
I’d been planning a long weekend on Martha’s Vineyard for some time, ever since we returned from France in late August. I knew we’d wait until the summer crowds had thinned and the island settled into a quieter rhythm, punctuated only by the lives of locals and the occasional visitors like us.

At first I tried to be reasonable—ce n’est pas raisonnable, Béa!—but the thought quickly faded. Soon a softer voice kept urging me: Just do it, you’ll love it.
And that’s how the story began.

One September morning I told P. with determination, “We’re going to Martha’s Vineyard!” He looked at me, didn’t seem surprised, smiled and said, “Ooh, je sais! I know you well enough.”
So last Saturday, with the car packed—luggage, a chocolate cake, fresh produce and groceries—we boarded the ferry to the island. I’m so glad we went.