The Identicals(83)

They sit down to dinner promptly at six. Franklin’s mother doesn’t believe in a cocktail hour; she claims hors d’oeuvres ruin the appetite. She also has no use for seasonality. It’s mid-July, and she has made a pot roast with potatoes and carrots and onions, snowflake rolls from scratch, and an iceberg salad with bottled blue cheese dressing. Franklin has warned his mother that one day the Martha’s Vineyard farmer’s market police are going to arrest her simply for serving iceberg lettuce. But Lydia feels no shame.

Franklin sweats his way through the meal in more ways than one. All he can do is hope that his mother made pie for dessert—peach or triple berry. He pictures Tabitha rolling Paul Revere’s Ride onto the powder-room walls, a few specks of paint dotting her nose. She had told him, right before he left, that Wyatt, her children’s father, was a professional housepainter and had long ago taught her how to tape off a room. The thunderbolt of jealousy Franklin experienced nearly caused him to pass out.

It was only on the way to his parents’ house that he thought, Children? He has only heard about the daughter, Ainsley.

“So,” Sadie says, contributing to conversation for the first time. “Where are you working these days, Frankie?” The childhood nickname is a playful touch. Maybe she’s not as damaged as she looks. But even so, Franklin can’t own up to the truth. He harbors the naive belief that if he just lets some more time pass, Sadie’s mind-set will improve, and she won’t care when he tells her he’s seeing Tabitha Frost.

And the word seeing doesn’t begin to convey how he feels. He’s gobsmacked. He’s neck-deep in emotion for the woman.

“Cuttyhunk,” he says nonchalantly.

“Really?” she says. Her tone is indecipherable. Is she calling his bluff or merely impressed?

“Really,” he says.

“So you’re using the boat, then?” she asks. “You should take me over there sometime.”

“We can all go!” Lydia says.

“Now, now, honey,” Al says. “Franklin is working.”

“I am working,” Franklin says. “Believe me, there’s nothing I’d rather do than have the three of you join me for a leisurely day on Cuttyhunk, but it isn’t really feasible with the project I’m involved in.”

“Of course not,” Al says.

Sadie stares at him.



Franklin leaves his parents’ house that evening with his secret intact. But how much longer can he hope to keep it that way?

Not much longer, we all suspect. Because who has ever successfully kept a secret on this island?



It’s three days later when Tad Morrissey is backing up in the parking lot of Cottle’s lumberyard in Edgartown and gets T-boned from the right by Roger Door, who had parked in the Cottle’s lot but spent nearly an hour over at Coop’s Bait & Tackle talking about where the stripers are running—and, apparently, nipping from the flask of Bushmills he takes with him everywhere.

Tad recognizes Roger Door but doesn’t properly know him, and the accident has brought out Tad’s infrequently seen Irish temper.

“What the hell?” he shouts. “You just rammed right into me!”

Roger Door tucks the flask under the passenger seat and climbs out of his truck to inspect the damage he did to the vehicle of the angry young man. His wife, Cecily, is going to clobber him. Roger has retired as a general contractor and now works solely as an odd-jobs man, but he is selective with his clients and therefore spends most of his time either fishing in his thirteen-foot Whaler or golfing with Smitty at Farm Neck. And drinking, of course—but only during the day. Roger Door is routinely in bed by eight thirty.

Tad also gets out to inspect the damage and finds a dent the size of Quitsa Pond in the side panel of his F-250. He feels heat rising from the soles of his feet, and his hands start to itch. He wants to punch the old man right in the face—break his nose, bust open his lip. Tad feels about his truck the way most people feel about their children.

“Sorry about that,” Roger says. He steps closer to Tad and lowers his voice. “Think we can work something out without getting insurance involved?”

“Like hell,” Tad says. He has lived on the island for seven years and has seen the likes of Roger Door way too often—old salts who think they can say anything and do anything because one of their ancestors was banging the original Martha-who-owned-the-vineyard. “I’m calling the police.”

Roger Door’s shoulders slump. Cecily will have his head on a platter.



A little while later, Sergeant Drew Truman is on the scene, filing an accident report. He knows Roger Door from the Rotary Club, which is a point in Roger’s favor, although it seems like Roger might be at fault.

“Give him a Breathalyzer!” Tad says. “He’s been drinking.”

“I beg your pardon, young man,” Roger says.

“I have to get back to work!” Tad says, pointing to the back of his pickup, which is filled with two-by-fours and sheets of plywood. “I’m on a deadline.”

Is it possible that Roger Door has been drinking? Drew wonders. It’s only eleven o’clock in the morning. The younger gentleman is calling for a Breathalyzer, but it comes across as though he’s telling Drew how to do his job, at which Drew takes umbrage. He decides just to give Roger Door a moving violation and puts him at fault for the accident. Their insurance companies can battle it out.