In this serialized novel set on the Vineyard in real time, a native Islander (“Call me Becca”) returns home after many years to help her eccentric Uncle Abe keep his landscaping business, Pequot, afloat. Abe has a paranoid hatred of Richard Moby, the CEO of an off-Island wholesale nursery. He is convinced that Moby wants to destroy Abe personally, as well as all Island-based landscaping/nursery businesses. Abe is now obsessed with “taking down” Moby before Moby can damage Pequot or any other Island grower. His melodramatic efforts have so far led to failure and embarrassment, but does that blunt his dedication to warning the Island of Moby’s encroaching evil? No.

Dear P:

So of course the madness of Uncle Abe and Mr. Moby continues.

A brief post-Possible-Dreams summary: When the dust had settled, Moby had donated $20,000 to Community Services and Uncle Abe therefore owed Moby a Pequot garden design — which would actually be designed by Abe’s ex-wife Gwen, who is now Moby’s girlfriend. (This resembles the dynamics of a lot of Vineyard businesses.) Also, as a condition of Moby’s donation, the design had to include a magnolia tree, which goes against every principle of Pequot’s design philosophy.

The next day there was a parley in the kitchen of Abe’s house, attended by Abe, Gwen, Moby and myself (family dictates that when Abe and Gwen are in the same room, I must be present to prevent the Apocalypse). Abe announced that the magnolia tree would be used in the design by being ground up as mulch around other trees. To my surprise (and Abe’s glee), Gwen found Abe amusing. Moby did not — nor did he appreciate Gwen’s reaction. So now two alpha-bulls were competing in a small, stuffy room over 1, Gwen, 2, the garden design and 3, community’s perception of each of them. And I’m the mediator! Fun!

To make a long story shortish: Moby made the donation to Martha’s Vineyard Community Sservice, and Abe and Gwen between them made a matching contribution in lieu of the garden design. That was my idea and I polished my halo not a few times about it, believing I had achieved a permanent stand-down on the Abe-Moby conflict. Ha. Ha. Ha.

Last Sunday was the Martha’s Vineyard Festival. Ocean Park was fenced off, but those with cottages along the park just hung out on their porches. Fran, Pequot’s accountant, lives in one of those houses (a rare winterized one), and invited the whole staff over. It was great to be all together doing something pleasant: Quincas, who lives for music, was in seventh heaven; Abe was happily drunk (he gets mellow when he’s sloshed) and even Mott was in a chipper mood.

Until Cherry Bomb wandered by.

His real name is Jonah Jereboam, and he’s a one-man landscape company. When he first came to the Island, maybe 25 years ago, mispronunciations turned “Jereboam” to “Cherry Bomb,” and that (or “Bomber”) is what he’s been called ever since. The name suits him: he’s a shortish, roundish fellow with curly, carrot-colored hair and a pink complexion. Like Mr. Fezziwig from Christmas Carol.

He’s strolling along Ocean avenue, sees us, and comes over, reaches up to the porch to shake hands. “Abe around?” he asks.

“He’s inside getting drunk. Why?”

“Well,” Cherry Bomb says, with a funny expression, as if he’s trying not to make too big a deal out of something he actually considers a big deal. “Just wanted to tell him about an off-Island distributor I’m having troubles with. Make sure he stays away from ’em. Place called Broadway Nursery —“

“Yes, Jonah?” says Abe’s slightly slurred voice behind us. (Abe’s not given to using nicknames.) Mott and I suppress groans, then shift aside so Abe can reach the railing.

Suddenly Bomber looks nervous. “Hey, Abe, I’m sure you don’t do much with the wholesale places, but I had a disagreement with them, never mind why, long story — and my next order? The plants from that order are all dying of a root fungus. I can’t prove it but I have a hunch Broadway infected them deliberately.” (The Bomber is known and respected for his hunches, even by those who are not the hunch-respecting type). “Just wanted to say avoid those guys if you can.”

An interminable pause as Mott and I stare at Abe, wondering how he will respond to this. Suddenly, he hands his glass over the railing, down toward Bomber. “Punch, Jonah?”

“Uh ... thanks, no. Did you hear me, Abe? Avoid them.”

“Thank you, Jonah,” Abe says in a voice of paternal, drunken calm. “But I don’t need to avoid them, because I am going to destroy them.” Mott grimaces.

Bomber’s face pinkens. “Now see, Abe, I’m talking to you because I was afraid that might be your attitude. I don’t think you should—“

“Are you a shill?” Abe asks, calmly. “A plant? Did Moby put this up to you?”

Now Bomber’s face turns maroon. “Don’t insult me, Abraham! I’m looking out for you.”

“The man is a trifle,” Abe assures Bomber, still with the serenity of inebriation. “Nothing that a misplaced firework can’t fix.”

“You did not say that,” Mott interrupts firmly. “I’m taking you home.” He grabs Abe under both arms and firmly turns him around, begins walking back into the house.

Grinning, Abe looks back over his shoulder and calls to Bomber, “You like fireworks, don’t you?”

The next morning, when sober, Abe claimed to have no memory of saying this. But I’m keeping him on a short leash until next week’s fireworks are over.

Hope your August is less eventful than mine!

Love,

Becca

Be part of the Your Name Here campaign: any person or business donating $250 or more to Martha’s Vineyard Community Services can get a mention in Moby Rich. For more information, please contact Jan Hatchard at 508-693-7900, extension 374.

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