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. His staff includes Mott, the big-brotherly general manager, and Quincas, a cute Brazilian. Abe has a paranoid hatred of 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. After a series of increasingly disastrous failures (one of which resulted in his breaking his leg), Abe recently hired Perth, an Australian con man, to spread disinformation about Broadway in a final attempt to undermine it. Meanwhile, Becca has taken a liking to Quincas, who has recently been ill.

Dear P:

So, I hear the lights aren’t so bright on Broadway, after all. Sorry about that. We’ve got a few dim bulbs around here, too, if you get my drift.

This Perth fellow has moved into Abe’s attic (what an image: a creepy, stringy-haired fellow with a pirate’s accent, taking up residence under the eaves), and has “found” information online about all the nefarious things Richard Moby and his Broadway nursery have been up to. It runs the gamut, from environmental to human rights. Did you know, for example, that Broadway imports its exotic grass seeds from Sierra Leone, the Congo and Rwanda? That it buys its plastic from the same company that produces the prison guards’ holsters at Guantanamo Bay? Did you know that Hamas and Broadway Nursery use the same offshore bank? That Richard Moby makes large annual contributions to NAMBLA? (That’s the North American Man/Boy Love Association, in case you aren’t up on your pedophiliac acronyms.)

And that’s not all. Broadway’s vegetable seeds and seedlings are all genetically modified, although the corporation fires everyone who supports stem cell research. Their potted topsoil all comes from areas that have been strip-mined, which means that (a) it is full of contaminants including heavy metals and (b) your buying it exacerbates the dust-bowl conditions of wherever the strip-mine is. And don’t forget, all the miners are under-aged; Moby buys only from places where there is child exploitation because children, weighing less than adults, compress the soil less, thereby doing less damage to the rich organic nutrients, before the soil is bagged ... in bags made from plastic that has been bought from China, Iran, or perhaps personally from Hugo Chavez. Because everyone knows that Richard Moby is great friends with Hugo Chavez. Look, here are some photos of them palling around on vacation off the coast of Chile! And here they are sipping tea with Hitler!

No, I’m just kidding about Hitler. It’s actually Saddam Hussein. And it’s not tea. It’s cocaine.

Perth is a master at Photoshop.

So ... armed with all of this ... umm ... information ... and lots of visual aids ... Abe steps out one chilly morning this past week and goes to visit the Bachelors, who are not bachelors at all, but a large, close-knit family who run a veggie farm in Oak Bluffs.

Their specialty is greens, so right now they are cheerfully doling out kale to all and sundry. There’s a greenhouse with more tender edibles, but the kale’s what makes them famous. That, and their collective demeanor: they are just about the sunniest, salt-of-the-earth-iest, least-dysfunctional family I have ever met, and they manage to do it without being saccharine, fake or belonging to a cult. Why Abe thought they’d be a good first target is beyond me — but then, the very fact he hired Perth at all suggests his judgment is a little whacked right now.

So ... he sets off to visit the Bachelors, and I, of course, follow along after him. I’m biking (I still don’t have a car), which is a drag with the icy muck on the streets, but half a mile from the house, Quincas overtakes me in his ever-shiny red sedan. He seems to know, telepathically, that Abe is up to something.

“Thanks,” I say as I get in, grateful he’s got the heat cranked up. “Sheesh, aren’t you sick of this cold?”

“Oh, no,” Quincas says peaceably. “To truly enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold. Otherwise there is no contrast, and every quality in this world exists in contrast to something else.”

I stare at him for a moment, dazzled. “Your English has improved,” I finally stammer.

“So has my attitude,” he admitted, grinning. “I used to hate the Vineyard cold too much. So,” he went on, still cheerfully, “What calamity of Abe’s must we prevent today?”

The word “calamity” has never sounded so romantic. Oh, Lordy, I have to get over this ridiculous crush — or act on it — or something. Anyhow, this story actually has a happy ending: we got to the Bachelors’ Pad (yes, that’s what they call their veggie stand), only to find Abe, looking dejected, already walking back toward his truck. Clearly the happy-go-lucky types were not interested in his apocalyptic whistle-blowing.

He gave us a suspicious look. “What are you two doing here?” he demanded. “Are you interfering?”

“You seem to have failed just fine without our interference,” I pointed out — or began to, but Quincas spoke loudly over me, “No, Boss! Today is Mrs. Bachelor’s birthday, and Becca’s gift to her is to bring me over to do a capoeira demonstration.”

Somehow I kept a straight face, and nodded. Abe looked totally perplexed.

“I am wearing Speedos underneath,” Quincas added helpfully.

“Oh, I see,” Abe said immediately, as if Quincas’s comment had suddenly become reasonable. “Have fun,” he added, and got into his truck.

Quincas turned to me, beaming, and grabbed my hand to shake it. “You played along well, Becca! We’re a great team, don’t you think?”

I’ll never wash that hand again ...

Becca

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Vineyard novelist Nicole Galland’s critically-acclaimed works include Crossed: A Tale of the Fourth Crusade. Visit her website, nicolegalland.com.