A Vineyard Christmas

by Jean Stone

  Annie stared at the latch. An icy chill ran down her spine; the tenderness of the morning swept away. She wanted to tell Winnie about the noises in the night, but she’d already taken too much of her time. It was Christmas Eve; Winnie had things to do. So Annie just said, “Oh. Well, thanks. I’ll have Earl take care of it. He’ll be here soon. I’m going to their place tonight for Christmas Eve.”

  “Well then, good luck. Have you met Claire yet?”

  “Briefly.”

  Winnie nodded. “Okay, well, be careful. She’s Earl’s wife, but . . .” She nodded again as if agreeing with herself, thanked Annie for the gifts, then went on her way.

  Annie waved as the old van sputtered up the driveway. She wondered why on earth Winnie had said that about Claire. Perhaps she’d had an odd altercation with her, the way Annie had at the dock. Picking up the dream catcher, Annie touched the delicate feathers. She thought about how intuitive Winnie was about people and their needs, how she could convey a message even by leaving things unsaid. If her words about Claire were meant to be a warning, Annie knew she should be mindful of them.

  Chapter 11

  By the time Earl arrived for their hunting expedition, Annie had eaten half a sandwich, and Bella was up from her nap. It was after two o’clock: she’d begun to think he had forgotten.

  “Sorry I’m late. I had to stop at the florist and the drugstore and fill up a few jugs with gas just in case another storm decides to brew. Not to mention it felt like August in town. Impossible to get through traffic at the triangle.”

  The triangle was where customers of the post office, a few banks, and other shops converged and often became entangled, even off season. She’d once commented that it was strange, in today’s world, that neither he nor Winnie liked using cell phones. “I, for one, have gone without one nearly as many years as there are scallops in Poucha Pond,” he had explained. “And, don’t forget, we haven’t had reliable service as long as they’ve had it in America. At this stage of the game, I can survive without one. Maybe Winnie feels the same.” It was an understandable reply. And it was why Annie simply smiled now and said, “Don’t worry about being late. Bella and I had a surprise visit from Winnie that kept us busy.”

  He nodded and picked up Bella’s basket. “Sorry I missed her. Did I ever tell you one of her uncles was in business with my dad?”

  Annie zipped her jacket and slipped on her gloves. “No. Doing what?”

  “Carpentry. They teamed up in the early seventies when the housing boom hit the island. Thanks to Senator Ted Kennedy, folks who’d never heard of Martha’s Vineyard suddenly wanted a piece of the place. My dad and Winnie’s Uncle Joe did well. They did interior finish work on a whole lot of houses that were built back then.” He ambled outside toward the truck, and Annie followed.

  “So that’s where you got your skills as a caretaker? From your dad?”

  Laughing, he opened the passenger door. He waited until Annie got in, then he set the basket at her feet. “Hardly. My dad was a natural carpenter. I’m just a jack of all trades. Or as my irascible neighbor, Lou Morton, calls me, ‘a jerk of all trades.’” He chuckled, closed the door, and went around to the other side. After buckling his seat belt, he turned on the ignition, then started to back out of the driveway. “Now,” he said, “don’t get upset with me, but I asked Frank, the On Time captain this morning, if he’d seen my wife’s niece. I said she’s about twenty, and would have been carrying a baby. I told him that most times she carries it in a woven basket. I figured the basket would be something he might remember.”

  Annie wasn’t sure if she should be pleased that Earl was trying to help or upset that he’d risked exposing her secret—especially since he’d already agreed not to. She kept her eyes riveted on a snowbank. “You lied to him?”

  He shrugged. “Call it a white lie. Claire doesn’t leave Chappy without me, so if he asks about it in front of her, I’ll say he misunderstood. But he won’t ask. He barely says two words, even to me, and I’ve known him fifty years.”

  “So . . .” She paused. “What did he say?”

  “He said, ‘Nope.’ Like I said, he’s a man of few words. But I thought it was worth a try.” He turned onto the main road, then after a minute, onto Narragansett. “Lots of places off the beaten path in here. It’s not too far from your place, so she could have made it in the snow. She also might have thought no one would look for her over here.”

  Though Annie wasn’t happy Earl had talked to the ferry captain, she reminded herself that she trusted him. If he didn’t think Frank would repeat the conversation, then the man probably wouldn’t.

  The road was rutty and snow-packed, so Earl drove slowly. He glanced at houses on the left; she checked the ones on the right. A few places had old Jeeps or pickup trucks in the driveways, but Earl said he knew who lived there. Mostly, the houses were vacant. They looked like summer places; the driveways hadn’t been plowed; they were modest, some even small, unlike the homes that faced the water.

  “Rentals,” Earl grumbled. “Some owners are here for a couple of weeks, others not at all. Imagine that. Having a place on the Vineyard—even just a cottage like one of these—but never using it.”

  The farther they drove from Annie’s place, the thickets of scrub oaks grew more dense, their leafless arms twisting and knotting into one another’s shadows. The land was more remote; soon it was clear that the young woman could not have trudged as far during the blizzard. Not if she’d been alone, and certainly not while carrying ten pounds or more of baby.

  “Dang,” Earl said.

  “Yes,” Annie replied, “dang, indeed.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any point in looking farther out. Not without stopping at a house or two to ask. They’re my neighbors, and I trust them, but you never know.”

  “Agreed. The fewer people who know, the better. Not unless—and until—it’s necessary.” She hoped she wouldn’t have to keep reminding him of that.

  He pulled into a driveway and turned the truck around. “I know it’s getting late, but do you mind if we take a quick detour before I bring you back?”

  “Of course not.”

  “It gets dark so early, and otherwise there won’t be time . . .”

  “Earl, it’s fine.”

  “Thanks. Ever been to the Indian Burial Ground?”

  It took her a moment to realize he was serious. “Well, no. Is it what it sounds like?”

  “Yup. It’s also called Jeffers Lane Cemetery. Chappaquiddick was once inhabited only by Wampanoags. Which you probably already figured. The official cemetery wasn’t here until the mid–eighteen hundreds; I think some of Winnie’s ancestors might even be buried there. There are only a couple of dozen original headstones, though, and not all of them are readable. Some field stones mark even older graves, though no one has any idea how old they are or who’s buried under them.”

  “Are we going there now?” Annie asked. She wondered why, on Christmas Eve, Earl wanted to visit a Wampanoag cemetery.

  “Yup. The land is precious, and the view is breathtaking, but at one time they opened it to a few other lucky folks. My parents are buried there. My great-grandfather’s homestead was down the road, so my father’s father and his father are there, too.”

  “Earl,” she said, “how wonderful for you.” He didn’t know she’d been adopted; he had no way of knowing that being part of a family that had roots that could be traced back for generations—with graves they actually could visit—were an anomaly to her. She looked down at the basket at her feet and hoped that wouldn’t be in Bella’s future, too.

  After a few short minutes, they arrived at the Indian Burial Ground. There was no driveway; just a path that looked to have been cleared by a snowblower.

  “Good,” Earl said, “John’s been here.” He reached behind the seat and pulled out a small potted fir that Annie hadn’t noticed before. It was decorated with a string of popcorn, small red birds fashioned out of birdseed, and a star that looked
like it had been made from suet. He got out of the truck and, juggling the tree, started up the path.

  Annie opened her door, picked up Bella, and joined him. If she ever planned to write another novel that took place on the Vineyard—specifically, on Chappy—this might be something she should see.

  * * *

  The headstones were no bigger than Annie’s laptop. She counted a dozen: each read LYONS, followed by a first name, then birth and death years. Like Earl, there was nothing fancy about them. It was interesting, though, that they stood in a horizontal row, all facing the ocean. And even more interesting that the path had been cleanly plowed all the way down the row.

  “Your son plowed this?” she asked.

  “I was busy with the errands, so I didn’t see him this morning. But, yes, I knew he’d be over to do it. The only one he remembers is his grandpop. But every year Donaroma’s makes up a small tree for us just like this one, and I bring it on Christmas Eve. When John was a boy, he came with me. He can’t always get here on account of his work, but he makes sure it’s plowed out for me. It’s a small thing, but it’s how we pay our respects to our ancestors.”

  Annie watched as he set the tree firmly on the ground.

  “They’re lined up like this so they face the sunrise,” Earl said. “Some folks think it’s a tradition carried over from the Wampanoags. And though I can’t be sure, my best guess is that one or two of my ancestors must have had Indian blood running through their veins.”

  He took off his hat, knelt in the snow, and bowed his head. Annie looked down at Bella, who began to softly coo, as if she were praying along with him. Annie realized that, as envious as she felt, she also found it fascinating that Earl continued to honor his ancestors, year after year, even the ones he’d never met, and that though Earl’s son only remembered one out of the dozen, he continued to follow his father’s tradition. Annie supposed that long after both his parents were gone, John would still bring a small tree every Christmas Eve. Annie suspected it was about more than plain tradition; it was about . . . roots.

  Annie didn’t know much about roots. She’d stopped by her parents’ graves before she’d moved from Boston; she’d thanked them for the years they’d given her. She’d also gone to the large plot owned by Brian’s family, but seeing his name chiseled into a large monument, one line of a list of his affluent ancestors, always left her cold. Murphy had been cremated, her ashes tossed into the North Sea, per her request.

  Those were the only memorials—the only roots—to which Annie felt connected. They were hardly representative of a notable lineage.

  When they got back into the truck, Annie said, “Thank you, Earl. For sharing this with me. It’s nice that you still feel linked to your parents . . . and to the others.”

  He scratched at his whiskers, then drove away. “I know it’s old-fashioned, but it’s important to me. And I’m glad it’s important to John. His ex-wife told him she was leaving because of all the people—the live ones and the dead ones—that he had around him. She said it was weird that he cared more about the Vineyard than he did about her.”

  “Did he?”

  Earl laughed. “I expect he might have! I never thought she liked us very much. It’s a shame, though, that John didn’t have sons. No one to carry on the family name.”

  “Sometimes, today, girls keep their father’s name whether they marry or not.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s a crazy world, isn’t it?”

  Annie didn’t mention that in parts of Europe and Asia, and even in Quebec, it had been common practice for decades or more—in some countries it was the law—for a woman to retain her maiden name after she was married.

  They were soon back on the main road, heading toward the cottage. The sun had begun to set, spreading a smoky, almost foggy blanket over the snow. Every so often, lights appeared in the window of a cottage—tiny, colorful lights, the markings of the season. A few chimneys puffed with life; a dog barked at a back door: Earl knew who lived in all of them. In spite of the cozy atmosphere, Annie was aware that the chances of finding Bella’s mother were diminishing with every hour.

  “What time tonight?” she asked as Earl pulled into her driveway.

  “Six? I’ll pick you up. You don’t know how to get to my place, and it’s a pain in the ass, pardon my French, to explain. Besides, it’s pitch-dark out there. One of us can bring you and the baby home.”

  * * *

  Annie was glad for the small bit of time alone. She put on black pants and a red cashmere sweater, fed and changed Bella, then slipped a CD of soft Christmas music into her small sound system. She held the baby while they sat by the tree, slowly rocking to the rhythm of the song.

  “This is your first Christmas,” she said in a low voice. “Thanks for sharing it with me.”

  She could have sworn she heard Murphy say, “My pleasure.”

  Annie laughed, then said to Bella, “If you heard that, it was our guardian angel. But as much as I’m glad she’s here, I wish she could bring you something festive to wear, like a snuggly red onesie or a green elf suit with cute little pointed booties.” She gently brushed back Bella’s dark hair, then had an idea.

  Setting the baby on the quilt, she went to the big container that held her soap-packaging needs: the labels, the netting, the ribbons. “I should have thought of this earlier,” she said, pulling out a roll of red ribbon and a square of soft netting. She went back to the rocker and, through patience and persistence, she crafted a flower that looked like a corsage. She picked Bella up again then, and using two-sided tape, she attached it to the onesie, over the baby’s chest.

  Amazingly, Bella stayed very still while Annie then gathered her hair into a topknot ponytail and tied it with the ribbon. “There. You are the prettiest package of cranberry and aloe oil I ever could have made.”

  Bella gurgled, smiled, and wiggled her arms.

  “No!” Annie laughed. “Don’t even think about tearing it out of your hair!” She held her and rocked her and kissed her on the forehead.

  Then she heard sounds on the front porch. A bang. Followed by clomping footsteps. She listened. The clomping didn’t sound like Earl’s. She held her breath. Oh, God, she thought. I forgot to tell him the latch was broken. What if it wasn’t him . . . what if it was . . .

  A knock on the door was loud. And firm.

  Annie pulled Bella close, but didn’t get up. Could it really be Bella’s mother, returning to get her on Christmas Eve? Could she look through the window and see them sitting there? Annie knew she should welcome the girl, knew she should be relieved, and yet . . . well, the truth was, she’d looked forward to the evening, to being with the baby.

  Then came a shout: “Annie? Annie Sutton? Am I in the right place?” It was a man’s voice. Deep and resonant.

  A man?

  Annie didn’t know what to do. Could it be Bella’s father? Just because the visitor knew her name was no guarantee that he was there with good intentions. She sat motionless, hoping he couldn’t see them.

  “It’s John Lyons,” the voice said then. “Earl’s son. He asked me to bring you to the house.”

  Letting her grip on the baby loosen, Annie muttered, “Oh, for God’s sake.” Then she stood up, hoisted Bella onto her hip, and went to let him in. By the time she reached for the door handle, she suddenly remembered that John Lyons wasn’t only Earl’s son—he was also the police.

  Chapter 12

  John looked taller than when she’d seen him from a distance. His dark hair was brushed with silver at the temples; his eyes were pearl gray, like his mother’s. If Annie were younger, she might say he was close to being hot. If she weren’t so nervous about the fact he was a cop, she might have needed to remind herself that he was younger than she was, and that she was not in the market for a man—any man. After Mark, she’d decided not to head down that road again. Maybe when she was much, much older, and only if her heart was strong enough never to break again.

  “We’re almost ready,
” she said, flashing a smile that she hoped masked her agita.

  “Okay. I’ll wait outside.”

  He spun around so quickly he’d barely looked at her at all. If she were to craft him into a character in one of her books, she’d have to describe him as aloof... and therefore unavailable. Not a bad thing, she told herself. Especially under the circumstances.

  Hustling to pack up the baby and the gifts, Annie made it out of the cottage, but forgot her gloves. Rather than appear like a rattled, foolish woman, she decided to act as if she hadn’t intended to wear them.

  He was leaning against the passenger door, but his pickup truck was running, no doubt keeping the inside warm. He opened the door for her. “I glanced in your car and noticed you don’t have a car seat. You need one for the baby. It’s the law.” He didn’t know that might be the least of her legal issues.

  “You’re right,” she replied as she did her best to situate the basket at her feet. She decided not to point out that at least she had a safe basket now and no longer used the “piece of crap” that was chucked in her back seat. “But this happened so fast. I’d told her mom I’d babysit, but she was rushing and forgot to leave me the car seat. She had to go off island, then the blizzard happened, and she hasn’t been able to get back yet.” The words tumbled out, unrehearsed, though sounding fairly plausible. Or so Annie hoped.

  “A place in Edgartown rents them,” John said. “They’ll deliver what you need right to the On Time. You won’t have to bring your car across to get it.” He closed the door behind her and walked around to the driver’s side. At least he hadn’t asked questions, like who the baby was and why her mother had been in such a rush that she’d forgotten something as important as a car seat. Or why she hadn’t been able to “get back yet” when the blizzard had ended what now seemed like eons ago.

  Annie decided to divert the conversation before she needed to conjure up more lies. “Thanks for the ride,” she said as he backed out of the driveway with remarkable precision. “I haven’t been to your parents’ place, and your dad said it’s tough to explain how to get there.”