Free Vineyard Fear by Philip Craig Page A

too.”
    â€œI know, but . . .”
    â€œBut it doesn’t have an ocean? Yes it does. Down by Portsmouth.”
    â€œIt doesn’t have one where I’m going in the mountains.”
    â€œNo, I guess not.”
    â€œI’m going to miss you, too.”
    â€œGood. The more, the better.”
    We walked up to North Water Street and then out to the Harborview Hotel, where we leaned on the railing beside the street and looked out toward the outer harbor. The Edgartown lighthouse flashed its endless message to the sea. There were lights on Chappaquiddick and stars and a sliver of moon in the sky. After a while, we walked back, got in the Land Cruiser, and drove to my house. The next morning Zee ran naked out to her Jeep and brought back a shiny clean white uniform.
    â€œSmart,” I said, reaching for her. “You nurses are smart.”
    She danced away. “Don’t do that! This is my only clean uniform! Get away! I’ve got to go to work!” She ran around the room, snatching up pieces of her underwear. Then she stopped suddenly and put up her lips. I kissed them and slid my hands down her sleek brown body. “I really do have to go to work,” she said a little breathlessly.
    â€œI know.” I held her a moment longer, then let her go and stepped away. She pushed a hand through her thick, tumbled hair, looked at me thoughtfully, sighed and smiled, and went into the bathroom to ready herself for the day.
    I saw her almost every day for the rest of the month. We fished in vain from beach and boat. We fought the friendly crowds at the West Tisbury book fair and later those at the Chilmark library book sale. We brought home treasures from both. We went shellfishing and hit the Saturday morning yard sales. Then one morning she drove her little Jeep onto the early morning ferry to Woods Hole, and the world which had seemed such a good place was now, of a sudden, weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable.
    For two days I fished in the fishless sea, made complex meals which were tasteless in my mouth, and tested previously untried beers which I found as flavorless as water.On the second night after Zee left, the phone rang. It was John Skye.
    â€œWell,” he said, “my bags are packed and I’m ready to go. I’ve got a reservation for the seven o’clock boat tomorrow morning. You still want to come up to Weststock with me?”
    â€œI’m ready to roll,” I said.

— 7 —
    It takes forty-five minutes for the ferry to cross the sound between the Vineyard and Woods Hole on the mainland. By eight o’clock the next morning we were in the line of traffic emptying from the boat and headed for Falmouth. From there we went north to the Bourne Bridge over the Cape Cod Canal and finally fetched 495 North and drove toward Weststock, which lies northwest of Boston and not too far south of the New Hampshire border.
    It was a foggy, warm, damp day on the island and I was glad to be elsewhere. The ride in John’s nice, new blue Wagoneer was smooth as a baby’s behind and the countryside rolled past us like a motion picture image. It was quite unlike the rattle and bang of travel in my rusty Land Cruiser. “As we drove north, the fog and haze of the shoreline were left behind and we came out into bright sun. There was a lot of commuter traffic on the highway, but it moved along at its normal ten-miles-above-the-speed-limit pace and after a bit we were out of most of it. Green fields and trees flowed by us.
    â€œI’ve got a luncheon meeting,” said John. “At Weststock we like to clothe our business meetings with food whenever possible, since it seems to be true that food hath charms to soothe an academic breast, to soften deans, orbend a knotted prof. Personally, I’d probably be more cooperative after a cocktail or two, but some of my colleagues get spiteful and too honest for their own goods when they tipple, so we eat