Page 3 of One Last Night

I have worked for many wealthy people since leaving my teaching job and becoming a governess three years ago, and many of their webs have spiders that are alive, well, and hungry. What makes Martha’s Vineyard different is that this entire island is filled with the wealthy. And it’s an island. I am taking a ferry to it. If I want to escape, I shall have to do so slowly and on a schedule with which all the spiders will be familiar.

I make no claim that these thoughts are rational, only that they’re inescapable. Since they refuse to leave my mind, I push them to the background. Perhaps they’ll crowd out the shoebox of letters resting there now.

I focus instead on the beauty of the island as I drive my minivan off of the ferry. The surf gently caresses the white sand beaches and grassy bluffs. The trees—their leaves still green asit is only late September—sway in the gentle breeze and seem to welcome me joyously with their slowly waving branches. The houses gleam elegantly under the bright morning sun, tall and statuesque yet somehow modest despite their covered porches and elegant construction. Perhaps it’s because no house stands out more than another. Each is different, but none are superior.

I relax slightly. After all, notallwealthy people are venomous. The George’s—the family I worked for over the summer—were delightful people. And the Tylers were wonderful as well. I worked for them two summers before this one. And really, most of the others were perfectly decent. It’s only that they had creatures crawling in their corners. I can’t blame them for not seeing what hid in the shadows.

I chuckle to myself. "Look at you, Mary. Once again, trying to read a novel from the back of a soup can."

That’s something Sean says to me sometimes. I look at something simple and infer all of this hidden meaning from it when there’s nothing to read into. The day is beautiful, and the houses are pretty. The island is full of wealthy people, and the leaves are green. There’s no need for any of that to mean anything more than it does.

I reach my employer’s residence fifteen minutes later. This residence is very muchnotlike the others. The house is more of a mansion than a house. It is, I would guess, twelve thousand square feet and three stories tall with an attic above. It sprawls luxuriously over a beautifully sculpted front lot, and behind it stretches forty acres of prime vineyard.

While grapes grow well all over Martha’s Vineyard and many homes have an acre or so of land dedicated to personal winemaking, there were no commercial winemaking concerns on the island until two families opened small prestige vineyards on land behind their homes. One family, the Cartwrights, has a vineyard adjacent to this one.

This one belongs to Victoria Bellamy, matriarch of the Bellamy family, the owners of Continental Vineyards. The bulk of their commercial enterprise is located on thirty-five thousand acres on the mainland, most of it in Massachusetts, with some satellite wineries in California and Oregon. However, they've converted their home vineyard into a commercial one. I understand they intend for this vintage to be their finest and sold in exceptionally limited quantities at quite steep prices.

I’m not here to concern myself with their business, however. I am here as a tutor for Victoria’s grandchildren, Nathan and Luann. Their old tutor left over the summer due to a death in their family, and I’m taking over for the last two years of their high school education. I sometimes find it odd that wealthy families so often choose to educate their children at home, Buit if they didn’t, I would have trouble finding work as a governess, so I suppose I can’t complain.

I park the minivan in front of the house and step out. Before I can retrieve my luggage, a stately voice calls, “Please don’t trouble yourself, Miss Wilcox. I’ll have Grant take your luggage.”

I turn to the voice to see a woman as stately as her voice descending the steps. As a semi-public figure, her age of sixty-seven is well-known, but she appears a full twenty years younger. It’s not until she reaches me, that the weight in her eyes and the lines at the corners of her mouth give away her true maturity.

I smile and bow slightly. “It’s wonderful to meet you in person, Mrs. Bellamy.”

She laughs. “Please, call me Victoria. Ever since Parker died, I’ve rather enjoyed using my given name rather than my married one.”

I'm not sure what to make of that, so I only say, "Victoria, it is."

A tall, beautiful god of a man approaches the minivan and says in a mellifluous voice, “I’ll take your luggage for you, ma’am.”

I am in love with Sean, but I must admit I blush when the Adonis takes my luggage. My admiration must be noticeable, because Veronica winks at me and says, “I hired him for his work ethic and gentle spirit, but it doesn’t hurt that he’s beautiful either.”

My blush deepens. “Are the twins here?”

“No, they’re out at the beach with their father. Enjoying the warmth before it’s gone. You’ll meet them tonight at dinner.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“Come!” she says, “Let me show you around. Grant will leave your luggage in your room, and… Oh, leave the car keys on the driver’s seat. He’ll park your van as well.”

I comply, then follow her up the porch into the house.

“You’ve seen the gardens,” she says. “Though Julian—that’s my son–says I shouldn’t call them that as they’re only a lawn with bushes. ‘Not even a proper fountain,’ he says. Ha! As though we’re English Lords or something.” She stops and looks at me with chagrin. “Oh, Mary, I’m so sorry. How rude of me.”

“Nothing to apologize for. I was just telling my fiancé that I’m far more American than I am British.”

“Have you lived here long, then?”

“Ever since I was eleven years old.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh, wow! But your accent is so strong!”

My accent is actually quite mild, more of the softened one known as a Transatlantic accent than a British one, but I don’t correct her. “It’s one of the few things I’ve retained from my British heritage. That, and my love of tea, although even then, I prefer coffee in the mornings.”

“So do I,” Victoria agrees, leading me onward. “We’ll have to share a cup or two. Anyway, the house is large, but fairly typical of New England.”

She’s right, but I am a little surprised that she would be so dismissive of her own home. “Your furniture is lovely,” I tell her. “Is it all mahogany?”

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