Death on a Vineyard Beach Read Free Page B

on the deck and looked ahead. “Say, I do believe that’s Nantucket there.”
    â€œI do believe it is.”
    â€œWhat’s that ship doing there? It looks like it’s aground.”
    â€œWhat keen eyes you have, my dear. It is, indeed, a ship gone aground. It’s been there several years, I believe.”
    â€œHow romantic. A wrecked ship on the fabled island.”
    â€œHow about the two of us on the fabled island. That’s even more romantic.”
    She came and sat beside me and put her head against my shoulder. “I like being married,” she said.
    The sun was swinging low when we entered the channel leading into Nantucket harbor and became one of a steady stream of boats headed in. An hour before, as we had closed with the island and the sea around us had grown less empty, we had exchanged nudity for shorts and shirts, and were now models of well-dressed summer sailors.
    We sailed in past the lighthouse and the ferry dock, found a spot where we’d have room to swing, nosed up into the wind, and dropped anchor. I lowered the big mainsail and lashed it to the boom, and we were there.
    Zee came up from the cabin with champagne, glasses, caviar, and crackers. We sat and watched the busy harbor while we downed the wine and hors d’oeuvres. When the bottle was empty, I looked at Zee.
    â€œGo get into some going-ashore duds, my love, and pack whatever you’ll want when we explore this unknown island tomorrow. You and I have reservations for supper at eight at Vincent’s, and then two nights at the Jared Coffin House.”
    She looked at her watch and leaped to her feet. “Eight o’clock? Good grief, why didn’t you warn me?” She ducked down into the cabin. Then she hurried back out and gave me a large kiss. “You are so sweet! I thought we were going to be living on the boat!” She disappeared again.
    For two days we played tourist, enjoying our inn, taking the tour bus out to the east end of the island, walking the cobbled streets of the town, and finally finding a Jeep and going out over the sands to Great Point, where the rip reminded us of Chappaquiddick’s lonely beaches, and we’d felt much at home and had missed our surf-casting rods.
    Then we sailed for Chatham in front of a south wind.
    â€œWell, what do you think of Nantucket?” I asked, looking across the shoaly waters toward the sands of Monomoy and Cape Cod.
    â€œNot a bad island for a honeymoon,” said Zee, balancing a Sam Adams on her flat belly as she lay in the sun. “Not many trees, of course.”
    â€œThey make up for the trees by having lots of fog.”
    â€œThe Gray Lady,” agreed Zee. “I’m glad we went.Maybe we should just keep sailing from place to place forever. Maybe we should sail up to Boston to see the opera.”
    One of our presents was a set of tickets to see
Carmen
the coming weekend. After that, the honeymoon would officially be over. I wasn’t sure I wanted it to be.
    We sailed into Chatham Harbor and anchored and walked that lovely town for two days. We spent a good deal of time on the cliffs overlooking the opening in the eastern barrier beach, noting how the recent wicked storms had savaged the waterways and beachfront properties.
    â€œRemind me not to build my next house too close to the ocean,” said Zee.
    â€œOkay. Don’t build your next house too close to the ocean.”
    â€œThank you, thank you, thank you.”
    The wind was still from the south when we left Chatham and sailed west along the south shore of the cape. Zee wrote thank-you notes as we went. One long reach took us to Hyannis, where we went ashore long enough to mail the notes and get ice for our last two bottles of champagne. The next morning we had an east wind that blew us to Hadley’s, where we found a far corner of the harbor, popped those bottles, and ate the last of our caviar.
    â€œHow did you arrange for such a