?”
“The very one. You might remember me better if our mothers had been on speaking terms.”
This was another of Clarice’s many mysteries, and, as with the others, she had been notably elusive. Remembering what everyone still believed, Adam said, “It was usually my father who offended someone—he had so many weapons in his arsenal.”
Rachel’s smile became a grin. “One in particular, I always heard. I suppose everyone says you look just like him.”
“Yup. But that’s where the resemblance ends. So are you living here?”
“Not now, but I will be for a while. I’m a writer—like my mom, but not like her at all. I’m here for a day or two, moving some stuff from New York. Come the fall, I’m hunkering down at my parents’ house to start on my first novel.”
“Then you write fiction?”
She put her hands on her hips, gazing at him in mock offense. “You haven’t read my short stories in the New Yorker?”
Adam smiled. “Sorry. I’ve been in Afghanistan. My peer group is more into National Geographic and Guns and Ammo. I don’t suppose you’ve written for them.”
“Not yet.” She cocked her head. “Aren’t you the slightest bit curious about what I’m doing on this dock?”
“A little. But I somehow sensed you’d get around to telling me.”
Once more, Rachel looked amused. “I introduced myself to Mom’s arresting new tenant, who seems to have added further intrigue to your family’s all too intriguing story. Among other things, I took the opportunity to ask her about you.”
There was something mercurial about her, Adam sensed, a certain pleasure in stirring things up. “That must’ve been interesting,” he remarked. “You don’t recognize the normal conversational boundaries, do you?”
“That was our mothers, Adam. I take the modern view that conversation involves an actual exchange of information. To my complete surprise, Carla volunteered that you were on the island. Given the familial strains, I couldn’t very well call your mom. But talking with Carla reminded me of you and this place, how you always sailed from here.” Her voice took on the quiet of reminiscence. “I didn’t really expect to find you. But I always thought this one of the most beautiful spots on the island, and now it brings back my summers here when I was young. Another life, another girl.” She gave Adam a curious look. “Back to the present,” she inquired, “how do you feel about Ms. Pacelli?”
Adam felt an edge he tried to keep out of his voice. Casually, he said, “I feel fine about her. Why wouldn’t I?”
Rachel shot him a skeptical look. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because she was your father’s lover, pregnant with his child, and an enormous embarrassment to your mother—as well as an expensive one. I can’t imagine you have no feelings about that.”
“I have a number of feelings,” Adam answered coolly. “Among them that I choose not to judge people by one sliver of their lives—short of theft, rape, child abuse, or the murder of someone who doesn’t deserve it. I don’t much like malice or unkindness, either. So I’ll leave maligning Carla to people who don’t know her. It’s good sport for the summer crowd in Chilmark, too many of whom require distraction from their lousy marriages and empty lives.”
Rachel looked defensive and a bit startled, betraying a vulnerability beneath her surface poise. “I seem to have touched a nerve. If so, I’m sorry.” She hesitated, adding quietly, “You’ve become a hard man, Adam Blaine.”
“So I understand. Also an honest one, given the choice. So what are you doing here, exactly?”
Rachel looked down, then up at him again. “Let’s start over, all right? Would you mind sitting down for a minute?”
Adam hesitated. “Seems like there’s room.”
They sat beside each other on the dock, legs dangling over the water, looking at the hilly, tree-lined meadows beyond. “I was curious,” she confessed. “When I was a teenager, I had a serious crush on you. Then suddenly you just vanished, and nobody knew why. It seemed so strange to me, and I couldn’t get you off my mind.”
Another person who wondered, Adam thought, another answer to avoid. “I certainly hope you found some surrogates.”
Rachel smiled a little, still tentative. “A few.”
“I can imagine,” Adam responded more easily. “I’ll bet there were whole weeks in the last decade when I never crossed your mind.”
“Days, anyhow. But I’m cursed with a literary imagination. Sometimes I found myself making up stories about you—what happened that summer, where you were. Now you’re back, and I can ask.”
Adam shrugged. “Why spoil a good story? I’m sure whatever you dreamed up is far better than reality.”
Rachel looked at him askance. “You really won’t tell me, will you?”
“Nope. If only because there’s really nothing to tell.”
“I guess I’ll have to wait, then. For all the thought I’ve given you, we really never knew each other. Though we may have more common history than you’re aware.”
Adam gave her a puzzled glance. “How so?”
Rachel’s returning gaze was serious. “Your mother never told you, I’m sure. But in her middle years, mine has become less buttoned up. After your father died, she explained why childhood friends became so distant.”
“So enlighten me.”
Rachel faced the water. “When they were twenty-two, your father and my mother had a summer romance. I gather it was pretty serious for both of them—though Mom won’t quite say why, the end sounds quite shattering. Including for your father, though I find that sort of difficult to imagine.”
Surprised, Adam asked, “Because he was a compulsive womanizer, you mean?”
Rachel nodded. “That, and the idea of the two of them together. I love my mom, of course—when I was a teenager, she had the patience of a saint or a stone, and needed it. She’s kind, even-tempered, and so reliable that it’s incredibly annoying. But she’s a classic WASP. There’s nothing surprising about her, and she’s certainly not a sex goddess like Carla.”
This was so like the remark of a much younger woman that Adam found himself laughing. “I wonder how your father struggled by.”
“Oh, he thinks my mother hung the moon.”
“So do a lot of people,” Adam replied. “At least as I recall. It’s heartening, if somewhat astonishing, to attribute such good taste to my father at twenty-two. Or at any age, with rare exceptions. But then you’re Whitney’s daughter, and there’s something solipsistic about how children view their parents.” Adam paused a moment, then added, “Just because you can’t imagine the man you knew looking at your mother like he did Carla Pacelli doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It just means that she was fortunate to escape.”
Rachel looked somber now. “You didn’t like him much, did you?”
“No. Not much.”
Contrary to Adam’s assessment of her, she decided to let this go. “Anyhow,” she assured him, “the summer romance I imagined for us might have ended better.”
Adam smiled at this. “My loss, I’m sure. My only excuse is that I had a girlfriend.”
“I remember—Jenny Leigh. Whatever happened with that?”
Adam felt his face go blank. “We were too young, that’s all.”
For a moment, Rachel seemed to study his expression. “So is there anyone now?”
“No. The company I work for is an agricultural consulting firm that moves me around a lot. So I’m not an ideal candidate for long-term relationships.”
A glint of mischief surfaced in her eyes. “What about short-term? Fortunately, I’m here until tomorrow.”
Adam shook his head. “I have plans, regrettably, and I’m going back to Afghanistan in two weeks. So one day’s a little too short.”
“Coward,” Rachel said in mock dismay. “Are you planning on coming back?”
“I hope to. Maybe in four months.”
“If you do, I’ll still be here.” Ruefully, she added, “No way I’ll finish with my novel in four months. Or anything like that.”
Once more, Adam could feel her uncertainty. “Whatever time it takes,” he assured her, “my father always said that the key was showing up.”
“My mother says that, too. I just hope I’ve inherited her character and perseverance.” Abruptly standing, Rachel touched his shoulder. “It’s been nice to see you, Adam. If you do get back here, please come find me.”
Without waiting for an answer, she was off, taking the catwalk toward the grassy bank with graceful, determined strides.
Pensive, Adam watched her go, then turned back to his contemplation of the pond and the sailboat. Inevitably, his mind turned back to what he could never talk about—to Rachel, or anyone else. The last fateful race when he took the Herreshoff Cup from Benjamin Blaine, striking a blow to the older man’s voracious ego. The catalyst for a chain of events that nearly destroyed a young woman, and led to Adam’s absence from Martha’s Vineyard until the moment he had come to wish for deep in his soul—the death of the man who had betrayed him.