In this year-long serialized novel set on the Vineyard in real time, a native Islander (“Call me Becca”) returns home after two decades to help her eccentric Uncle Abe keep his landscaping business, Pequot, afloat. Abe fears and detests Richard Moby, the CEO of an off-Island wholesale nursery, Broadway. Convinced that Moby wants to destroy Abe personally, and all Island-based landscaping/nursery businesses generally, Abe is obsessed with “taking down” Moby. A series of disastrous attacks and an ineffectual “smear campaign” did nothing to dissuade Abe. Becca and other Pequot staff did not believe Abe’s perception of Moby – until they recently learned Moby had unscrupulously taken over one Island landscaping business and undercut five other ones.

Dear P:

It never ends.

For the past 2 weeks, Uncle Abe has been sending ridiculous letters to Obama, trying to convince him that if/when he comes to the Island in August, he must take the opportunity to bring Richard Moby to justice. The letters aren’t just eccentric, they’re really out of touch with reality. He’s as gonzo as King Lear on the heath. I don’t know what to do about him. I’ve written to his sons (Ralph, Waldo and Emerson) and suggested that perhaps they could take their turns as chaperones for a bit. I’m burned out.

My mood is not just due to Abe. I’m really scared that Quincas will end up going back to Brazil because of the economy. It’s amazing to me that Pequot Nursery is even still in business. Mott quit in protest about six weeks ago; he was the highest-paid employee, and the money saved by his leaving may be what keeps us afloat. All staff have taken pay cuts (over the winter, Abe refused to follow the time-honored Vineyard tradition of putting us on temporary unemployment, because he was afraid we’d abandon him for Moby). Quincas is on staff, but his fellow Brazilians get paid for hourly or daily work, and there has been none — what little maintenance we have has been easily attended to by Quincas, with my help. And we have no new clients. None. So his friends and family aren’t getting enough work, and are heading back to South America.

Quincas is by nature a cheerful existentialist, and when I try to talk to him about his plans, he just shrugs and says, pleasantly, “There are no plans. Let’s see what happens.” We’re obviously in a relationship but it’s not gooey, we haven’t placed claims or labels on each other, so I don’t have the right to say, “Promise you won’t go back to Brazil.” Obviously he has the right to do whatever he needs to do — and he needs to work. Sure he has a job, but he’s fully aware his boss is bonkers, and we could go under any time. Richard Moby could take us over and make us part of Moby’s Vineyard Local– and Quincas, more than the rest of us, would work for Moby if it came to that. There’s an innocent amorality to his attitude; the rest of the staff — especially me! — we’d be resentful and torn up inside about letting The Enemy become The Boss.

Maybe I’m not giving Quincas enough credit — maybe I’m so fearful of his departure for greener pastures that I’m imagining him as someone he isn’t really, to protect myself. He is actually remarkably attuned to the Vineyard mentality, and he seems to love it.

Like this morning, in Cumby’s, we stopped in to get coffee before going to work (yes, I admit it, I spent the night at his place, because I needed a break from Abe’s vibe, but we snuck out early in the morning before his various friends and relatives were awake) ... a man came in, a young guy with his battered Red Sox cap on backwards, thick Yankee accent, rough hands of a carpenter. He went straight to the cash register; the place was otherwise deserted. “Ma’am I’d love to hold on to this, but you overpaid me when you gave me change,” he told the cheery middle-ager behind the counter. “You gave me an extra five dollars.” He handed her a five-dollar bill.

“Oh my goodness, thanks for being honest,” she said, and opened the register to reinstate the bill.

“Hate to do it,” the guy said, smiling, “But it just didn’t feel right to keep it. Hey, here’s another dollar, lemme get one of those scratch-off tickets.”

“Maybe you’ll be rewarded for your honesty,” smiled the cashier. Quincas squeezed my hand, and I realized I was staring at them just because there was nothing else happening in the store; but Quincas himself was also staring, with the enraptured pleasure of a sociologist stumbling upon an obscure mating ritual.

The young man took the ticket and scratched off the pewter leaf from the squares. He made a funny noise, then showed it to the cashier. “Does that mean what I think it means?” he asked eagerly.

“It means you just won $105!” said the cashier, sounding as happy about it as he was.

“Hey!” the guy looked around, really pleased but too Yankee to show it, clearly hoping there was a witness to his remarkable fortune.

Quincas immediately stepped forward and offered his hand. “Congratulations, my friend,” he grinned. “This is what my friend Becca here calls Instant Karma. It is wonderful to start your morning like this!”

The fellow glanced between us almost sheepishly. “You know, I actually do believe that karma stuff. I used to think it was a load of crap, but then I noticed when I did bad stuff to people, bad stuff happened to me. I like this kind of karma much more.” He retrieved his winnings from the cashier, thanked her, and left the store, whistling.

Quincas looked at me. “Instant Karma,” he repeated. “This is a very wise thought the man here just said. I think it will help us deal with Abe.”

Oh, Lord. “How?” I asked.

“I have an idea,” he smiled. “It might take a little while to put into action, but I’m not going anywhere.”

“Really?” I asked, in a much more loaded tone than I meant to, before I could stop myself.

Quincas gave me a funny look. “Why would I go anywhere? I have everything I could want right here. I have my job, I have my funny boss, I have my wonderful small-town moments in Cumberland Farms, and especially I have my girl.” He squeezed my hand and kissed me on the cheek, almost sheepishly.

Reader, I blushed.

Becca.

Any person or business donating $250 or more to Martha’s Vineyard Community Services can get a mention in Moby Rich as part of the Your Name Here campaign. For more information, please contact Sterling Bishop at 508-693-7900.

Vineyard novelist Nicole Galland’s critically-acclaimed works include Crossed: A Tale of the Fourth Crusade. Visit her Web site, nicolegalland.com, or find her on Facebook.