Mason Farms covered a hundred acres in the middle of the moors at the south end of the island, not far from a local landmark called Altar Rock. A stone’s throw to the northeast was Gibbs Pond, a freshwater remnant of the last ice age. Peter knew that if hurricane winds drove the Atlantic inland, the pond and then his bogs would overflow with brackish water. His crop would be ruined by salt. As Rafe drove along the causeway between the bogs toward the sheep pasture beyond, Peter ran his eyes over the cranberry vines, heavy with red fruit.
“We could wet harvest some of it,” he said.
“Waste of good cranberries,” the foreman replied. Wet harvesting bruised the fruit more than dry-harvesting, and bruised berries fetched a lower price. Bruised berries were used for juice, dry-harvested for the grocery shelves. Wet-harvesting was faster—but it took time, care, and manpower. The bogs had to be flooded with water, then stimulated with pumps that gently dislodged the berries from the vines. Booms were unfurled and floated on the bog surface to corral the berries, while teams of harvesters in bright rubber waders swished through the flooded bog, skimming the fruit and placing it on conveyer belts that carried it to truck beds. Load after load of perfect cranberries took weeks and crew and extra equipment to harvest. Extra equipment Peter had already reserved on the mainland, intending to ship it over to Nantucket in mid-October. He usually started harvesting in late September, it was true—but this year, he’d been waiting until after his honeymoon.
When his crop could already be trashed.
“Let’s get the sheep into the shearing barn while we can,” Rafe said, “and worry about the bog tomorrow.”
In the face of a hurricane, Peter knew, saving his flock would have to be enough.
“I’m not concerned about Ted Whittaker,” Jack mused as he and Dionis humped over the sandy Tuckernuck trail in his battered spare truck Tuesday afternoon. As far as the eye could see, the surrounding moors rolled unevenly to the horizon, a map of color as their vegetation flamed with autumn. Huge flocks of gulls and terns, storm petrels and shearwaters, filled the air with raucous insults and reprisals. On the horizon, Dionis glimpsed only a bank of gray cloud and a wavering line of surf—no homes in this direction that she could see, and no human life. Tuckernuck was the emptiest place she knew, the most wildly beautiful, and the loneliest. Particularly at night. Dark as ink, once the sun went down, and vaulted with stars.
“Ted’s already got the Whaler out of North Pond and stored in the garage of the main house,” Jack continued. “Hired Will Sadler to help board up his windows. The guy listens to his radio. Says he’ll be ready to leave the island tomorrow. I’m putting him and Will on the noon boat.”
Dionis liked Ted Whittaker. He was roughly her father’s age—early sixties—a history professor who lived during the winter in a town north of Boston. Ted talked books whenever he ran into her, usually local author Nathaniel Philbrick’s, which Dionis devoured as soon as they hit the shelves. The first Whittakers had arrived on Tuckernuck sometime in the 1920s—not as deep-rooted a family as the Cabotts, but close enough. Ted was raising his grandchildren to love Tuck as much as he did. They would inherit the compound on North Pond one day—a main house and three shingled cottages sprinkled over some ten acres.
“You left a flyer at China Trade?” Jack asked as they turned left at a fork in the road and bucketed toward the next property, a 1950s Dutch Colonial in worse condition than either of them liked. Dionis had distributed her printed notices the previous day while Jack screwed plywood sheets to the window frames of empty houses.
“Yeah,” Dionis said. “Elsa was probably out working when I drove by. And Brad—” She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Jack knew all about Elsa Chamberlain’s boyfriend. He was supposed to be writing a book. It would have been nice, Dionis reflected, if Brad Kramer had spent some of his considerable spare time tacking shingles back onto China Trade’s roof. Too late, now.
Elsa Chamberlain was a professional photographer based in Providence. She could get lost for hours in the Tuckernuck landscape, capturing weather and clouds and sea and wildlife in endlessly varied combinations. She taught at the Rhode Island School of Design during the winter, but she and Brad lived completely off the grid on Tuck during the summer months. Elsa had inherited China Trade unexpectedly from a childless uncle.
“She told me in May she wanted to get some work done on the place,” Jack muttered, “but then never scheduled it. Can’t do work for free, Di, but hell—I feel bad for Elsa now. This house is going to sustain some damage.” He honked the truck horn as he rolled up to China Trade’s front door. It stood ajar, a screen shielding the entrance. Somebody was home, then.
Dionis lowered her window and called out, “Hello?”
There was no response.
Jack hit his horn again. Dionis shoved open her truck door and stepped down onto the springy grass that ran straight up to the granite threshold.
“Hello? Elsa? Brad?”
There was the sound of shattering glass from somewhere inside the house, and an explosive expletive, quickly stifled.
The screen door swung open. Brad: bare-chested, blond, with handsomely burnished skin and a gold signet on his right pinky finger. His jeans were artfully torn and his strong feet were bare. A tattoo of an octopus rolled across his six-pack abs. He’s a walking ad for sex, Dionis marveled. A half-empty handle of bourbon dangled from Brad’s left hand. It was only one-twenty in the afternoon; Dionis guessed he’d started drinking before noon. Most of the trash the Mathers carted away from China Trade was empty bottles.
“Hey, guys,” Brad said. “What’s up?”
“Is Elsa around?” Dionis called.
“Out back. In the darkroom.” Brad glanced behind him vaguely. “We got your garbage here somewhere.”
“Great!” Dionis managed. “Did you get our note yesterday? . . . About the hurricane?”
Brad took a swig from the bourbon bottle and shook his head. “What hurricane?”
“The one that’s supposed to hit tomorrow night. We’re evacuating everyone from Tuck today and tomorrow.”
Brad swayed slightly in China Trade’s doorway.
“Di,” her father murmured, low enough that Brad couldn’t hear, “just walk around to the darkroom, will you, and tell Elsa?”
“Shit. Tell Elsa!” Brad groaned, flapping his free hand.
“I’ll do that.” Released, Dionis headed for the side of the house. Jack had built Elsa Chamberlain’s free-standing darkroom in China Trade’s backyard three summers before. It had no windows to board up or shatter, and was the only structure on the property sturdy enough to weather a major storm. Elsa had found the money to pay for what really mattered to her.