The Vineyard Sisters

By Grace Palmer

Three estranged sisters.

Two months to save their family's inn.

One secret that changes everything.

 

Warren Townsend's death brings his three estranged daughters together on Martha's Vineyard for the first time in years.

 

After the funeral, the Townsend women are all desperate to return to their own individual pursuits. But just when they're ready to leave the island for good, the last line of Warren's will binds them together forever.

 

They have two months to save their father's legacy, the Wayfarer Inn...

 

Before it gets sold to the highest bidder.

 

 

The sister who never left home, the sister who thought she had it all, and the sister they've never even met are brought together in this heartwarming, sweet women's fiction novel from author Grace Palmer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grace Palmer
• Release date: Aug 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201196585

Book preview

1

Leslie

EARLY SPRING EVENING AT THE WAYFARER INN—MARTHA’S VINEYARD

Leslie Townsend opened the door to her father’s office to see him slumped over his desk.

That wasn’t so unusual. He’d been falling asleep at his desk for months now. Afterward, he inevitably limped around clutching at his back and groaning about a crick in his neck. But he refused to stop working when there was still work to do, even if that meant passing out on his desk and drooling on a few receipts. So Leslie wasn’t surprised when she saw him folded forward, head resting on a yellow legal pad.

The old wooden floor squealed under her feet as she set a plate of steaming spaghetti next to him. She’d made his favorite: spaghetti with homemade marinara sauce from San Marzano tomatoes, oregano and basil from the small herb garden behind the Wayfarer Inn, and a mountain of freshly grated parmesan.

The smell had been wafting through the house for two hours, so when Leslie knocked on his office door, she’d expected a hearty welcome.

Instead, there was silence.

Dad? she asked gently. Dinner is served.

Nothing. No response.

She really wished he’d wake up. She had a lot to discuss with Warren Townsend. The bed and breakfast they ran on Martha’s Vineyard, the Wayfarer Inn, was in desperate need of a refresh.

But Warren—stubborn as ever—had been dragging his feet on the topic for years. Leslie needed a way to butter him up so he’d be more amenable to some changes—at least a paint job, for crying out loud!

Her forty-fifth birthday had come and gone three days ago and Leslie had been counting on that to soften his resolve. But when the day passed without a call or card from her sister, Michelle, Leslie wasn’t the only one who took it hard.

Dad wanted his daughters to get along. No matter how unlikely the possibility was after… well, after everything that had happened.

Thus the spaghetti. One part peace offering, ten parts bribe. They didn’t have time to waste. It was already the beginning of March. Renovations would need to be wrapped up before the summer season started. No inn owner could afford to miss a summer.

Good morning, Sleeping Beauty, Leslie teased in a sing-song voice. She toed the edge of the desk with her white slip-on sneaker.

Still no answer. She leaned forward to nudge him awake. It’s your favorite, Dad. Spaghetti with homemade marinara and—

The words stuck in her throat. She leaned away, taking in the sight of her father again.

Dad? She went to shake his arm.

As soon as she touched him, she jerked her hand back, knocking the plate of spaghetti in the process. It fell to the floor, splattering sauce across the worn carpet. The ceramic plate split into three jagged parts.

But Leslie didn’t hear any of it. Didn’t see any of it. Couldn’t hear a single thing beyond the pounding of her own heart.

It felt as if the sound was coming from outside of her body. As though it was actually someone else’s heart beating around her. But that wasn’t possible, of course.

There were only two of them in the room.

And only one of their hearts was beating.

Leslie snatched up his hand and pressed her fingers to the underside of his wrist, praying for a pulse. But there was nothing. No thud against her fingers. No jolting awake, wondering why she was manhandling him.

Her father’s eyes were open, she saw now. Glassy and vacant. The skin around his lips was blue-tinged. His chest didn’t rise and fall. His fingertips didn’t curl in slightly the way they so often did when he was dreaming.

Warren Townsend was gone.

Leslie let his hand come to rest gently on the desktop again. She felt like the whole world was hurtling around her, as if she was on the Tilt-a-Whirl at the Fair.

At some point in the last two hours, while she’d been stirring tomato sauce and plotting linens upgrades, her father had been in here—dying all alone.

At some point, he’d taken his last breath. Without so much as a single soul in here to help him on his way.

She looked at him again. He was still as could be. One hand half-clenched around a pen, the other stretched out as though pointing at the framed picture on the corner of his desk. Leslie’s eyes drifted to it.

In the photograph, the Townsend family was standing on the beach next to Aquinnah Cliffs. The cliffs glowed yellow and red in the setting sun. On the other side, the dark blue waters surged onto the beach, capped in foamy white.

Leslie stood on one side, a hand pressed to her forehead to hold her dirty blonde hair out of her face. Michelle, her sister, stood to her father’s left. Sensible as ever, her dark hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and tucked beneath a baseball cap. The shadow covered Michelle’s eyes, but her smile was wide and straight.

She looked like their mother. Or the few photos Leslie had of their mother, anyway.

Warren stood in the middle of his two girls in a green tropical button-down shirt. He held his daughters closer than usual here—almost as if, on some level, he knew it would be the last time they’d all be together.

She needed to call Michelle. Tell her what happened.

The first time she’d talk to her sister in years would be to deliver terrible news. Just like last time. Michelle would never pick up another call from her again.

Perhaps telling the guests should come first. After calling the police or the ambulance, of course.

Before she could move or formulate any kind of plan, the phone rang. Without thinking, she reached for it. And without thinking, she said the same thing she’d said upon answering the phone for every single one of her forty-five years.

Hello, this is the Wayfarer Inn. How may I help you?

The cord from the phone brushed across the back of her dad’s hand. Leslie grabbed it and shifted it off the side of the desk. Not that it would bother him anymore.

I’m sorry? she asked whoever was on the other end of the line. I didn’t catch that.

I wanted to see if you offer dinner or have a dining room, the caller repeated. The website only mentions breakfast.

Leslie looked down at her feet. Her sauce was everywhere. The stain would never come out.

No, we don’t, she said in a hollow voice that sounded nothing like her own. Breakfast is complimentary, but there is no lunch or dinner service. We are within walking distance of some great dining options downtown, though, and I’m always happy to make suggestions.

And what is your name? the woman asked.

Leslie Townsend, the— Manager, she nearly said. That had been her title for almost twenty years. But she was more than that now, right? Now that her dad was gone?

Was she the owner of the Wayfarer Inn? The steward? Something different? Something else?

Before she could decide, the woman mumbled, Thanks, Leslie. The call ended. Leslie replaced the phone in the cradle and stepped away from the desk.

Everything here felt wrong. There was no telling when it would ever be set right again.

2

Michelle

The Evans Home In San Francisco

Michelle Evans was completely alone.

After a week-long spring break spent refreshing their wardrobes and getting manicures, her twin daughters, Kat and Beth, had loaded into Beth’s black BMW and pulled away, headed back to college at the University of Southern California.

Her husband Tony had gone into the office two hours earlier. Michelle tried to convince him to stay, to soak up all the family time they could before it was too late, but he’d insisted he had important business to take care of. Business that was apparently more important than holding his wife together when her daughters drove away from her yet again.

Even though the girls had been in school for seven months, saying goodbye at the end of each semester break or holiday vacation never got any easier. Each time they left, Michelle cried as hard as she had the first day she’d dropped them off. As if she would never see them again.

There had been years in the past—mostly when the girls were temperamental toddlers or even more temperamental teens—when Michelle longed for a break. To have no one to take care of but herself. She wanted time to drink a hot cup of coffee in its entirety, to watch a movie from start to finish, to work on the screenplay that had been sitting unwritten in her head for over a decade.

But now that she actually had that break, Michelle longed for something to do. Someone to take care of. It was all she knew.

Don’t be ridiculous, Mom, Kat had said that afternoon before they’d left, the car idling behind her. She patted her mom’s shaking shoulders and glanced nervously up and down the street to see if they were being witnessed.

Beth joined in, looping an arm around Michelle’s waist in a half-hug. We’ll be back in a couple months for the summer.

On some level, Michelle knew the girls were right. But on another, she knew anything could happen. In Michelle’s experience, all it took was one accident, one fight, and bam—sisters became estranged. Families could shatter.

But that wouldn’t happen with her girls. Not with her family. Michelle wouldn’t let it.

Whatever the girls needed, Michelle took care of. Even now, the next care package to be sent to their dorm worm was sitting at the ready in the back of her closet. Bentonite clay masks she’d picked up at the salon, French sparkling water Tony had bought during his last business trip to Europe, and expensive Belgian chocolates Michelle ordered online.

Tony thought she spoiled them, but that’s what a mom was for, right? Or what Michelle assumed they were for, anyway. Her own mom died when she was four, so she didn’t exactly have a wealth of experience in that department.

Michelle pushed off Kat’s old bed and paced to the window. The street in front of their house curved north and disappeared behind the Parisian-style chateau at the top of the hill. There was no sign of Tony’s car.

She wanted to call the girls, but they’d be annoyed with her. They’d tease her for being a worrywart.

So instead, she called Tony.

It would be nice to know what time he’d be home so she could have dinner ready. If he had any special requests, she’d have time to run to the store or place an order at one of their favorite restaurants.

Maybe they could even go out to eat. It had been ages since they’d done that—had a good old-fashioned date night. Sushi could be fun. Maybe even dancing, if Tony was feeling fresh. Which he very rarely was. Still, Michelle could mention it on the off chance. Sometimes, he was spontaneous.

Like the first night after Kat and Beth left for school their freshman year. Tony had greased a few palms and gotten them into Waterbar without a reservation. They sat on the patio overlooking the bay, eating oysters and drinking wine and trying to find the bright side to being empty-nesters.

We can travel the world without thinking about school schedules, he’d said. And you can come with me on business trips. I’m going to Japan next month.

You want me to go with you?

Tony traveled for work a lot. Michelle almost always stayed behind with their daughters, running carpool and ferrying them to gymnastics practice. Since moving from Martha’s Vineyard to San Francisco, Michelle hadn’t been much of anywhere.

Tony had nodded. I always stay in a nice hotel with a spa. You can take a private car around the city during the days. I can pay for a tour guide if you want. And in the evenings, we’ll meet up for dinner and sightseeing.

That sounds wonderful, she’d said, feeling better already. Maybe being an empty-nester would have more pros than cons.

A month later, Tony left for Japan by himself.

This project is more of a mess than I thought, he’d explained. I’ll be working crazy hours. We wouldn’t have any time to spend together. You’d be bored.

So Michelle had stayed home after all. She’d ordered delivery every night, finished off two bottles of top-shelf Cabernet Sauvignon, and watched the Turner Classic Movies channel twenty-four-seven.

Michelle hardly understood what Tony did. When people asked, she’d wave her hand and convince them it was boring tech stuff, but she really had no idea. Tony rarely explained. His work had always been like that. Something big. Something important. Something vague.

His phone rang five times before his outgoing message played. "You’ve reached Tony Evans. Please leave a—"

Michelle didn’t bother leaving a message.

She spun away from the window and took in the girls’ room again. The closet door was open—mostly because there was no way to close it against the tsunami of clothes spilling out. Blouses and dresses and the flared chiffon skirts that Beth used to love. Almost all of it still had the designer tags dangling from the waistbands.

Sighing, she made her way downstairs and went fishing for leftovers in the fridge. Carbonara from last night beckoned. But just as quickly as she reached for it, the thought of warming it up and eating it without Tony ruined Michelle’s appetite.

She turned away and jumped up onto the counter. Pulling her phone back out, she hit the number for Tony’s secretary. Maybe Lori would know where Tony was.

You’ve reached the office of Tony Evans. How may I help you?

Hey, Lori. It’s Michelle. There was a long pause, and Michelle checked the phone to be sure she was still connected. Hello?

Sorry, Michelle. Hi, Lori said, letting out a harsh breath. Tony is… in a, uh, meeting. Right now. Can I take a message?

He’s in a meeting? Tonight? Michelle glanced at the clock. It was after seven. Tony never took client meetings after five.

Another long pause. Yes. Sorry. I’ll tell him you called?

A strange feeling settled over Michelle. The kind of wobbly feeling that she’d felt just before she passed out the day she found out about Leslie’s accident all those years ago. She felt disconnected from her body. That’s okay. I’ll text him. Thanks.

Michelle held her phone in her hands, staring at the black screen. She started formulating several different texts to him, but had no idea what to say.

Luckily, she didn’t have to come up with anything. Her screen lit up with his name. She swiped up to answer. There you are! I just called Lori looking for you.

Uh, yeah, hi, he said, voice clipped and distracted. I only have a minute.

Oh. She said you were in a meeting. I didn’t know you took meetings in the evening.

Not voluntarily, he mumbled.

Michelle waited for him to explain, but he didn’t say anything right away. She could hear muffled voices in the background, phones ringing, the shuffling of other people moving around.

When will you be home?

Well, that’s actually why I’m calling. I’m at… the police station, actually.

She gasped. Are you okay? Is anyone hurt?

Tony always drove too fast. Recklessly. Even when the girls were in the car, he’d go ten, fifteen, twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. Michelle would make jokes about him carrying precious cargo, but it never lightened his foot.

I’m fine, I’m fine, he said. It’s nothing serious. Just some ridiculous charges. It’s all getting sorted out.

She frowned. Charges for what?

I have to be careful what I say, he said. But they are accusing me and Mike of financial fraud, embezzlement, defrauding investors. That sort of thing.

Mike was the CEO of Tony’s company. He and Tony went all the way back to their fraternity days. He’d been the best man at their wedding.

They pulled us both in for questioning last week, and—

Last week? Michelle screeched, jumping off the counter. Blood filled her head, making her feet feel tingly against the terra cotta tile floor. You didn’t say anything!

Because it’s a bunch of B.S., he said. But now, they have us down here in custody, so I figured I should let you know what’s going on.

Michelle felt like she was dreaming. Trapped in a nonsensical nightmare. "So what actually is going on?" she croaked.

I just told you, Tony snapped. We’re being questioned again and they filed formal charges.

What does that mean? That means they have something on you, right? she asked.

Tony sighed. This is why I didn’t tell you. Because I knew you’d blow it out of proportion. Everything is fine.

It doesn’t seem fine! What did you—

I have to go, Tony interrupted sharply. I just wanted you to know I’d been charged and wouldn’t be home. This will be taken care of soon.

Before Michelle could say anything else, he hung up. The line fell into silence. And Michelle was left in her big, beautiful, empty house…

Completely and utterly alone.

3

Jill

SCHENECTADY, NEW YORK—AMELIA RUTHERS’S HOME—TWO DAYS AFTER WARREN’S DEATH

When the unknown number appeared on Jill Ruthers’s phone, she didn’t even hesitate to dismiss the call. She had her mother to thank for all the spam calls. Or rather, her mother’s dementia.

Before Jill and her brother had realized their mother was slipping away, she’d responded to every spam email that appeared in her inbox. Called back every scammer who left her a message. Entered the whole family into one nonexistent sweepstakes after the next.

Now, two years since the diagnosis, Jill’s phone lit up day and night.

Jill shoved her phone back down in her pocket and then cursed when she caught sight of the eggs in the nonstick skillet. Burnt.

"Oh, come on," she muttered to herself.

Her mom wouldn’t eat the eggs if they were even a little burnt. The tiniest bit of golden-brown caramelization was enough for Amelia to turn her nose up.

Expect regression, the doctor had told Jill. By the fifth and sixth stages of the disease, everyday tasks will become difficult. I don’t want to scare you, but I want you to be prepared.

Jill didn’t think there was a way to be prepared to watch the only parent you’ve ever known disintegrate before your eyes.

Part of her felt like this all might be easier if her dad was in the picture. But he wasn’t just absent—he was an absolute ghost. Try as Jill might to loosen her tongue, her mother had never let a single crumb of information drop about the man who had given Jill and Grayson half of their DNA.

Or, shoot, maybe it wouldn’t be easier if there was a father in the picture. Maybe it was better that Jill could put what little energy she had left at the end of the day into caring for her mom, instead of splitting it between a sick parent and a grieving one.

Jill tipped the ruined eggs into the trash can, dropped the skillet back onto the stove top, and cracked two more eggs. It was the only meal she could guarantee her mom would eat. So long as she cooked them properly.

Jill widened her eyes and shook out her shoulders. "Focus, Jill, she counseled herself. She’d been distracted lately. Wandering," as her mom used to call it.

Her boss had mentioned it, too—her wandering. To be fair, Jeff had mostly been referring to the way Jill was no longer stopping in his office on her way to the break room to see if he needed coffee or a snack or anything at all, really. The way she no longer listened for the sound of his footsteps coming down the hallway so she could smile up at him as he passed.

He'd married his fiancé two weeks earlier in a big church ceremony. Jill hadn’t been invited.

Before that, the flirting between them felt harmless. Now, Jill had to set boundaries. For everyone’s sake. She knew what harmless dalliances could lead to. What kind of long-term damage they could cause.

You don’t need to cook for me, Jilly, her mom called from her rocking chair in the living room. She was watching a Perry Mason episode she’d seen a hundred times before. Jill only had ten of them recorded on the DVR, but Amelia watched them over and over again. I’m happy to do it myself.

Jill knew just how true that was. It was why she unplugged the stove during the day and padlocked the cabinet with access to the outlet. The last thing they needed was a repeat of the melted spoon that had nearly caused a kitchen fire. Thankfully, the mailman had smelled smoke and knocked on the front door.

Soon, her mom would need to be in a home with round-the-clock care. But not today. Not yet.

I love cooking for you, Mama. In fact, it’s almost done. Melted butter pooled in the center of the toast and the eggs were still steaming when Jill walked into the living room with their plates. Dinner is served, she announced.

Eating in the living room? Her mom raised her thin eyebrows high. We always eat at the table.

I thought we’d try something different this time. Jill grabbed the two television trays she stored against the wall behind her mom’s chair.

Amelia was wrong—they ate in the living room every night now. Most nights, Jill came over after work and sat with her mom while she ate whatever meal the delivery service had dropped off.

Garden pizza with a breadstick. Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes and gravy. A square of lasagna with fruit and Jell-O.

But on the days they didn’t deliver three meals per day, Jill stopped by and made something for the both of them. Nine times out of ten, they ate eggs and toast.

How’s school? Amelia asked, using her fork and knife to slice off a sliver of egg. Her movements were as poised and graceful as ever.

I graduated, Ma, Jill reminded her. Thirty years ago, she added silently. I’m working reception at a design firm now.

Her mom chewed and nodded. Oh, that’s right. How is that?

The work is fine, but I’m not sure about my boss.

Is she arrogant?

"He is a good boss, but he likes to blur the professional/personal boundary."

Her mom hummed, brow furrowed. It makes sense. You’re a beautiful girl. But just tell him you have a boyfriend.

I don’t want to lie. Besides, I think being direct might be the—

A lie? It isn’t a lie. Tell the man about Derek.

Jill closed her eyes and sighed. Derek had been her high school boyfriend. A soccer player with shaggy blonde hair and bright blue eyes. They’d broken up one week after graduation.

It was common for her mom to backslide into old memories and live in them. Like slipping into a pair of well-worn jeans. New memories chafed against what her brain remembered; they didn’t fit right.

But the old ones were comfortable. Easy. Familiar.

That was something else the doctor had warned Jill about early on. At first, it was jarring. Now, it was commonplace. Jill had learned not to fight it.

I suppose I could tell him about Derek, Jill sighed, pushing a strawberry around her plate. Thanks for the idea, Mom.

Is Grayson going to come out of his bedroom and eat? A growing boy shouldn’t be skipping meals.

Jill winced. Some days