Vineyard Fear Read Free

someplace,” explained George. “Grew up on a cattle ranch before he came east. Mattie and the girls went out there to meet his mother after he and Mattie got married, and the three of them fell in love with the place.”
    â€œThe twins are horse crazy,” added Zee. “And they love the mountains.”
    â€œWell, the mountains are okay . . .” grumbled Iowa.
    In the warming morning sunshine, Geraldine Miles pushed the sleeves of her sweatshirt up, then caught herself and pulled them down again, but not before I saw the bruises on her upper arms. Her eyes flicked around and met mine. She looked away.
    â€œNot a bad choice of summer vacations.” said George. “The mountains of Colorado or Martha’s Vineyard. Too bad you can’t be both places at once.”
    â€œMaybe they’ll split the season,” I said. “Half out there, half here.”
    â€œThe perfect solution,” said Zee. “I’d love to go to Colorado someday.”
    â€œThe Vineyard will do for me,” I said, wondering if that would still be true if Zee went off to medical school. How long did medical school take? Four years? And then there’d be a residency. How much longer would that be?
    â€œWell, I’d like to go out there,” said Zee.
    â€œGood idea,” said Iowa. “I’ll be glad to help, if you’ll just leave right now and stay away from my bluefish till the derby’s over this fall. Now lemme see if I’ve got any money here . . .” He pretended to dig in his pocket.
    Geraldine Miles smiled and the rest of us laughed. But I was wondering if Zee was developing a sugar foot. Was the wander-thirst on her? Was the island giving her cabin fever? First she was going to New Hampshire and now she’d like to go to Colorado.
    As things turned out, I was the one who went to Colorado. I nearly died there, in fact.

— 2 —
    Martha’s Vineyard is verdant island surrounded by golden sand beaches. It lies about five miles south of Cape Cod and lives off its tourists. Ten thousand year-round islanders play host to a hundred thousand summer visitors who bring in the money which oils the island’s gears. The year-rounders labor mightily in the summer, some working two or three jobs, some renting out their houses and summering illegally in tents or shacks; many then go on unemployment during the winter.
    Island wages are low and everything else is expensive, but summer jobs are sucked up by college students who are looking for vacation jobs with access to sea, sun, surf, and sex, and who don’t really care if they actually make any money before returning to school in the fall. More serious workers come from overseas, legally or illegally, and live wherever they can while working as hard as they can, since even low Vineyard wages are better than they can earn at home.
    Day-trippers come across from Cape Cod, take tour busrides, buy knickknacks mostly made in Asia but sold with Vineyard logos in island souvenir shops, and go back to America having done the island in half a day. Other summer visitors come for their week or two of escape from the real world. The harbors are filled with yachts, and there are great summer houses owned by the people who come for the season.
    John Skye was one of the house owners. He owned a part of what had once been a farm. The house had been built in the early 1800s, in the time before the island economy became dependent on tourism. In those days, islanders, like most coastal people, generally tried to make a living by combining farming and fishing, two of the toughest jobs imaginable. Tourism, by comparison, offered easy money, so when the island economy turned in that direction, farmers’ sons and daughters left the farms for the towns and, years later, John had bought his house, outbuildings, and land pretty cheap.
    Before I knew him, he and his first wife had come down every summer from