Free Vineyard Fear by Philip Craig

His car’s still down here, isn’t it? And he can’t drive it anyway, if his knee’s no good. You going to call Dan and Jean Wiggins? Cramer might have a grudge against them, too.”
    â€œI did that already. They’ll keep their eyes open and I’ll have a car swing out that way every now and then.”
    â€œWell, you don’t have to have a car swing out by my place. Thanks, anyway.”
    The chief rang off and I went out and got my veggies. I brought them in and washed them off and cut them up in a largish bowl. I added some salty olives and feta cheese I’d found at the A & P Deli, laced the works with some good olive oil and just a tad of vinegar, and violà! , an excellent Greek salad appeared. I ate it with homemade Italian bread and washed it down with a couple of bottles of Dos Equis, Mexico’s best beer. International cuisine. Nothing like it.
    That evening, I showered and got into my go-to-town clothes—a blue knit jersey with a little creature over the pocket and Vineyard Red shorts, both found almost new in the thrift shop, and boat shoes without socks. I know a guy at the yacht club who, on racing days, wears his captain’s hat with scrambled eggs, his blue blazer and tie, his gray slacks and boat shoes, and a red sock on his left foot and a green one on his right, symbolizing port and starboard. I was not so formal because I was only going out to eat, not out to watch the races.
    At seven, Zee’s Jeep came down the long, sandy road to my house. She got out wearing a pale pink summer dress that perfectly set off her deep tan and long blue-black hair. She was dazzling.
    â€œYou’re dazzling,” I said.
    â€œYou look pretty Vineyardish yourself.” Her teeth flashed between lips colored to match her dress. She came to me and put her face up and I kissed those lips, then licked my own as I looked down at her.
    â€œWe don’t absolutely have to go out,” I said.
    â€œYes, we do! I don’t often get an offer to eat at the restaurant of my choice and you’re not going to weasel out of taking me. So let’s go to Edgartown. You can romance me later.”
    â€œNot a really bad idea. Food first and then lust. It worked like a charm last night.”
    â€œYou have a long memory, Babar. It’s one of the things I like about you.”
    We ate at the Shiretown, where I’ve never had a bad meal. Rack of lamb for me, salmon in a croissant-like crust for Zee, washed down with very satisfactory wine. Coffee, brandy, and a chocolate torte for desert. The bill came and I paid with cash. Zee stared, aghast.
    â€œAll that?”
    â€œâ€Šâ€˜Farewell, paternal pension,’ ” I said. “But it was worth it.” The J. W. Jackson criteria for judging restaurants are three: good food, reasonable price, and good service. If I get two out of three, I’m content. If I get three out of three, I’m in heaven. If I get one or less out of three, I figure I got ripped. That goes for every kind of place, from a hot dog stand to a four-star restaurant. I explained all this to Zee.
    â€œGee,” she said, “what a sophisticated thinker you are. Tell me, have you ever actually been to a four-star restaurant?”
    â€œI saw a picture of one once in the Globe food pages. Does that count?”
    â€œClose enough for the likes of us,” said Zee. “Let’s go walk on the docks.”
    We did that, looking out at the lights of the anchored yachts and at the house lights on both sides of the harbor. Summer people were in the streets behind us, looking in shop windows and doing business at the ice cream stands and the clam shops. Zee’s arm was in mine.
    â€œIt really is a beautiful place, isn’t it?” said Zee.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou can see why all these people come here.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’m going to miss all this.”
    â€œNew Hampshire is beautiful,