The following day, Janey drover her mother’s car—her car now, if she’d simply sign the title and send it into the DMV—around the Point and down to the south side of Nantucket. The downtown area sat nearly directly across Viola Martin’s house, which defined the older estate homes in the Wainscott neighborhood of the island.
“This is a mansion,” Janey murmured as she pulled into the elegant driveway and past the tall trees. This place had been here for decades, but the white exterior looked as if it had been power washed only yesterday.
She parked next to a pale yellow car from yesteryear, her car brand-new compared to the classic beside her. Her stomach clenched as she got out of the car and opened the back door to get the food she’d picked up fifteen minutes ago.
No fake crab, that was
