by Jean Stone
Annie didn’t have to ask what he meant by “careful.” She agreed it was a good idea. Jonas, after all, had never had a father who might have taught him about setting boundaries around young teenage girls. Annie left the Inn, but halfway down the hill, she remembered she’d forgotten to tell Kevin that Donna was still coming on Saturday. She supposed that it could wait. There was only so much bad news a person could handle in one day.
* * *
John was furious. Earl was grumpy. Lucy was defensive.
By the time Annie arrived, the three Lyons family members were sitting in John’s living room—John in his recliner, Earl in a wing chair, Lucy on one end of the love seat, her legs curled under her, her spine tipped slightly forward. All of them had their arms folded—the men, no doubt to block their anger; Lucy, as if she were trying to avoid an old-fashioned flogging. By the startled look on her face, Earl might have mentioned that if this were fifty years ago, that would have been a possibility.
“So,” Annie said as she stepped farther into the room, “what are we going to do about this little problem?”
“I took it down,” Lucy said.
“And as I told you,” John groused, “it was too late. For starters, you tagged Jonas, so all his friends saw it. It might even have been one of them who alerted the news feeds. Or someone who saw the ‘Vineyard’ tag and thought it was hilarious. I swear, everyone under twenty-five these days is too technology-smart and too common-sense-stupid.”
Annie sat in the wing chair opposite Earl. “I’ve never been good at deception,” she said, “but on the way over here, I tried to think of something we could post to deflect the spotlight—a way to shift the narrative.” It was a technique she’d often seen her ex-husband use, though she’d hidden her distress each time he’d boasted about it. The three generations now looked at her intently.
“I’m a cop, Annie,” John said. “It can’t be illegal.”
She shook her head. “Just a playful distraction.” She didn’t think that lying had become illegal, unless you were in court. She glanced at Earl. “I got the idea from something you said yesterday about the skull’s maybe being from an old Halloween prank. Or a kid’s toy, leftover from a party. So I thought, why not put those things together and come up with another post?”
The generations were silent for all of five seconds. Then Lucy asked, “Like what?”
“Like what if we posted a picture of a pumpkin carved up like a jack-o’-lantern and wrote: ‘Pranksters play early Halloween hoax on Martha’s Vineyard.’ Or something like that? Even though Halloween’s a long way off, I bet people would buy into the drama and believe it.”
“People will believe anything these days,” Lucy said, once again sounding way beyond her years. She unfurled her body, opening up to the idea. “We could make the type bold and black for added attention.”
“Or set it all against a black background, reverse the type so it’s white, and paste the glowing jack-o’-lantern next to it,” Annie added.
The men offered no comments.
“It could work,” Annie said. “At least, it should help diffuse the fallout.”
“If we do it fast,” Lucy said.
“Where’s your laptop?” Annie asked, just as the doorbell rang.
The four of them sat, frozen in place. It rang again.
With a guttural hiss, John stood up and went to the door. On the other side, stood a large, pale woman. She had jet-black hair and substantial gray roots; she wore a dark blue blazer, khaki pants, and a tight-lipped, crimson grin. She had a notebook in her hand.
“Hello, Marilyn,” John said. “How are things over at the newspaper?”
Chapter 8
Annie supposed that telling lies on the internet was one thing, but telling a reporter the same made-up story might ride an edge of being unethical, especially when one knew the reporter—which, in John’s case was more than true because it turned out that Marilyn Sunderland had been his sixth grade teacher. Small island, Annie thought.
“The rest of them are headed for Chappy,” Marilyn said.
The rest of whom? Annie wanted to ask. But seeing as how there were only two newspapers doing business on the island, she feared she knew the answer. Boston, probably. Maybe Providence. Surely the story wasn’t big enough for the networks or cable outlets. Was it? And what about the plethora of online “news” magazines?
Marilyn fidgeted with her pen, clicking it on and off. Her cheeks were flushed. “We haven’t had this much excitement at the paper since Michelle Obama showed up unexpectedly at the Edgartown Library.”
The former first lady’s visit had been a fabulous surprise; Annie knew that her discovery was hardly in the same category.
“But I’m not here for gossip. I would, however, like an exclusive, John. Seeing as how I taught you how to read and write.”
John actually laughed. “I hate to burst your bubble, Ms. Sunderland, but I knew how to read and write fairly well by the time I was in sixth grade.”
She waved the notebook in his face as if swatting a fly. “I’m serious, John. Right now, the Globe, the Cape Cod Times, and a bunch of online rags are queued up at the ferry trying to get over to the scene. I also heard that CNN is on its way and plans to do a feature that’s somehow tied to Jaws. It sounds farfetched, but who knows? In any event, we islanders want the best for the Inn. It’s a fine piece of property, and we know Earl will do it justice.” She peeked around John’s shoulder and waved to Earl, who nodded in half-hearted response. “But this kind of publicity could put a quick kibosh on it. Give me an exclusive, and we’ll get the real story out. It’s the only way to ward off gossipmongers.”
John stood in the doorway staring at Marilyn Sunderland. Annie didn’t feel it was her place to say anything, and Lucy had returned to cowering.
Earl stood and hoisted the waistband of his workpants. “Let her in, son,” he said.
* * *
Lucy offered everyone a cold drink; John told her this was not a social event.
Marilyn sat on the love seat next to Lucy. “How are you, honey?” she asked as she tapped Lucy’s knee. “That must have been a dreadful experience, finding that skull. I remember when I was about your age, Ronnie Slovich was walking to school one morning and he found a dead body on West Tisbury Road. Remember that, Earl?”
Earl shrugged. For as long as Annie had known him, she didn’t think she’d seen him that mute for that long.
“So,” Marilyn went on, “do you want to tell me about it, honey?” She clicked her pen and looked at Lucy.
“I didn’t find it,” Lucy said. “Annie did.”
All gazes skulked over to Annie.
“I did,” Annie said. “And I need to tell you up front, Marilyn, that it might be a hoax.” She said it with a straight face and a clear voice, and, for once, she didn’t stumble over a lie. Perhaps because so much was at stake.
“A hoax?”
Toying with the hem of her T-shirt—good grief, Annie realized, she was wearing an old T-shirt and yoga pants, her work-at-home wardrobe, not her go-to-Edgartown attire. She wondered if she’d put on any makeup in the morning, then recalled that, no, she hadn’t. On top of that, she’d looped her hair into a quasi ponytail—quasi because her hair was too short for a real one, but so long that it hung in her face when she was bent over her keyboard, studying the letters, waiting for words to find a way out to her four typing fingertips. She sat up straight and squared her shoulders, hoping that good posture would help neutralize her god-awful appearance.
“It’s possible that the item is an old Halloween toy, perhaps a decoration once used at a party. It was hard to tell because when I pulled it from between the rocks, it was covered with seaweed.”
“A toy?” The woman’s jawline sagged.
“We won’t know for certain until the state police get back to us. But, of course, we had to go through the proper protocol just in case.” Annie looked at John, who was standing behind the wing chair where Earl s
at, his arms still folded. “Right, John?”
It took a few seconds for John to answer, then he said, “The Staties are in charge. But I’m sure you know that, Marilyn.”
Marilyn exhaled a breathy sigh through her large nostrils. “A toy?” she repeated, then quickly turned back to Lucy. “I hope this wasn’t your idea. Because planting a toy on the beach, pretending it’s a human skull in order to get attention, not only wastes a massive amount of police work and law enforcement time, but I believe it would be akin to pulling a fire alarm at the school.” Marilyn whipped around, back to John. “Am I right about that, Sergeant Lyons?”
He squared his shoulders the way that Annie had, though his were broad and strong and much more assertive, despite the fact that he had on the scrub pants with the drawstring that she knew he wore to bed. She wondered if Marilyn felt intimidated, or if the woman still saw John as a twelve-year-old who was, as Winnie had said, always off in a million directions.
“Lucy knows better than to do something like that. And I’d appreciate it if you would not insult or interrogate my daughter.” His thoughtful, pearl-gray eyes turned dark and penetrating.
Marilyn stood. “I assure you, I meant nothing by it. But she is the one who posted the photos, isn’t she? Which are bound to have the other members of the media conclude that your daughter does not, as you call it, know better than to do something like that.” She headed for the door, stopped, then rotated back around. “No matter what the investigation reveals, I do hope you’ll consider giving me the exclusive. I’m probably the only one who truly doesn’t want negative publicity about our island.” She attempted a small smile, said that she’d let herself out, and, sure enough, she did.
They were silent for a moment. Then Annie said, “I’m surprised you had nothing to add, Earl.”
“Me? Hell, no. I dated that woman about a hundred years ago before I met Claire, but, believe me, Marilyn never let me forget it. At least she didn’t wink at me this time. She usually does that when Claire’s around, to see if she can get my goat. Or Claire’s. Behind closed doors Claire and I laugh about it, but the truth is, Marilyn Sunderland gives me the creeps.”
“Dad? Are you kidding? You dated my sixth-grade teacher?”
“She was not your teacher at the time, as you hadn’t yet been born. I think we were still in high school. Yeah. We must have been. All I really know is that it wasn’t pretty when, oh, I guess you could say, I dumped her for your lovely mother, who, unlike Marilyn, did not scare the hell out of me.” He chuckled.
“Well,” Annie said. “We didn’t give her what she wanted. Do you think she’ll somehow use it against us?”
“Dunno,” Earl replied. “I never did understand what made her so crotchety.”
“In that case, I guess we’d better take care of this right now. Lucy, is your laptop downstairs?”
She shook her head. “It’s in my room.”
“Why don’t you girls go upstairs and work on that,” John said. “I’ll go back to Chappy with Gramps. I’m awake now anyway, so I might as well take care of a few things over there.”
* * *
Lucy’s room was papered in posters of her favorite musicians, none of whom Annie recognized. She was familiar, however, with the theme of the décor; when she’d been a teen, her bedroom walls had been plastered with images of Springsteen, David Bowie, Queen. And Madonna, though her mother had not approved.
Grabbing the laptop from her desk, Lucy sank onto her bed. Annie went to a small wooden chair that was painted pink. Before sitting down, she noticed that LUCY was spelled out in pink, glittery crystals on the back.
“My dad made that,” Lucy said. “He made one for Abigail, too. I was seven, and she was ten. I thought mine was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. Abigail scrunched up her face and asked him why he thought she was still a little girl.”
Annie’s heart melted like a snowman on South Beach in August. Sometimes she forgot that Lucy had a sister—John’s older daughter—who lived with their mother on the mainland and decried all things “Martha’s Vineyard.” Lucy hadn’t seen Abigail since Christmas. Annie pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat. “Do you miss your sister?”
“No.” Her head was bent; her long hair was unbraided, spilling down her cheeks. Her eyes were focused on the screen while her fingers—all of them—hopped over the keyboard like stones skipping across the water.
Then Annie asked, “Lucy? Why did you post a picture of Jonas standing on the beach?”
Lucy didn’t answer right away, then said, “He was there, you know?”
“I do know, yes. And I know he’s really cute. Do you agree?”
“Sure. Yeah. I guess.” She kept typing, though only God and the internet knew what she was writing.
“Lucy? You do know he is quite a bit older than you are, don’t you?”
“Duh, yeah.”
“He’s in his twenties.”
She kept typing.
“It’s just that I wouldn’t want you to . . .”
Lucy stopped typing, looked up at Annie, and tucked her hair behind both ears. “Look, Annie, I know what you’re trying to say, but forget it. I’m fourteen. I might not be starting high school until September. But I’m not naïve.”
Annie wasn’t sure if that meant Lucy knew that Jonas was too old for her or that she thought she was mature enough to make those decisions for herself. Which maybe she was. What did Annie know about raising a teenager?
“I know. I just don’t want you . . .”
“What? To get hurt?”
“For one thing, yes.”
“Don’t worry. Besides, Jonas would be the last one to hurt me. That guy knows what hurt feels like. Do you know he only met his mother—officially—last summer, and that he never got to know his father?”
“I know, honey,” Annie said. “I also know that might make him vulnerable.” She remembered when Jonas had showed up at her door not even a year ago, when he’d apologized that his grandfather had booted her from her rental. Jonas had been kind. And sensitive.
Lucy laughed. “He’s hardly vulnerable. He graduated from college last year. He’s an artist. And he’s really good. He’s even been asked to show his paintings at the Sculpin Gallery and Featherstone this year. A ton of people have friended him online, but he never posts anything. I thought that if we showed his face doing something exciting, it might get him some visibility. Help make him more famous, you know?”
“So you were only trying to help him?”
“Duh, yeah,” Lucy repeated.
Annie realized it was just as well that she’d never raised a child. She clearly had no idea how a young mind worked, perhaps had never even known how hers had. Otherwise, her life might have been very different.
* * *
After cutting and pasting an image of a jack-o’-lantern and announcing the hoax, Annie left John’s house. She did a few errands in town, then made it back to Chappy around dinnertime. Neither John nor Kevin had mentioned mealtime plans; maybe it was just as well—she needed time alone.
Best of all, when she arrived no media had been lurking at the On Time or seemed to have made it across the channel to the property. When John had said he had a few things to take care of and had left for Chappy with Earl, he must have taken care of the reporters. In his peaceful, coply way.
Digging through her refrigerator, she came up with various bits and tossed them into a salad—greens, tomatoes, some vegetable lo mein, and leftover chicken. Thankfully, it tasted better than it looked. She sat by the window while she ate, not turning on either the television or the radio for the false company of voices. She did not check her phone for texts or her laptop for mail; she simply sat and pondered. Mostly, she tried to steer her pondering to Donna’s impending visit.
Kevin would be upset that their mother was still coming. Maybe he should have been the one to call her—he knew Donna so much better than Annie ever could.
Annie could not imagine what it
would have been like if she’d been Kevin, if she’d been raised by a mother but no father, a working mother, which still had not been common in the seventies when Kevin was growing up. For Annie, it might have been fun to be around all of Donna’s beautiful antiques, to have been surrounded by her friends who probably had creative minds and knew about history and art and all kinds of interesting things.
Bob and Ellen Sutton had provided a much different kind of home. But it had been a nice home. Where Annie had felt loved.
Tears began to well. She missed the mom and dad who’d raised her: the caretaking predictability of her mom, the unpretentious, nonjudgmental steadiness of her dad. Pushing away her salad now, Annie stood, went to her bookcase, and removed a large blue binder—the photo album she hadn’t looked at in a long time. She sat down in her rocking chair, slowly turned the pages, and remembered.
As a toddler, she’d always looked bewildered, her mass of black curls so different from the fair hair of her parents. By elementary school, her curls were gone, her hair then long and straight, parted down the middle because she’d wanted to be Cher. At her high school graduation, when Annie was named class valedictorian, Bob and Ellen Sutton looked so proud standing beside her on the dais. She traced her finger, first around her mother’s smile that had softened with the years, then around her dad’s receding hairline, that he’d often joked displayed his age the way the rings of an old tree trunk showed off theirs.
Throughout the album, the photos showed the years of their Vineyard vacations, those treasured, annual weeks. Her dad began to save for the next year as soon as they got home; instead of a Christmas Club at the local bank, they had a Vacation Club.
There weren’t as many photos of Annie once she’d gone to college, except . . . She turned the page and saw what she knew was glued on there: a photo that her dad had snapped of Annie and Murphy, laughing over something that no doubt was ridiculous. Their hairdos—Annie’s ebony, Murphy’s carrot-red—were very big and held together by tons of spray; their sweaters had shoulder pads that made them look like linemen on the football team. They’d met the first day of college in the hallway of their dorm and wound up being best friends for more than three decades.