by Jean Stone
And now, on this December evening, Annie ordered a Chambord Cosmopolitan instead of her usual chardonnay. She and Murphy had sipped Cosmos that afternoon—Murphy claimed that vodka dressed up with Chambord and orange liqueur showed more enthusiasm than wine. “We made it to fifty; we deserve to live a little,” she’d declared. A full-time behavioral therapist, the mother of twin boys (the rambunctious ones), and the wife of a well-respected Boston surgeon (the workaholic), Murphy prided herself in maintaining a positive attitude and mostly agreeable relationships with her family, friends, and an assortment of alcoholic beverages.
“If I drink this, I’ll get drunk,” Annie had said. “You know I can’t drink the way you do.”
Murphy asked the waitress to bring Annie more cranberry juice on the side. “Now,” she said, turning back to her friend, “tell me about your next book.”
Annie sighed. “I’m struggling with it. It’s about two women who work in a museum where there’s a huge art heist. And a dead body or two. I love the concept, but the plot isn’t gelling.”
“It will. You’re not much of a drinker, but you’ve got the gift of blarney. Whether you’re Irish or not.”
Of course, Annie had no idea if she was Irish, French, or Tasmanian, though her dad often said she must be Scottish because of her black hair, hazel—not blue—eyes, and “outdoorsy” complexion, whatever that meant. Her mom and dad had adopted Annie when she was six weeks old; she’d never learned her heritage, not even later, when she’d had the chance.
“The truth is,” Annie had explained, “my characters were best friends in college and are reunited when one gets a job at the museum where the other one volunteers. They’re not us, though. Neither one of us knows squat about art history. And my characters are smarter, richer, and much more beautiful.”
“No!” Murphy had screeched. “They can’t possibly be smarter or more beautiful! But I do think the story sounds terrific. If you feel stuck, maybe you need a break. Even better, a vacation!” Then she’d grown uncharacteristically pensive. “Let’s get serious. What’s on your bucket list?”
“Stop! We’re only fifty. It’s too soon for one of those.”
“No it isn’t, Annie. Think about it. What would you want to do if you weren’t such an infernally sober stick-in-the-mud? If you shake things up a little, you might reignite your creative genius.”
Annie had a good laugh at that. Still, she wondered if her friend was right. Murphy, after all, knew her like no one ever had. Not like her parents. Not like her first husband—her first love—Brian. And certainly not like the next one, Mark, the man she’d wasted too much of herself trying to please. “Okay,” she said. “If I had a list—which is not to say that I’ll make one—the first thing I would do would be to move here. Live on the Vineyard. At least for a while.”
“Where you met Brian.”
“A thousand years ago. But even then, I knew this place was more than romantic: it’s magical.” Annie had chosen to set two of her mysteries there. While doing the research, she’d fallen in love with the island again, not only for the breathtaking landscape, but also for its diversity of people, its immense support for art and culture, and its rich, unforgotten history—all of which combined to form an inspiring community.
“Do it,” Murphy said in a serious whisper. “Make the move. It’s time to open up your life.” Annie knew that was Murphy’s way of saying it was time to move on, time to shed the baggage of too many losses and disappointments. In hindsight, Annie wondered if her friend had had a premonition.
A month after that wonderful weekend, Murphy was diagnosed with a rare, swift-moving cancer. Carving out time between her family, work, and chemo treatments, she helped Annie find the cottage on Chappy, then, with her bald head cocooned in a gaily striped turban, she went with her the day that Annie moved. She said she needed to see Annie settled, to know that she was safe. That had been on Labor Day. Four weeks later, Murphy died. And Annie’s heart had been irrevocably broken.
In some ways, Murphy’s death had been Annie’s greatest loss; no one was left now to help her navigate the day-to-day waters of life. But thanks to her advice, Annie was following her dream. She was here. On the Vineyard. Surrounded by unending beauty and the gentle rhythm of the place she now called home. And she knew that if she dared to leave, her old pal would come back to haunt her in her spunky, rap-on-the-knuckles kind of way.
Gazing out the window now, from the terrace up to the night sky, Annie saw the Milky Way, its wide, white ribbon shimmering like a twinkling sash. Just then, a comet streaked across, as if delivering a message of faith, hope, and love. With the curve of a soft smile, Annie felt her tears glisten like the stars. “I’m trying, my friend,” she whispered to the heavens, up to Murphy, who surely was there.
Chapter 2
Annie woke up in the morning to loud sounds of something thumping on her front porch. Rising too quickly out of bed, she was halted by a fierce wave of dizziness. Outside, the thumping continued. When her balance returned, she slid into fluffy slippers and pulled a quilted robe over her flannel pajamas. The Vineyard in winter was no place or time for a woman—single or not—to dress like a vamp.
Moving into the main living area, she padded across the hardwood floor and the braided rug, then opened the door that led onto the porch. A man in a black hoodie and a red-and-black-checkered woolen shirt lumbered up the steps, his gait weighed down by the armful of wood he was carrying. It was Earl, of course. Judging by the sizable stack already amassed, he’d made several trips from his pickup that morning.
“Happy Sunday!” he said, his blue eyes twinkling in the chilly air. “Hope I didn’t wake you!” He pushed on the screen door, stepped up onto the porch, and arranged the logs atop the already substantial pile.
“No problem. But what’s the hurry? I thought I had plenty to last me awhile.” But even as she said it, a chill ran through her, and she realized it was well past time to stoke the woodstove for the day.
Earl shook his head. “Forecast says a blizzard’s on the way. Looks like a nor’easter. Likely it’ll hit Wednesday or Thursday.”
Nor’easter, Annie knew, was a word that could make the heartiest New Englander shudder, thanks to the roar of winds, the huge accumulations of heavy snow, and the structural damage it often left in its ravaged wake. “Oh,” she replied, “in that case, I’d better make coffee.”
He chuckled. “And I’d be grateful for a mug when I’m done here.”
She toted some logs into the living room and set them between the antique rocking chair and the woodstove. She opened the small cast-iron door and laid in a new fire with a lattice of a few logs, kindling she’d crafted from empty paper towel tubes stuffed with sheets from last Sunday’s New York Times, then two more logs—and lit it. Folding her arms, she stood back and assessed her work. For a girl who’d been raised in Boston, she was doing a pretty good job of roughing it.
Once the flames caught, she closed the stove door and got to work making coffee with the old-fashioned tin percolator. “Better learn how to do this stuff now,” Earl had suggested when she’d moved in. “When winter hits, the power can go out here for long stretches at a time. Your oven, your microwave, and anything with a plug will be useless. But if you master the woodstove, you’ll have a way to heat up stew and make a decent cup of coffee. And stay warm.”
She’d been an eager student.
With the coffee underway, she quickly showered and made herself presentable—a word borrowed from her mother, to whom those things had been important—by dressing in clean jeans, a long-sleeved white tee, and her favorite pink cardigan. She combed her wet hair behind her ears and marveled at how, at this midlife age, in this magical place, not using a blow dryer was perfectly acceptable. It also reinforced her determination to live a healthier, quieter life, no longer on the edge of other people’s expectations.
Back in the kitchen, she checked the time: ten o’clock, the usual hour when Earl found a reason to drift
by the cottage in search of a mid-morning snack, so he was right on schedule.
Setting cinnamon rolls on a plate, she inhaled the aroma of the coffee perking. The fire warmed the room from the overstuffed sofa to the small oak table, from the corner desk to the wall of bookcases Annie had packed with her favorite volumes. The desk and bookcases were the only new items she’d bought for the furnished cottage: she’d sold most of her belongings before moving. Except the bed, she thought now, as she set out a couple of napkins. She’d had Earl hoist the owner’s bed into the storage space over the garage; hers was high and sturdy, with a luxurious, deep mattress that guaranteed a good night’s sleep. And held a few nice memories from her youthful days with Brian.
Earl cracked open the door. “I smell java.”
“Come on in. Cinnamon rolls to go with it.”
His stocky, still-muscled body worked its way through the door as he shed his wool shirt and peeled back the hood of his sweatshirt. Like most islanders, Earl dressed in layers, always prepared for anything from a sunny day to blustery, gale-force winds. Annie would bet that behind the seat of his pickup, he kept a yellow slicker and an extra pair of socks.
He sat down at the table on one of the pair of red corduroy–cushioned chairs. Though his visits were typically brief, Annie was grateful for his company, and for his help in teaching her about the Vineyard, its people, and its ways. A native islander, he knew most people there and how to get things done.When Annie had mentioned she wanted to learn how to make soap, he’d kindly driven her up island and introduced her to Winnie.
He eyed the pastry now. “Got a full cord on the porch now. That ought to get you through the first good chunk of winter.”
Annie nodded. “Thanks.” She had no idea how long “a chunk” was to Earl, but trusted that he knew what he was doing.
“And you can always call if you need more.”
“Which won’t do me a whole lot of good, seeing as how you hardly ever answer your cell phone.”
“I’m trying to get better at that. Honest.” He helped himself to a roll, took a hefty bite, chewed slowly, then smiled and nodded as if declaring his approval.
She was about to mention that though she knew his cell number, she also knew that many houses on Chappy were secluded, and she had no idea how or where to find him if the cell tower ever went down.
But before she got the words out, Earl asked, “So, how was the fair? I heard the Grey Lady has made all its trips so far, which must have been good for yesterday’s business.” Some people hadn’t been convinced the ferry would make it safely into the harbor: a boat big enough to hold a couple of hundred folks hadn’t docked in Edgartown for over half a century. The naysayers had claimed the inlet was too small, the water was too choppy off season, the plan was far too risky. But the folks on the Board of Trade had overruled them after a successful test run last March. The same folks who must now be preening with delight.
Annie set down two steamy mugs and sat opposite him. “The fair was amazing. I never dreamed I’d do so well. I came home with only five bars and three scoops.”
He chuckled again, the same way Annie’s dad had often chuckled. Though Earl was half a foot shorter and wider than her dad, his hardworking yet easy demeanor often reminded her of him. “Now that it’s getting colder, I’ve been thinking that if you want to make more, I could put a propane stove in the workshop. I don’t think Roger would mind.”
Roger was Roger Flanagan, Annie’s landlord. He owned the three-acre waterfront property that sprawled up a wide, velvet lawn, merged into a maze of walking trails that meandered through tangles of scrub oaks and pines, and met up with North Neck Road, the bumpy dirt lane now serving as Annie’s legal address. The showpiece of the property was a posh seasonal home that faced the harbor. The guest cottage was halfway up the hill; a four-car garage with an adjoining workshop, where Annie made her soaps, blocked her view of the water. But from her front window she could see the flagpole-high nesting platform for ospreys that her landlord had installed; Earl had said it was a welcome respite for the once-endangered birds, and would give her a unique view in the spring. “A far cry from Boston,” he’d added.
She smiled now and wrapped her cardigan closely against her, not because she was cold, but because sometimes she wanted to hold in the warmth she felt whenever her mood momentarily lifted, as it did when she reflected on how lucky she was that, in spite of her losses, she really, truly did live there now. She really, truly had this new life. She’d become so accustomed to having to overcome obstacles, Annie sometimes worried that all she had now, including her book-writing career, was absolutely too good to be true. Murphy would have set her straight about that.
“As much as I love making soap,” she said to Earl now, “I have to get back to work on my manuscript. Apparently I have a few fans, not to mention a publisher, who expect me to be productive.”
He scratched the scruffy whiskers on his chin. “Well, at least if you have the heater, you’ll know you have something to do if you’re stuck inside and get tired of writing. We don’t often have wicked winters out here, but we’re overdue. Claire thinks we’re in for a doozy.” Claire was his wife, whom Annie still hadn’t met. She’d once caught a glimpse of their son, John, on the On Time ferry; he was an Edgartown police officer who, according to Earl, often “hopped over” the channel to check up on his parents, as if they needed checking up on: they were, after all, “only seventy-four.” He’d also told her that John was divorced with two daughters who lived with their mother off island in Plymouth, and who visited on occasion, though not often enough.
“Being ‘stuck inside’ suits me just fine,” Annie said. “Writers need lots of solitude. It’s one of the reasons I jumped at the chance to live on Chappy. It’s quiet and remote here.”
He sipped his coffee, his heavy, white eyebrows weaving together, forming a tapestry of the wisdom of his years. “Solitude can be good, Annie; isolation, not so much. And out here, well, we can have challenges.”
She took a bite of a cinnamon roll, a little worried by Earl’s words. She knew there was no store on Chappy in winter, no gas station, nothing in the way of services except the volunteer fire department and a couple of EMTs; she had no idea what other challenges a Vineyard winter might entail: she only hoped her isolated writer’s life would not turn into Stephen King’s novel The Shining, or that those creepy twins would not pop up in her secluded place.
Dabbing at a few bits of cinnamon that had fallen onto her napkin, Annie hoped that when she’d rented the place, she hadn’t let her romantic notions overrule plain common sense.
* * *
Monday morning, armed with a list of nor’easter essentials that she’d made after Earl had left the day before, Annie drove her six-year-old Lexus onto the On Time and ferried over to Edgartown. Before she’d left the city, she’d considered trading her car for something more island-appropriate, but she’d run out of time. With the impending weather, she hoped she wouldn’t regret it: her car did not have all-wheel drive.
Her first stop was the supermarket for fresh and canned food, ingredients to make and bake an abundance of goodies, and three cases of water. Then she went to Granite—Edgartown’s anything-anyone-could-ever-possibly-need-except-food store—where she purchased an LED lantern, and a snow shovel and road salt in case Earl couldn’t reach her.
Outside in the parking lot, members of the high school hockey team were selling Christmas trees. She knew that a small one would fit perfectly in the living room in front of a window. A month earlier, submerged deeply in grief, she’d decided not to acknowledge the holidays at all. But when Annie had shown Winnie her first completed soaps, Winnie had said they were quite good and would be welcome at the fair. Annie had been reminded of her dad’s unwavering habit of starting each day with a smile—No matter what, he’d say. She’d known that if she gave into her sorrow, she’d spend Christmas Day in tears, so she’d pasted on a smile and signed up for the fair. And now, the spruce b
eckoned her, too.
She dragged it to the makeshift checkout booth and hoped that she remembered where she’d packed her ornaments. Nostalgia aside, it might be fun to decorate the tree if she did get stranded in her home.
Now, with the spruce anchored to the roof of her car, Annie went back into Granite and bought a tree stand. Then she drove to the library and checked out a few bestsellers. After that she swung by the liquor store for wine in case it turned into the doozy of a winter that Claire Lyons portended.
Later, Annie would worry about gifts, not that she’d be giving many: Winnie and Earl . . . that was it. She’d already mailed alpaca socks to Murphy’s husband and checks to Murphy’s boys, because they were nearly twenty-two, and she no longer knew the things they liked. As she pulled up behind the short line for the On Time, Annie resisted the impulse to feel sad about her small gift-giving list; she would not, could not, allow that. For the next few days, she would focus solely on staying positive and being productive, no matter what Mother Nature had in store.
When she finally arrived home, she lugged the tree inside and set it in the stand. Then, instead of decorating it or cooking or writing, she made a pot of tea, curled up by the woodstove, and dove into one of the library books, her favorite guilty pleasure. It was well past midnight before she went to bed.
* * *
Tuesday morning—ahead of the meteorologists’ predictions—it started to snow. It was a light, fluffy “dusting,” a “teaser of things to come,” the Boston television meteorologist commented with a sly look.