A Vineyard Christmas

by Jean Stone

  Slipping out as quickly as she’d slipped in, she was careful to press the lock back in place so it would look the way Annie had left it.

  Once outside, Francine meandered toward Annie’s car. If the keys were in it, did she dare use it to get off Chappaquiddick? After all, the longer she stayed there, the greater her chances were of getting caught.

  The car door was unlocked. She quietly opened it: the interior lit up, thanks to the overhead light. That’s when she saw what was in the back seat: Bella’s basket, carelessly thrown so it hung upside down, partly on the seat, the rest on the floor. The beautiful red bow was squished.

  Francine stared at the mess: it was as if Bella hadn’t mattered, and worse, as if Bella was in fact gone.

  * * *

  “Let’s eat!” Earl said, and Annie thought, Thank God, because there was no way she wanted the conversation to continue to be about a fictitious, long-lost niece. “Annie? You want to leave the little one with Claire and come give me a hand?”

  They went into the kitchen. Annie set her wineglass on the counter. As soon as she let go of the stemware, she saw that her hand was shaking. “Oh, God, Earl,” she whispered. “What should I say? What should I do?”

  “Jesus. Who knew that would happen? You want me to find out more? Maybe the girl told Taylor her name. Maybe she said where she was from.”

  “But if I was her aunt, I’d know those things, wouldn’t I? How on earth did that girl find out where I lived? And, for God’s sake, why? This confirms that I really was her target, doesn’t it? Taylor dropped her off at my street.” She wished she’d worn jeans so she could shove her hands in her pockets to stop them from trembling. “Why don’t I just tell everyone the truth right now? What am I waiting for?”

  “You’re waiting because it’s only Christmas Eve. And because you’re hoping there’s still a chance that Bella’s mother will come back and get her.”

  “It’s been almost a week. Do you really think she’s still here? Or that she wants her baby back? Maybe I’m just being selfish. Maybe I enjoy pretending I’m a mother. Like I’m making up for the fact I never was one.” She would not, ever, tell Earl about her abortion. Murphy was the only one who’d known about that. Murphy, and now Winnie.

  He went to the refrigerator, took out a plastic-covered bowl of seafood salad and a pottery platter where a dozen deviled eggs were nested in perfect oval hollows. He set the dishes on the counter and folded his arms. “I can tell you one thing. Taylor is a good woman, but she’s worse than Claire when it comes to wanting to know everyone’s business. If you want to protect the little one from a boatload of rumors, stick to your original plan. Wait until Wednesday, then bring Bella to the police. Or tell John in private. There’s no need to make a federal case out of this. Or what could become a very public one.”

  “Oh, Earl, I don’t know anymore. I don’t know if I’ve done the right thing.”

  “To tell the truth, neither do I. But I do know if you tell Taylor, you might as well tell the world. As it is, you’ve given yourself one more day before going to the authorities. How about if we spend tomorrow morning looking around some more? Check out a few houses out by Dyke Bridge? It could be that once the storm ended, she relocated over there. Maybe she’s waiting until she thinks she can find a safe way back to Edgartown without calling attention to herself. What do you say?”

  “Thanks, Earl. But I think it would be a waste of time. I really doubt she’d have gone all the way out there.”

  He nodded and lowered his eyes. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

  Then John appeared in the kitchen. “I don’t know what’s taking you two so long, but I say it’s time to eat! Hurry up, before we all die of malnutrition.”

  Annie winced, but didn’t dare look at Earl. She picked up the dishes of salad and the eggs, then followed him back to the dining room, her heart stuck in her throat for what felt like the ten thousandth time that night.

  * * *

  “I’ll bring you home,” Earl said and went to retrieve Annie’s coat. They’d eaten and opened gifts—a jar of homemade chutney and a lovely wool scarf for Annie, a colorful picture book of The Night Before Christmas for Bella. Taylor had already left, having said good night, and offered Annie the hope that things for her niece would be resolved soon. Annie had gulped and said, “Thank you.”

  The truth was, she didn’t remember much about what might otherwise have been a pleasant Christmas Eve. She had, instead, white-knuckled it through three worrisome hours.

  “No, Dad,” John said when Earl returned. He took Annie’s coat from him. “I’ll take her.”

  Earl shook his head, reached out, and grabbed the coat. “No. It’s Christmas Eve. You should stay here and call your girls.”

  John stepped back, his grip holding fast. “My girls are with their grandparents tonight. Their other grandparents. I’d only be interrupting.”

  “Try anyway.”

  The tug-of-war continued.

  “Stop it, Dad. I know you want to talk to the girls, too. We’ll call them together. Tomorrow. As planned. For now, there’s no need for you to go out again. It’s cold, and Annie’s place is on my way to the boat. I’ve got to get back to Edgartown. I’m on duty at midnight.”

  Even quick-thinking Earl had no comeback for that. Annie appreciated that he wanted to spend a few more minutes alone with her—no doubt to make sure she was okay. Or maybe he’d come up with an idea as to why Bella’s mother had known exactly where she was going: to North Neck Road, to visit her aunt.

  Then Annie had a sudden thought: What if the girl’s aunt wasn’t fictitious? What if Bella’s mother had merely gone to the wrong house? Maybe she really did have an aunt—one who lived in a different cottage on North Neck, a cottage that Annie and Earl had missed. Maybe Earl didn’t know every inch of land on Chappy the way Annie had thought he did.

  All of which, she knew, was wishful thinking, and undoubtedly implausible.

  However, she did know that right then there was no way she could turn down John’s offer and force him to let Earl drive her instead. It would have seemed silly, and it would have been rude to John. Not to mention that Claire might start wondering if something was going on between Annie and Earl, which was the last thing Annie wanted her to think. She could not afford to have Claire Lyons as an enemy. So, standing in the living room while John and Earl wrestled with her coat, Annie did what she did best: she smiled. “John, if you don’t mind, a ride would be great. Save your dad the trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble,” Earl said.

  “I know.And I appreciate that. But it’s on the way for John. And I bet you’ve had a long day.”

  “Well. Okay, then.” Finally, Earl let go. “Do you have a flashlight?”

  “In my purse. But I left on the outside light.”

  Claire stood up. “I hope you and Bella will come tomorrow for dinner. Roast turkey and fresh cranberry sauce. You can’t pass that up, can you?”

  The invitation came as a surprise. Annie hoped it hadn’t been extended so the woman could keep prying. “Are you sure, Claire? Christmas Day is usually for family . . .”

  “Nonsense. You and Bella can be our family for one day. In case you haven’t noticed, other than John, the rest of ours is absent.”

  “She cooks enough for the whole island,” John interjected. It was evident whose side he was on.

  “Will two o’clock work for you?” Claire asked.

  “I’ll pick you up,” Earl said. “I’ll be out anyway. I have houses to check late in the morning.” With no one else in her line of vision, he gave her a wink. “Besides, John’s on the night shift, so he’ll want to sleep in. No sense having him feeling rushed.”

  “As long as she doesn’t drive,” John said. “Not until she gets a proper infant car seat.”

  The plans were made without Annie agreeing, for which she was grateful. It saved her from having to struggle to think straight.

  * * *

  Bella’
s mother had showed up with her baby at the Holiday Crafts Fair where Annie had seen her. She’d asked the price of Annie’s soap, but hadn’t bought a single piece. The same girl had come from out of nowhere and deposited her baby on Annie’s porch. In the middle of the night. In the middle of a raging blizzard. A nor’easter.

  For some unknown reason, she’d picked Annie to take care of Bella. Even more confusingly, she’d known where Annie lived. How in God’s name had that happened?

  But as Annie gave Bella a bath and tucked her into the makeshift drawer-bed for the night, she finally accepted that there was no way the young mother had gone to Annie’s by mistake: if the girl truly had an aunt, chances were she wouldn’t have needed to sneak over during the storm, drop off the baby, then disappear. Even if the aunt hadn’t known about Bella, if the baby had been a secret, she certainly would have known the grandmother whom the baby had been named after.

  No, Annie deduced, it was more likely that Annie had been the actual target, that the cottage had been the girl’s destination. Though Annie could not imagine why.

  Sitting on the edge of her bed, she picked up the book from Earl and Claire and began to read aloud. “ ’Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house . . .” She had barely reached the line about settling down for a long winter’s nap when she saw that Bella was asleep.

  Annie set down the book, returned to the living room, and sat in the rocker in front of the tree. She slowly sipped a cup of tea, wishing she’d asked Taylor if the girl had mentioned her name. Then Annie supposed that knowing her name probably wouldn’t help find her. The fact that she’d said it was her first time on the Vineyard meant, as Annie had suspected, that she had not been in school with Winnie’s nephew, Lucas. And that she could have come from anywhere.

  But why?

  Had she run away?

  If so, why had she picked the island?

  Did the baby’s father live there?

  She wondered if the girl had said anything else to Taylor, anything that might suggest where she had come from. Annie supposed she could call the woman and make up a story so she could sneakily ask questions, but she only knew her as “Taylor,” which could be her first or last name. And besides, it was Christmas Eve. People didn’t arbitrarily call someone at ten o’clock on Christmas Eve unless it was an emergency. A missing baby could be considered an emergency. Except that the most important person who might have missed her did not appear to want her. Not to mention that Taylor was an island gossip. A rumormonger, Annie’s mother would have called her. “Tell Taylor . . . tell the world,” Earl had said.

  She set down her tea and rubbed her eyes.

  God, how she hated when people disappeared.

  And God, how she wished Murphy were there. Murphy would have reassured her that it was merely a coincidence that three people connected closely to Annie had chosen to vanish: her birth mother, Mark, and now the mother of this tiny girl. Murphy also would have said that the fact that all the people Annie had loved and who’d loved Annie back—her father, her mother, Brian, Murphy—had suffered early deaths was no reflection on her, either. Murphy would have told her she’d been chosen to be in their lives—not the other way around—because their lives were destined to be short, and that they had deserved the kind of love and support that Annie gave so freely. Murphy would have said those things, and part of Annie would have believed her. But part of her would have known her friend was full of crap. That she’d only been trying to make Annie feel better.

  She stared up at the ceiling. “I miss you so much, Murphy. I hope you and my dad are having a toast to me this Christmas.” She might have included her mother, but Ellen Sutton rarely drank. And Brian hadn’t, either. He’d said it would have been a bad example for the kids that he taught.

  Looking back to the tree, Annie surveyed the ornaments. She’d saved a few from when she’d been young: a star she’d cut out of yellow construction paper using children’s round-tipped, dull scissors. A red pipe cleaner looped from the star onto the branch; it had once had silver glitter, but that had fallen off long ago, leaving a glue stain that had since faded. She knew that her mother had written on the back: ANNIE, AGE 4. Her gaze then traveled to a Styrofoam ball that she’d covered with strips of dark green velvet ribbon and, with the help of small straight pins, had bedazzled with pearls and crystals that reflected the lights from the tree. She’d been older then, but her mother had nonetheless attached a small label: ANNIE, AGE 12.

  Yes, Annie had been lucky for an unwanted baby, a foundling. She’d been luckier than Bella. Or so it appeared.

  Winnie had said that everyone had a story. Annie’s writing teacher had told her that, too. “Every good guy, every bad guy, every guy—and girl—in between,” was how he’d explained it. He’d added that most of us live in the “in between,” and that that’s where the best stories came from. Annie wondered what he’d suggest she should do about the characters in this situation.

  “What I think doesn’t matter,” she could almost hear him respond, his beard, the color of parchment, bobbing up and down as he spoke. “What you need to do is turn it into a story. Put it on paper. That, you can do. That’s all you can do. It’s all you can ever do!”

  She laughed now because, like moving to the Vineyard, meeting that teacher had also been thanks to Murphy, who’d been introduced to him at a function she’d gone to with Stan. “He does writers’ workshops,” Murphy told her. “It’s time for you to take your writing seriously. I think he can help you have a real career.” Annie’s inner voice told her to believe Murphy. So she’d signed up, and she’d succeeded. And now, she listened to that inner voice again, the one reminding her that while she couldn’t control things, she could ease the stress if she simply sat down and wrote.

  “Okay,” she said, standing up, gulping the last of her tea, and turning off the tree lights. “I get the message. I will stop overthinking this mess. I will sit down and work on my book. Maybe I’ll weave Bella’s story into the plot. Maybe one of my main characters will find a baby on the steps of the museum. Whatever. I sort of know how to write. Which is good. Because I sure as heck don’t know how to do anything else.”

  She then reaffirmed her commitment to track down John the day after Christmas and tell him the truth about Bella. Maybe, when she saw him at Earl’s for Christmas dinner, she would tell him then. She only hoped it wasn’t too late, that the young mother wasn’t already so far off island that no one would find her. Ever.

  Retreating to the bedroom, Annie closed the door, set her laptop on a pillow, situated herself on the bed, and, five minutes later, was deeply immersed in the book she’d put off for too long.

  * * *

  In the morning, Annie was awakened by sunshine pouring through the window. Her head was half-hunched over her laptop; her neck had a terrible crick. She stretched, she groaned, she checked her page count: she’d written more than twenty-five pages before she’d fallen asleep at what must have been an ungodly hour.

  Twenty-five pages, she thought as she pulled herself out of bed. Maybe I can still write, after all.

  Turning to Bella’s makeshift crib, Annie leaned down and smiled. Bella’s eyes were open; it looked as if she were smiling back.

  “Merry Christmas, little one,” Annie said. She liked calling her that, the way Earl did. “It’s your first Christmas. Let’s make it a wonderful one.” Hoisting the baby, she glanced over at the clock: ten twenty-three. Wow. She couldn’t believe she’d slept so late. Or that Bella had, too.

  She fed her and changed her, then sat on the rocking chair, holding her. She reached down and plucked the small gift wrapped in red tissue that was under the tree.

  “For you,” she said gently. “From Santa.”

  Bella touched the paper, and, when it crinkled, she giggled.

  “That’s funny, isn’t it?” Annie asked. Peeling back one corner, she slowly pulled out the fleece lamb she had made. “Oh! Look! How pretty!”

  The baby st
opped giggling and, instead, examined the gift with questioning eyes, then deliberate fingers, as she studied each soft curve. When it seemed she was satisfied, she looked up at Annie and smiled.

  “Do you like her?” Annie asked. “Well, I think she needs a name, don’t you? How about if we call her Lily? Lily the lamb. Is that good?”

  Bella looked back at her gift, touched the small red heart with her tiny finger, and made a sweet, gurgling sound.

  “Okay,” Annie said. “The trouble is, it’s going on eleven now, and I have to get ready for dinner. Will you and Lily be all right if I put you back in your basket while I take a shower?” While she’d left Bella in her basket and brought it into the bathroom when she’d taken showers before, Annie wasn’t sure if she should leave a stuffed animal with a baby. Hadn’t she read somewhere that you shouldn’t put toys in cribs? Or leave a baby alone when they had something they could chew on, choke on, or put over their nose and mouth and wind up smothering themselves?

  “Okay. Change of plans,” she said. With one hand holding Bella, who held Lily, Annie picked up her mother’s quilt with her other hand and dragged it with them. As long as she could keep one eye on the baby, Annie figured everything would be fine.

  But as she stopped to gather clothes, she spotted a truck coming down her driveway. Had Earl decided to check out the houses by Dyke Bridge after all? With Bella resting on her hip, Annie walked to the window. The truck stopped; the driver got out. It wasn’t Earl; it was Taylor. And Annie had one of her gut instincts that told her this was not a social call.

  Chapter 14

  “Merry Christmas, again,” Annie called out after she plastered on her biggest, brightest smile. She’d opened the front door, but remained in the doorway. There was no reason to walk out to greet her.

  Taylor opened the screen door and stepped onto the porch. Her knit hat was back in place, her long hair crammed under it, out of sight. She looked like a man again. “You, too,” she said. “Still got that baby, I see.”