by Jean Stone
John laughed. He had a nice, easy laugh, like Earl’s. “He probably said it’s a pain in the ass.”
She smiled. “Why, yes, I believe those were his exact words.” She folded her hands in her lap and tried to pretend that they weren’t freezing.
“Well, I was happy to get you. It’s not often anyone lives on Chappy who I haven’t already met.”
She wondered if that was because it was an island, or because he was a cop. Was he trying to let her know he had his finger on the pulse of Chappaquiddick, that little happened there that he didn’t know about? Stop being paranoid, she scolded herself. He was only being friendly, making small talk. After all, it was Christmas Eve, a time for merriment and joy, not undercover operations.
Staring at the dashboard, she noticed it was clean, free of dust, free of junk. In fact, the whole vehicle seemed surprisingly clean—for a man. You know better than to make a character into a stereotype, she could almost hear her editor bark. Annie had often thought that Trish was a stereotype herself: a New York literary woman—thin, attractive, yet slightly stooped—who dressed in understated black and always walked as if she were in a hurry.
“Are you just here for the winter?” John asked her now.
“No. I want to stay; I’m hoping that the Flanagans will let me rent the cottage year-round.”
“So, are you starting over or in hiding?”
Annie blinked. “Excuse me?”
He laughed. “That was a joke. Most islanders think people move here for only one of two reasons: either they’re starting their lives over, or they’re running away from someone. Or the law.”
If she weren’t feeling guilty, she might have laughed, too. “I assure you, I’m doing neither. I’m a writer. A couple of my novels take place on the island. I’ve wanted to move here for years. I could finally afford to.”
“A writer. That’s right. My mother told me. I forgot.”
Annie doubted that John Lyons forgot anything, though she wasn’t surprised Claire knew what she did for a living. Earl probably didn’t keep many secrets from his wife. Except, hopefully, Bella’s. “Since I’ve been here,” Annie said, “I’ve also become a soap maker. Thanks to Winnie.”
“Winnie Lathrop? She’s great.”
“She is. She’s become a good friend.”
“Do you know that even though they’re Wampanoags, the name Lathrop came from one of the original Pilgrims who arrived on the island by way of Barnstable, or something like that? Anyway, it’s an English name. It wasn’t common back then for the Wampanoags to intermarry, but sometimes they did.”
“Oh,” Annie said, “I didn’t know that.” It was nice that John seemed to have his father’s penchant for history. Earl had said that John’s ex had accused him of caring more about the Vineyard that he did about her. Could that be true? Then Bella began to fuss. Annie wanted to pick her up, but didn’t dare. Not when John had already said she needed a car seat.
“I dated Winnie’s daughter for a while.”
She wondered if that qualified as news: didn’t he know that Winnie’s daughter was married? “I’ve met her. She seems nice.”
“So’s her husband. I dated her long before they got together. Long before I got married, too. She was a little too young for me, though.”
Old news, then. Unimportant.
The heater churned, slugging warm air through the vent; Annie would have loved to ask him to turn up the dial. Instead, she said, “Your dad told me you have two girls?”
His nod was slow and deliberate, a mirror image of Earl’s. “Abigail and Lucy. They’re with their mother this Christmas. Up in Plymouth. But they’ll be here for the weekend. I’m hoping they’ll stay for New Year’s Eve.”
“That’s nice.”
“My mother agrees.” He gestured toward Bella. “How old is she?”
Annie’s fingers squeezed around one another. She hadn’t expected the question. “Um,” she replied, “well, about four months, I think.” Was that what she’d decided to tell people? That Bella was four, not three months? Had she already told Claire how old Bella was? Her palms started to perspire. She swiveled her gaze back to the window and stared out into the darkness. Where even the stars had enough sense not to come out in the bitter cold.
“I hope she enjoys her first Christmas Eve with the Lyons’ family,” John said. “Same goes for you.”
Annie tried to smile in a way that would offset her case of nerves. “Thanks. I’m sure it will be lovely. At least it isn’t snowing.”
He turned onto a narrow road that, with no streetlight to mark the way, she never would have seen. He then turned down another and finally stopped. “Okay, here we are.”
She was relieved the ride was over, though uncertain as to what lay ahead. Food, gifts, chatting with strangers. At least she had Bella as a conversation piece. And Earl would be there, so she knew that everything would be all right. As long as she could manage to keep her story straight.
* * *
Candles were lit; tree lights were on; the scent of evergreens and the sounds of holiday music filled the air. The table was set as if for a buffet—china, sterling, and crystal were lined up, an opulent display of treasured heirlooms. Annie wondered if they’d been passed down from the generations laid to rest at the Indian Burial Ground.
Unlike the tableware, Earl and Claire’s saltbox-style house was only forty or fifty years old, hardly an antique. It was tastefully decorated with comfortable furnishings, full bookcases, and several pieces of art—mostly watercolors that looked like island landscapes. Local artists, she supposed.
The rooms were spacious, but not overly large: living room, kitchen, dining room, study, and bath were on the first floor; Earl told her there were two bedrooms and another bath upstairs. “We built it the year John turned ten. Back when we still called him Skippy.” Earl snorted; John rolled his eyes; Claire tossed her husband a look of annoyance.
“You have a lovely home,” Annie said.
Earl took her coat and disappeared; John took her bag of gifts and said he’d put them under the tree. She was left standing with Claire, whose eyes penetrated her from top to bottom.
“Thank you for including me tonight,” Annie said, employing her finest manners, the ones she’d learned from the nuns at St. Thomas Elementary School.
“We like to have guests on Christmas Eve. And, of course, babies are always welcome. This one is very pretty. I was pleased when Earl said you were still babysitting.” She was as tall as Earl. That night, she’d secured her wild white hair with a hairband; she’d highlighted her pale complexion with a touch of blush. Annie suspected that, in earlier years, Claire had been attractive. But though her words seemed friendly now, it was impossible to tell if the woman was still simply sizing her up, the way she’d done when they’d met on Dock Street. Unless having a baby in her house had softened her outer shell.
“Would you like to hold her?” Annie asked. “Her name is Bella.”
Claire took Bella without hesitation. She was, of course, a real mother: holding a baby must feel natural to her. “Her eyes are quite big,” Claire said, “and she has a precious little face. But I must say I’m surprised your friend let you keep her for Christmas.”
Apparently she’d been faking her pleasant interest. Perhaps she was an accomplished gossip who knew when to act charming and understanding, but also when to go in for the kill. Annie had a nasty urge tell her that Bella’s mother was Jewish. Or Muslim. Or that she worshiped Festivus, the comical, made-up holiday from an old Seinfeld episode. Any of those explanations would have snuffed out speculation as to how a mother could abandon her baby on Christmas. But they would also result in another lie that Annie would need to remember. So she only said, “I’m afraid the blizzard messed up everything for her. I hope she makes it back tomorrow.”
Claire rubbed Bella’s back; Bella started to fuss. “And you said she’s from up island?”
“Yes.” Despite Claire’s nosiness, Annie didn’
t want to be rude—or worse, have the woman think she was trying to conceal something. She decided, once again, to redirect the conversation. “That storm was really something, though, wasn’t it? Before I moved here I heard a rumor that there was hardly such a thing as ‘plowable snow’ on the Vineyard—that even if it did snow a few inches, the salt air melted it in a day. I can now attest to the fact that the rumor was wrong!” She laughed, maybe too loudly.
“John’s girls are off island,” Claire continued, ignoring Annie’s weather remarks. “We’ll have them here next year, I hope.”
Maybe her earlier attitude had nothing to do with Annie after all. Maybe she was simply missing her granddaughters, and therefore both lonely and a little envious. Think positive, Annie thought.
“And you’ll see them this coming weekend, Mom,” John said, as he passed through the dining room, then disappeared into the kitchen. “Winter vacation,” he called back. “Remember?”
“You and I both know we’ll hardly see them. They’ll stay with you in Edgartown, where they’ll be busy seeing their friends and doing who knows what. Movies, skating, hiking—kids never run out of things to do.” She shook her head and looked at Annie. “No, we’ll hardly see them.”
John returned, a cookie in hand. “They’re teenagers, Mom. I’ll hardly see them.” He took a bite. “What time do we eat? I’m starving.”
Claire heaved a deep sigh. “Everything’s ready. Meatballs in the crockpot. Ziti in the oven. Seafood salad and deviled eggs in the fridge. Just waiting for your father to say when.”
“Maybe everyone would like a cocktail first,” Earl said as he entered from the opposite side of the room. “Annie? Cup of eggnog? Glass of wine? Fifth of whiskey?”
Everyone laughed, except Claire. Annie was relieved he had rejoined them. “Glass of wine, please. White, if you have it.”
John said he’d have a beer; Claire said, “Nothing for me, thank you.” She sat at the head of the table and bounced Bella lightly on her knee. At least she seemed to be warming up to the baby. Maybe it was true that Annie had misjudged her. Then she remembered Winnie’s words: Be careful.
She smiled. “May I help you, Earl?”
“Sure thing,” he said, so Annie followed him into the kitchen.
* * *
The cabinets were carbon copies of those in Annie’s cottage, crafted from old-fashioned beadboard that had been painted white. As with the gray-shingled siding outside, Annie had seen enough places to recognize that the style was indicative of the island.
“Sorry if my wife’s a little off tonight.” Earl uncorked a bottle of chardonnay and poured Annie a generous glass. “She resents that John let his ex move his daughters off island, as if he had any say in the matter. The fact is, Jenny hated it here. She’s a mainlander. Some of them can’t adapt.”
Annie deduced that Jenny was John’s ex, the woman he’d married sometime after he’d dated Winnie’s daughter. Annie was about to say it must be difficult for Claire not to have her granddaughters on the holiday, but a knock on the back door interrupted.
“Must be Santa,” Earl said. He handed Annie the wineglass and made his way down the hall.
Annie picked the beer bottle up off the counter, returned to the dining room, and held it out to John. Then she realized he was holding Bella. Her hand stopped in midair; she muffled a small gasp with a false cough. The last thing she wanted to see was a police officer in charge of Bella, whether he was on duty or not.
But before Annie could say or do something she might regret, Earl lumbered into the room, escorting a woman.
“Look who’s here!”
As if the L.L.Bean parka and the knit cap in hand weren’t dead giveaways, Taylor’s long auburn hair billowed over her shoulders. The big difference in her appearance was that she was wearing eyeliner and mascara that looked as though it had been carefully applied.
Earl officially introduced them; Claire asked Taylor to stay for dinner. “Absolutely,” she replied, in the same husky voice that had been part of why Annie had thought she’d been a man when they’d nearly collided in the driveway.
John transferred the baby to Annie, took his beer, and gave Taylor a bear hug. “Merry Christmas, old girl,” he said. But as Taylor fluffed her hair, Annie knew she was hardly an “old girl.” In fact, she was a very attractive, fortysomething-year-old woman. John’s age, she thought.
“Oh,” Taylor said, her gaze drifting toward Bella, “you have a baby.”
“I do,” Annie replied. “This is Bella. But she isn’t mine; I’m babysitting for a friend.” The lie had grown familiar, the words now sliding out like liquid silver.
“Well, you’d better be careful around this bunch. They’re baby lovers.”
Everyone laughed, though Annie felt her gut tighten. Then Earl asked Taylor if she’d like her usual. Apparently, she was a frequent visitor.
Annie sipped her wine while Claire chatted with Taylor about the health of her mother, the aftereffects of the storm, and if they’d found that damn hawk that had been stalking the Alvords’ coop. She was certainly friendlier to her than she’d been to Annie. Perhaps she was done pining for her granddaughters.
Earl returned with two short, squatty glasses, each of which held a couple of ice cubes and a good amount of what looked to be scotch. “Cheers,” he said as he passed one to Taylor, then clinked his glass to hers.
Taylor took a deep swig, then pivoted back Annie. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Now I remember where I’ve seen you! You’re down on North Neck. You and Earl were looking for your lost cat. Did you find it?”
Annie pulled Bella closer in the knee-jerk way she seemed to have adopted whenever she felt they were threatened. Her mouth went very dry. “Yes, we did,” she replied because she had no idea what else to say. “And yes, I’m on North Neck. I’m renting the Flanagans’ guest cottage.”
Then Taylor’s eyes gravitated toward Bella’s basket, down on the floor. “And now I know where I’ve seen your baby! I remember the basket. And her beautiful eyes. I gave your niece a ride across the channel a week or so ago. Dropped her off at the turnoff onto North Neck. How’s she doing? It’s always confusing for folks when they come to the Vineyard the first time, let alone come out to Chappy.”
Your niece.
Your niece?
Annie tried to smile, but her face felt frozen, as if she’d developed lockjaw or was having a stroke. All eyes turn to her: Claire’s, John’s. Earl’s. And, of course, Taylor’s. Taylor, who, for some reason, thought Annie was Bella’s aunt, who thought Bella’s young mother was Annie’s niece, who . . . Oh God, Annie thought. Taylor had given the girl a ride over to Chappy in her truck. If Earl’s friend had been the ferry captain that day, it was no surprise he didn’t remember the young woman—the stranger— who’d come over with a baby. Taylor had been driving. The captain most likely had no reason to pay attention to her passenger. Passengers. Plural.
“Your niece?” Claire interrupted before Annie could think of a plausible answer and unlock her jaw. “I thought you said you were sitting for an up-island friend?”
“Can’t be the same girl, then,” Taylor said, taking another swig. “She said she’d never been to the Vineyard. I paid her four-dollar fare, because it didn’t seem like she had much.”
Annie’s brain was frozen now the same way that her face was, the way her hands had been in John’s truck without her gloves. The only movement she felt was the rapid thumping of her heart. She also felt John’s eyes bore into her. And Earl’s. Who’d turned out to be no damn help at all.
The next thing she knew her eyes filled with tears. “Families,” she managed to say. “I’m sure you all know how tough those situations sometimes are.” She looked to Claire, half expecting to see a snarl. But instead, Claire nodded gently. Then she reached out and took Bella from her.
And Annie just stood there, tongue-tied, again.
Chapter 13
Breaking into the cottage had been easier than Francine had
expected. On the Vineyard, like on much of the Cape, no one seemed to believe in dead bolts. Maybe they thought the people who went there had enough of their own stuff and their own money and wouldn’t need to steal anyone else’s.
But right now, Francine really needed food. She’d been trying to come up with a plan about how to get some when she’d heard a pickup truck engine. She’d peeked out the upstairs window and saw that the truck had pulled into Annie Sutton’s. After a few minutes it looked as if Annie left with whoever was driving. Francine couldn’t tell if Bella was with her. But she figured it must be Christmas Eve.
At least she now had a way to get something to eat.
But she needed to be sure the cottage was empty.
So she waited a while. When she saw no further signs of life next door, she crept out of hiding and snuck through the trees until she found the path that led next door. It helped that Annie had left on the outside light . . . it reassured Francine that no one was home, in spite of the Lexus still parked in the driveway.
The porch door opened more easily than it had the night before when the latch broke. She tiptoed to a window and pressed her face to the glass: she saw a Christmas tree on one side of the room, its white lights glowing. She got a big lump in her throat. A long time ago, back when she’d thought everyone had been happy, Christmas at her house had had a tree, too. A big tree. With lots of presents around it.
Without letting herself give in to her feelings, she peered inside and confirmed that no one was there. Then she popped the front door open.
She went directly to the kitchen. It didn’t take long to stuff a few things in her pockets: a hunk of cheese, a couple of brownies, a roll that smelled like cinnamon. She really wanted some of what looked like beef stew, but she didn’t think it would be smart to steal it. After all, she didn’t want it to be obvious that she’d broken in. Besides, she only needed enough food to last until she was sure Bella was okay.