Chapter 5: Martha's Vineyard

The next morning, Grant went to visit his stepmother, and was not greeted with her usual, "Hello". Instead, she asked, "You're not going to work like that, are you?"

For a person who was usually stoic, Grant was astonished at the amount of playful judgment in his stepmother's tone when she spotted his casual attire- dark jeans and a pullover, though the collar of a button-down shirt showed through the V of the sweater.

"Thought I might take the day off," he stated, making Melinda freeze mid-yoga pose. Her personal trainer, who had been trying his best to remain passive, could not wipe the surprised expression from his face before Grant caught it. I

"Can we have a second?" Grant said to him, lest he remain a captive audience. The trainer excused himself. Melinda reached for a towel and dabbed at the sweat on her neck before sitting on the floor and continuing to stretch.

"Did Cal say anything after I went to the solarium last night?"

Melinda shook her head. "What are you planning, Grant?"

"How do you know I'm planning something?"

She smirked. "I've known you long enough to know you're always planning something, but I don't think the stakes have ever been higher, have they?"

"They haven't." He agreed. "Look, I like Jemma. I always have. She's a sweet kid. But I don't care how she cut her hair, I'm not about to kiss a billion dollar merger goodbye so Fitz can have it off with some girl."

Melinda nodded. "I agree we can't let Fitz jeopardize his engagement, but I'm more worried for his personal life than the company."

"That's fine. I'll worry about the company enough for the both of us. Just leave it to me."

"Like always?"

"Like always," he said with a nod. "When is Skye due back?"

"Not for another few days. Should we try to get her back sooner?" Melinda wondered if just the mere presence of his fiancée would knock sense back into Fitz.

"No need," Grant said. "This all happened within 24 hours. I can undo it in 48." His confidence left little room to argue as he turned to go. The sound of Melinda's voice stopped him, but she spoke to his back; he did not face her, and when he heard what she was saying decided that was for the better.

"Jemma is not just 'some girl'," Melinda said, alluding to his earlier statement. "Please keep that in mind as you do whatever it is you have planned."

Of course he knew Jemma was not just some girl. He'd known her just as long as the rest of them, knew her to be a gentle spirit, possessing kindness matched only by her genius. He didn't need reminded that she was far more then "some girl". In fact, he would've loved to forget it. He wanted nothing more than to be impartial to her, to treat her as just another line item on a profit and loss sheet. He felt certain he couldn't do that if he dared to see her as more than "some girl".

But, "I know," is what he told his stepmother, and said no more.

It'd been two years since he'd set foot in the garage and even longer since he'd visited the apartment above it. As he ascended the stairs, he noted that the outward appearance seemed largely unchanged. The paint was peeling on the railing a little bit, and someone had added a trailing vinca plant that hung off the awning, but otherwise, it was as it had been for his whole life.

He knocked and briefly feared Phil answering. To his relief, Jemma opened the door.

"Grant," she said, her surprise clear.

"Good morning," he replied. "Sorry I didn't call first." It was a ridiculous thing to say; he didn't even have her number.

She dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand. "It's fine," Jemma said, then invited him in. "I just put the kettle on. Would you like some tea?" She was walking toward the small kitchen as she spoke.

Grant lingered in the tiny entry way. "Sure," he replied in response to her offer of tea, then continued to look around. It was as he remembered it. A few jackets hung on the coat tree beside the door. The living room was littered with books, stacked on every available surface. The old TV was off, itself a glorified book stand. He could see Jemma through the pass-through window between the living room and kitchen, retrieving two mismatched mugs from the cupboard as the kettle began to whistle.

He'd only been here once before, as a much younger man. It had been the day of his father's funeral and Fitz had gone missing. Phil's apartment was the last place he looked for his brother. He found them at the kitchen table, sharing a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

It seemed like a lifetime ago.

The interior, like the exterior, was mostly the same, though he picked up on touches of Jemma here or there. A potted plant by the window. Thick, heavy textbooks with long, science-y sounding titles in a pile next to a pair of ladies' slippers. A dark purple cardigan draped over the back of Phil's reading chair.

"What do you take in your tea," Jemma asked, breaking into his thoughts.

"Just a little sugar please." He heard her grumble to herself, something about Americans not knowing how to drink tea properly, but it sounded good natured and playful. Besides, it would surely mortify her if she knew he'd heard be, so he stayed silent.

Jemma brought him his cup then motioned to the open couch. She took a seat in Phil's reading chair.

"Uncle Phil is in town on an errand for Mrs. Ward. He'd want me to say he's sorry he missed you."

"No worries. I'm here for you actually."

He had to give Jemma credit; the hand holding her teacup shook only slightly at this news. "Oh." She carefully schooled her features to remain neutral.

Grant took a sip of his tea. "I was going to take you to visit Fitz, and then wanted to see if you could accompany me to Martha's Vineyard."

"Martha's Vineyard?" She repeated, surprised.

"Yes." Then, because he suddenly got the feeling that if she believed it were a romantic getaway she would decline, he added, "We're thinking of selling the cottage. Upgrading, since the family is getting bigger now." He watched her carefully, but was impressed to see only the barest hint of sadness entered her eyes when he referenced Fitz's engagement; the rest of her face remained impassive. Good girl. "Phil mentioned you picked up photography in Paris. I was hoping I could have you take some photos of the house."

There was a tapping sound as Jemma drummed her nails on her cup. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather hire a professional? I'm still fairly green."

"Consider it a favor to an old friend. An old friend who doesn't trust anyone else to do the job well."

Jemma smirked. He'd never seen her smirk before. "So we're friends, then?"

"Don't you think so?"

She didn't reply, just continued to smile that cheeky smirk while sipping her tea.

They finished their tea within a few minutes. Grant walked their cups to the kitchen sink, then helped her into her jacket before ushering her out the door. If she was stunned by his uncharacteristic gentleman-like behavior, she didn't let on.

They crossed the lawn in silence. In fact, not a word passed between them until they arrived at Fitz's room and Grant addressed the nurse.

"How has he been," he asked in a whisper, so as not to disturb the sleeping Fitz.

"Unconscious, for the most part." The nurse replied.

Jemma knelt beside his bed just as his eyes slowly fluttered open.

"Jemma." He said with a drowsy smile. "Did the dry cleaners have your car?"

She looked at Grant, concerned.

"That would be the OxyContin speaking," he assured her.

"Guess what happened to me," Fitz continued, lifting his eyes only slightly and nodding toward his bandaged bum.

"I know. I know, I feel awful."

"Me too." He looked at his brother, and with a hazy grin, asked, "How do you feel, Grant?"

Grant rolled his eyes. "You're fading, Fitz. Listen, we've got a nurse here for you and a two day supply of red jello. You're going to be okay."

With another half-awake smile, Fitz started to drift off again. Grant gave the nurse instructions contact him with any changes to his brother's condition, and then he and Jemma left.

One of many perks of having as much money as the Ward family did was the private jet. As they crossed the tarmac, Jemma tried not to be dazzled by it, but felt certain that Grant could sense her excitement.

The interior of the plane was luxurious. Leather seats, a full bar, a large flat-screen TV against one cabin wall. All the windows were open, letting in the bright yellow, late morning sunshine. They were waited on by a flight attendant named Beth, who must have been informed of Jemma's coming.

"Would you like anything to drink, Miss Coulson," she offered.

"Please, call me Jemma."

Beth smiled wide. "What a lovely name!"

"Beth." Grant said, his voice even. "I'll have a Perrier."

The flight attendant nodded, then looked to Jemma again.

"Same," Jemma said.

If Jemma had been hoping for Grant's company during the short flight to Martha's Vineyard, it appeared she would be disappointed, as Grant had his laptop out and was furiously typing away. "Furious", as in the speed with which he punched out letters was impressive. His face remained unchanged. She wasn't sure what he was doing, and figured she'd never know. Something business-related, to be certain. With a man like him, his thoughts were never far from the office, even on days off.

He caught her staring and, mistaking her looking for displeasure, promised, "Im almost done." A few more taps on the keyboard, then he shut it and put it away.

She was astonished that he kept his word.

"So. Jemma. That is a pretty name. Don't suppose there is a story behind it?"

"There is." She said. "It's from a poem my mum read when she was a little girl, about a changeling girl and a woodsprite who saves her when her human family rejects her."

"How sad."

"Yes, but the ending is happy." Then, closing her eyes, she recited. "And with a careless laugh the two, upon the heathered plain, ran arm in arm in manic glee, and were never seen again."

"They ran away together?"

"Yes."

"And Jemma was the changeling."

She smiled. "No. The changeling was named Briony. Jemma was the savior."

They landed in Martha's Vineyard shortly before noon, and after a quick car ride they arrived at the cottage. She was expecting a quaint retreat, something small and cozy, picturesque and storybook-like, but what the Wards called a cottage was still larger than what most American families called home.

"And you need more room?" She teased, pausing in the driveway. She removed her camera from the bag at her side, uncapped the lens, and snapped a few quick shots of the exterior.

"I suppose the term 'cottage' is a tad misleading." Grant admitted, following as she walked up the path, though she stopped every few feet to take a picture of this view or that plant.

"The landscaping is just lovely." She commented and snapped a picture of the gardenias.

"Yes. My mother had a hand in it. My real mother, not May." He pointed a little farther up the walk. "Her favorites were the roses," he said, motioning to the pale pink flowers there. His mother had planted the rose bushes herself; he could recall in vivid detail the image of her on her knees, placing the bushes in the ground. Grant had patted the earth into place around the flower with his little toy spade, careful to avoid the thorns. He looked down and the memory faded.

After a few seconds had passed, Jemma walked up to the roses and took a few photos. "My mother liked to garden, too." She said quietly. "Nothing on this scale, of course. But our window box had the most beautiful daisies, and she kept a trailing vinca."

"Like the one on your porch now?"

She nodded with a smile. "Dances and knows his plants. Who would've guessed?"

"Are you making fun?"

"Only a little." Then, she lifted the camera to her eye and took a picture of him.

He shielded the lens with the palm of his hand before she could take another. "Not me, please."

"Why not? You're very photogenic." Still, she lowered the camera. "Is it true that Ford models tried to sign you when you were younger?"

"No. It was Wilhemina."

"And you didn't want to? Why?"

He shrugged. "I didn't need the money. I don't like posing for pictures. I wanted to prove I was more than my looks. You could take your pick of answers."

"But which one is truest to you?"

Grant thought about it. "Probably the last one. I'm not too keen on people reducing me to my cheekbones."

"I can relate to that, some," Jemma said with a chuckle. "Not that I was ever model material, but even a mildly attractive woman entering a STEM-field encounters her share of prejudices, too."

Just then, Grant felt a buzzing in his back pocket. "Excuse me for a second," he said and pulled out his cell phone. Jemma nodded and continued taking photos of the cottage. He made sure he was well out of earshot before answering.

"Palamas."

"Hello sir," his assistant said. "Just wanted to make sure everything was to your liking?"

"I don't know. Haven't even made it into the house yet."

"Really? Has something gone wrong? The pilot informed me you landed an hour ago."

"No, nothing's wrong." He looked toward the house. Jemma had disappeared from view. He felt his heartbeat quicken, but told himself she must have just gone to the backyard. What was that he felt? Worry? He'd have to think about it later. "Although I think I'm more affected than she is. Damn near cried twice." He glanced down at his watch. "Listen, it'll be lunch soon. Can you find me the nearest little cafe or diner or whatever and send the directions to my phone, please?"

"Will do, sir."

As he expected, he found her in the backyard, sitting on the swing under the trellis. Wisteria bloomed above and around her, and she was bent over her camera, scrolling through the photos she had already taken. She looked up as he came closer.

"I almost don't need to see the inside of the house. The gardens alone could sell it for you." She scooted to the end of the bench, making room for him. He took it as a wordless invitation and sat.

Jemma continued to click through the photos, a smile on her face the entire time. "I think I've been taking photos my entire life, long before I ever held a camera," she said, then showed him the image on the screen. It was a picture of him. There was the hint of a smile on his lips, revealing two dimples on either side of his face; his gaze was lowered and the sunlight coming over his left shoulder cast a shadow over half of his face. "I know you said no pictures of you," she began, sounding somewhat sheepish, "but I took this while you were talking about your mother. I thought you might like to see it before I deleted it."

"Thank you." He said after he had looked at it a long while.

"I never met Mrs. Ward, but she sounds like she was a lovely woman."

"Her name was Samantha." And he had not spoken of her in years. "Yes, she was lovely." Then, for reasons he wasn't entirely sure of, Grant added, "She would've liked you a lot."

Jemma brightened, a faint blush filling the apples of her fair cheeks. "Do you really think so?"

"I do."

Jemma didn't spend half the time she did on the gardens that she did on the interior. She took pictures of each room from multiple angles, but other than asking Grant to open the shades in one of two sitting rooms, she said nothing. It wasn't anything to do with the house, and yet it was everything to do with it. It was beautiful, but oppressive in its carefully constructed opulence. It had been staged to look homey and inviting, but lacked all the warmth of a home. She couldn't help but think it would look better with a few, well-loved books strewn about, like in her Uncle Phil's apartment.

As she finished up in the last bedroom -there were six- she imagined growing up in an environment like this. No doubt Grant had been loved as a boy, by his father, mother, and stepmother; but nothing in either the cottage or the main home felt welcoming of children. Both Ward boys had responded to their upbringing according to their unique personalities. It was no wonder Grant grew up rather serious, and no surprise that Fitz bucked convention at nearly every turn.

"Is it always like this?" She asked.

"Like what?"

"Like this. With the flowers and the staging." And the utter lack of anything that made it feel like a home.

"I don't know," Grant admitted. "I haven't been here in years."

Jemma briefly lowered her camera. "How can you own a place like this and never use it?"

"Never had someone to share it with." He said, and gave her a pointed look.

At least, she thought it was pointed. No, surely she imagined it. "You could always hire someone," she replied.

"You're making fun again."

"Only a little." She repeated and snapped a few more photos, then removed the camera strap from her shoulder for once and for all. "Okay. I think I'm done." She began to disassemble her camera, putting the components in their proper place in the camera bag on her hip. "I'd love to get a look at the town while I'm here, if that's all right. I've never been to Martha's Vineyard before. Do we have the time?"

Grant nodded. "We have all the time you'd like."

"Well, it'll be lunch soon. I'd like to find someplace to eat. Care to join me?"

He smiled. She was starting to like his smile very much. "I know the perfect place." He said.

They did not take the car, but rode two beach cruisers into town. The image of Grant Ward the ruthless businessman on a bike was one Jemma could not quite wrap her head around.

He called out landmarks as they rode past them, pointing out this church or that lighthouse, condensing their histories into a few sentences as they pedaled through town at a leisurely pace. Jemma came to a sudden halt a few feet ahead of an old, red-brick building, and gasped.

"What a beautiful building," she exclaimed, and hurried to reassemble her camera so she might photograph it. "It must be a hundred years old! You know, in Paris, they'd consider it brand new. I hope they don't tear it down."

"They won't," Grant assured her. "I own it. That whole block actually."

She looked at him like the concept of owning an entire street block was entirely unfathomable. It took him a second to reconcile that, for most people, it was.

"I'm donating it to the city to use as a halfway house." He had no such plan in place, actually, but it was only under her stare that he became truly cognizant that owning a functional building and letting remain unused was wasteful, to say the least. "Jails are full of guys who never got a break. They get out and their backs are to the wall again almost immediately. It's a vicious cycle. Someone ought to try and break it."

"And you figure, why not you?"

Grant looked at her. "You're surprised?"

She shook her head. "It's very noble, Grant."

He exhaled in relief. She'd bought it, and if the soft expression she was regarding him with was any indication, he was slowly turning her opinion of him.

They lunched at a quaint little café not far from Grant's proposed halfway house. Jemma kept up a steady stream of conversation over a meal of salad and grilled chicken, with Grant interjecting periodically. Most often, he asked her questions, giving her enough to keep her talking.

On her third (or was it fourth?) tangent about Paris, she stopped abruptly and blushed. "I'm sorry. Im rambling, aren't I?"

He didn't disagree. "I don't mind. You have a lovely speaking voice." Grant said, matter-of-factly. The compliment was given so quickly and so simply that Jemma nearly didn't catch it. It was only when he looked up at her to gauge her reaction that she understood what he had said.

"My accent, you mean?" She asked. Then, feeling the need to busy her hands, she reached for her water.

"That, too."

"Well, you can thank my mother for that." She said lamely, then looked down at her salad. She picked through the leafy greens, spearing a sliced radish; all-in-all, spending much too much time assembling her next bite, all to avoid Grant's eyes.

"Do you miss your mother?" He asked.

She kept her gaze down but nodded. "Yes. Do you miss yours?"

"Yes."

She let her fork rest on the edge of her plate. "We have that in common, don't we? Orphans at a young age."

"I was an adult when my father died."

"A young one," she corrected. "Nineteen, if I remember rightly." She sighed, a sad sound that seemed to come from deep within her. "No matter how old you are when they go, losing your parents still makes you an orphan, if only in spirit."

"Yes, well blessed are the poor in spirit, so the verse goes."

Somewhat despite herself, she laughed. "It's hard for me to buy an image of Grant Ward as poor, spiritually or otherwise."

When her laughter stopped, Grant was glad to change the subject, choosing to ask Jemma a question about her camera. The lighter topic was a welcome switch, as he has not meant for them to once again get so near to subjects he had never before spoken of aloud. As she animatedly told the story of how she came to own her camera, Grant could not shake the solemn feeling that had settled over his heart. He had called himself poor in spirit, and she had dismissed it as a joke. Though she behaved as though she had figured him out, he knew then that she had not.

Melinda did not often visit the apartment above the garage, but when she did, it was always late at night. The sun had set long ago, and there was a slight chill in the air, the leftover humidity from the day turning quite cool with the absence of sunlight. She could see the light on in through the living room window as she climbed the stairs. Phil was still awake.

She knocked softly and entered. The room was quiet, her friend was sitting in his large, plush reading chair. An old Dickens volume lay open in his lap, but she could tell by his furrowed brow that his mind was not focused on the words.

"She still isn't home?" Melinda asked Phil.

He shook his head. "I'm worried, Melinda."

She went to him and sat by his feet, her back against the leg of the chair. Eventually, her head came to rest against his knee, and his fingers slowly combed through the back of her long, black hair. They only ever had stolen moments like this, away from the prying eyes of her stepsons and the hired help, and they were few and far between. However, with his mind so far away and hers also filled with concern for their respective children, she could not relish his company.

"She is safe with Grant," Melinda offered.

She heard Phil sigh. "I know. That's not why I'm worried," he said.

Of course she knew why, and Phil knew Grant well enough to have guessed her elder son's motives, but neither of them spoke it aloud. Inside, Melinda cursed herself, knowing she should have done more -or anything, really- to convince Grant off the warpath; if he could not be swayed, then perhaps she should've taken it upon herself to speak with Jemma.

It was too late for regrets now, she thought. The wheels were already in motion, and Melinda did not know how, or if, she could stop it.

A/N: The story of where Jemma's name comes from is made-up, although it is a little inspired by both The Moorchild by Eloise McGraw and I Was A Teenage Fairy by Francesca Lia Block.