by Jean Stone
“What the heck is Grandma going to do with all those?” Lucy said, pointing at the flowers as she knocked on the door. “She can’t stoop over and dig in the ground. Not since her stroke.”
The door opened. Lucy gestured toward the pansies without saying hello.
“Who’s gonna plant those, Gram?”
Claire smiled. Her white, flyaway hair was living up to its description, but her forty-year-old jogging suit looked as clean and bright as the day she’d no doubt found it off island on a J.C. Penney rack. “I was hoping one of my granddaughters would come along and offer to plant them for me. Your grandfather doesn’t have much time these days.”
“Of course I will, Gram. Why didn’t you text me?” Then Lucy rolled her eyes. “Right. Grandmas don’t text. Grandmas use the telephone.”
Claire wriggled a bent, arthritic finger at Lucy. “And don’t you forget it.” They laughed. Annie smiled, feeling as if she’d stepped onto a stage again, where she was merely an observer of life. “Well, come on in first, the both of you. Have a cuppa something.”
“Tea would be wonderful,” Annie said.
“I’ll have a beer,” Lucy said, and Claire laughed. Clearly, she’d heard it before.
Restless did not reply. He was preoccupied sniffing the turf.
Five minutes later, after Lucy had guzzled ginger ale and the tea finally had steeped, Lucy grabbed the gardening gloves and went outside, leaving Annie and Claire alone.
“I hardly see you these days,” Claire said. “I hardly see anyone. You wouldn’t even know I had two men living in the house.”
Annie agreed. “Earl and Kevin are so busy trying to finish the Inn. And now that they’ve had to let the crew go . . .”
Claire nodded. She must have heard all of that, too. “And your mother’s here?”
Would it always take a heartbeat or two for Annie to remember that sometimes people would refer to Donna as her mother? Would her brain always need to reboot for her to realize they weren’t speaking about Ellen Sutton?
“Donna’s here, yes. We don’t know for how long.” Annie hadn’t meant to sound as if she were implying that Donna was going to die.
“The doctors said she’s cured?” Perhaps Kevin had told her; perhaps Earl.
“Well, she says she’s come to Chappy to recuperate, so that’s a good sign. But we don’t know how long she’ll be here.”
“And she’s staying with you.”
“She’s in the cottage. I’m in an unfinished room at the Inn. I thought it would be nicer for her to have privacy.” Suddenly, Annie’s thoughts collided again as if they were attempting to jockey for priority. Donna? The Inn? Lucy? Jonas? And what about her manuscript? Would Annie ever be able to get back to it in peace? She looked around the cozy kitchen, with the farmhouse sink, the café curtains at the window, the bead-board cabinets that were painted white. She remembered the first night she’d been there, Christmas Eve a year and a half earlier, the night she’d met John. Earl and Claire’s house had felt like home from the beginning. It held a sense of warmth within its walls. “I don’t know, Claire,” Annie said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t know if I’m capable of helping her.”
“What would you do if she were your other mother? The one who adopted you?”
“I’d know what to do.” Wow. Annie couldn’t believe that she’d said that so quickly.
To Claire’s credit, she made no further comment. Instead, she nibbled on home-baked shortbread. Then she said, “Earl says Donna had an idea on how to hurry things up in Boston. With the skull.”
Annie sighed. “She suggested that Kevin reach out to an old friend. But he’s not keen on it.”
“Have you asked John?”
“No. I think that would cross the line for him.”
“Probably.” Claire sighed. “That boy is too darned honest. But, Annie, you’re from the city. You were born there and grew up there. Isn’t there someone you know . . . ?”
Claire had a way of getting to the heart of a matter without breaking stride. And it often felt as if she knew the answer to her question before she’d even asked it. “Claire-voyant,” Earl had called her more than once.
Then, the trials of the past few days (or weeks, or months) bubbled to the surface and threatened to erupt. Annie pressed her hands against her head and said, “Larry. Larry Hendricks.”
Claire leaned toward her. “Who?”
Annie breathed a moment longer—slowly in, slowly out—before raising her head and repeating: “Larry Hendricks. An assistant district attorney. I’m sure he knows the coroner or the archeologist. He might even go out drinking with them.” She waited for relief from having told something she never thought she would. Especially not on the island. Not in her new home. That part of her life was long gone and far away. In another galaxy. Or was it?
“An old lover?” Claire asked.
“No,” Annie said flatly, the same way Kevin had denied that Gina was one of his. “Actually, it’s worse. He was my former husband’s best friend. He was out with him the night Mark trotted from the bar onto Commonwealth Avenue and disappeared into the night. Like he was in an old British spy movie. Larry swore he didn’t know Mark had planned to take off, or where he’d gone. He also said he had no clue if Mark had been unhappy or depressed . . . or that he was in the humongous debt that he so kindly left me.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Not a chance.” It was only then Annie realized that her fists were clenched, her fingernails embedded in her palms. “Murphy, my old friend, always thought Larry was pond scum—her term—and so was Mark.” And then, a warm flush rose in her cheeks. Her shoulders started to tremble. And as Claire reached out to take her hand, Annie fell apart.
Chapter 18
It had been years since she’d allowed herself to “let it out,” as her dad had instructed her the night Brian had been killed, years since so many tears had spilled down her face, since her insides had felt as if they were doing battle with each other. She rocked back and forth and back and forth.
At some point, Claire left her chair and went to Annie, encircling her arms around Annie’s trembling shoulders and gently saying, “It’s okay, Annie. You’re going to be all right now.”
It was a while before she was depleted, her heart and her soul dissolved into a tidal pool the size of Poucha Pond. Her posture remained slumped, but her breathing finally quieted, her tremors eased. The numbness of crying had provided needed relief.
Then Claire smoothed Annie’s hair. “Tell Kevin,” she said. “And tell your mother. Earl and I are your island family, but they should know, too.”
Annie had seen the tender side of Claire when baby Bella had landed on the Vineyard. It had taken Annie aback; before then, she’d been intimidated by the untamed hair and the wild look Claire could get in her eyes if she felt she or her family were being wronged.
Pausing, Annie waited to gather herself. Then she said, “I shared the basics with them, but that’s all.”
“If they only wanted the basics they could read the bio on your book jackets.”
“I don’t have the patent on misery, Claire.”
Claire returned to her chair, her pearl-gray eyes looking softer now, her mouth turned up in a small grin. “Oh, my. Sometimes life is shit, isn’t it?”
The gravity of the moment fell away, and Annie laughed. Cussing—as Earl called it—was not commonplace for Claire. “That it is.”
“What do you want, Annie? What are you hoping will happen next?”
“I want it all to go away. I want Donna to be fine, and I want to find out tomorrow that the skull belonged to a British sailor who went down with his ship in the eighteenth century and we are therefore free to rehire our crew and finish construction so we can pay our bills, get our occupancy permit, open the Inn, and provide a home to the people we’re already committed to. Of course, even if that all happens, we won’t have Jonas back.” As soon as she’d said those last words, Annie wis
hed she hadn’t.
“Where’s Jonas?” Claire’s penchant for being a busybody quickly resurfaced.
“I heard he left the island. I guess he went back to New York, to show his paintings.” It seemed kinder than sharing the rest. Besides, the day had already been emotional enough.
“I don’t expect Taylor’s happy about that. Is Lucy upset that he’s gone?”
Annie had had no idea that Claire knew he and Lucy had spent time together. “Yes, they’re friends. I’m sure she’s sad to see him go.”
Claire laughed. “Friends? Well, it’s just as well he’s gone. The age difference between them isn’t good. Especially since Lucy’s still a child.” She sighed.
“You have the wrong idea,” Annie said. “Lucy’s been supportive, but that’s all. Unlike me, she seems to be a natural caregiver. Jonas has been having a tough time. On top of all the drama going on here, his girlfriend broke up with him. He wanted her to move to Chappy, but she wouldn’t. Maybe he left to be with her.”
“Uh-huh. Well, enough of that then. Besides, we were talking about you. If you want my advice, if you can get the nuisance of that skull cleared up and get back to the business of the Inn, you’ll be able to think better about how to help Donna.”
Annie was glad that Claire had called her birth mother by name. “And I have a manuscript to write.”
Claire waved a hand as if that were inconsequential. Trish had once said that today people often had the misconception that book writing was as easy as composing an email or a text. “But I have a question,” Claire continued. “If this guy, Larry, really is a mucky-muck in Boston politics—and I think an assistant district attorney is a political appointment—he can probably pull a few strings. Am I right about that?”
“Probably.” Annie didn’t add that she’d thought of that a million times.
“Why not ask him? Years have passed, Annie. If he’s any kind of a decent man, he might feel bad about what Mark did to you. He might even feel guilty because maybe he didn’t tell you everything he knew. Call me crazy, but it seems like you have nothing to lose. Not even pride. Because you’ve really made something of yourself.” Claire paused, then said, “It’s hard to believe you married someone like that guy Mark.”
“It wasn’t my finest moment. Or ten years of moments.”
“I’ve always believed there’s a bit of a dark side in all of us. It’s called being human.”
“Thanks, Claire. I can’t tell you how often—before and after he left—I wondered why I’d married him, too. But it isn’t pride that’s stopping me from contacting Larry. The truth is, I don’t want him to know anything about me. Not where I live. Not what I’m doing. And not what my life’s been like since Mark left. I just don’t. Because it’s not his business.”
Claire laughed again. “You might have thought of those things before you wrote best sellers under your real name. And I believe your picture is right there with that book jacket bio. Not to mention what’s on the internet.”
“I wasn’t a best-selling author when I started writing.”
“Touché. But what are you afraid of? That he’s still in touch with Mark?”
Annie shifted in the chair. “Probably. Yes.”
“Well, no matter what, there’s a strong possibility they both already know damn well where you live and what you do. But if you can get the Inn going as soon as possible, well, sometimes it’s worth taking a risk to achieve a greater good.”
Annie nodded, but was done discussing it. She thanked Claire for her advice and for being kind. Then she said she needed to go and check on Donna. “I’ll think about our talk,” she said as she stood up. “Thanks again, Claire. I don’t know what I would have done on this island without you and Earl.” She didn’t add that Mark was the last person she wanted to risk seeing again. Ever. And despite Claire’s comment that he might already know everything about her, Annie knew the odds were long that he wanted to see her, either. Still, she couldn’t take that chance. Because part of her worried that if she saw him, her common sense would implode and she’d be sucked in by his charm again. “It’s called being human,” as Claire had said.
* * *
Lucy wanted to keep her grandmother company until Earl got home because she said Earl loved playing ball with Restless. (The truth was, so did Lucy, who still lingered in that great divide between being a tomboy and a grown-up woman.) Claire sent Annie off with a container of freshly made fish chowder—Charlie Beebe had dropped off a striper that he’d hooked that morning off Menemsha—and a Ziploc of oyster crackers. “Comfort food for Donna,” she’d announced. And though Annie thought Donna would appreciate the gesture, she wasn’t sure if food would be much “comfort” to Donna until she had fully recuperated.
But when Annie got home, Donna was asleep. She dashed off a note, put the chowder in the refrigerator, then got back in the Jeep and headed toward a place where she knew she could think, Wasque Point, facing the Atlantic. She followed the familiar strip of paved street until it gave way to a rutty dirt road. With the four-wheel drive confidently bouncing along, Annie knew she felt better. Claire had helped; it was nice to grow closer to John’s mother.
John, she thought as she reached the southern curve of the 200-acre preserve that skimmed Chappy’s eastern shoreline. Would he be upset if she contacted Larry? That she’d attempted to interfere with legalities, and, even worse, had done so through her ex-husband’s friend?
Parking the Jeep, she grabbed her phone, got out, and headed down the long path toward the water. The sun was starting to set; a vibrant orange ribbon stretched across the horizon where the ocean met the sky. The air had grown cooler—the chill reminded her that it still was April. She was glad she’d put on an old cable-knit cardigan.
She walked along the path that led out to the sandy beach; on either side, clusters of low-growing vegetation were already green; some of them would soon produce blossoms of delicate bluets. Later in summer other shrubs would yield sweet, juicy blackberries; by autumn, still others would be resplendent with deep red-orange bearberries. She and John often walked there; in their early days together, he’d pointed out the scrub oaks and pitch pines that flourished in the barren soil, and the ocean birds that made Wasque home: terns, piping plovers, American oystercatchers with their long, tangerine bills. It was a haven of nature, a perfect place to be alone to think.
She reached the beach; she sat down and inhaled a slow, pensive breath. She waited for the silence to bring her an answer to the big question about Larry Hendricks. It also would be nice if Murphy chimed in with a tip or two.
Murphy hadn’t trusted Mark from the beginning. She’d understood when Annie had tried to explain what she saw in him—the magnetic smile, the copious (they thought) riches, the terrific sex. And Murphy knew that a piece of Annie’s heart had been permanently broken when Brian was killed. She knew that her friend was lonely. Still, she’d cautioned her to take her time before saying “I do.” It was one of the few times Annie hadn’t followed Murphy’s advice. But when Mark disappeared, Murphy never once said she’d told her so.
“If you were here right now,” Annie said into the breeze off the water, “I promise I’d do whatever you say. I don’t want to lose the Inn before we even start; and I sure don’t want to lose John if I call Larry. And I’m doubly sure I don’t want Mark to learn one sliver about me—especially that I reached out to Larry.”
She waited.
She listened.
To nothing.
Then an oystercatcher appeared next to her, poking his long bill into the sand. He stopped. He looked at Annie—he looked at her; he really did. He emitted a rat-ta-tat peeping sound, then stepped closer, his bill aimed at the pocket of her cardigan.
“Shoo!” Annie cried, then felt guilty because she was the interloper, not him.
She stood and closed her sweater—which was when she realized that her phone was in the pocket where the bird had aimed its rat-ta-tatting.
Retrieving
the phone, she stared at it a few seconds. Then she turned back to the oystercatcher. But he was gone.
Murphy didn’t typically send a winged creature to do her bidding or carry her messages. And yet . . .
She glanced at the screen again, and laughed. What the hell, she thought. I might as well see if Larry still exists.
Opening the Google app, she typed his name, then added District Attorney’s Office, Boston. The search prompted a quick response—complete with a photograph of Larry Hendricks, Assistant District Attorney for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.
Annie’s heart started to race; her breathing turned to rapid staccato, in, out, in, out, in, out. She flung her phone on the sand as if the mere fact that she’d Googled Larry would set off alarms from Chappy to Boston then to wherever pond-scum Mark was hiding.
She said a few of the words that, when she’d been seven or eight, had resulted in her mother threatening to wash Annie’s mouth out with soap.
Her eyes ticked back to the horizon where night was quickly setting in. She knew she should leave before it would be too difficult to navigate the path back to the Jeep. Unless she used her flashlight app.
Stuffing her hands into her pockets, she stood, rocking in the sand, not unlike the way she’d rocked when she’d melted down in front of Claire.
She understood why Kevin didn’t want to contact Gina. If Annie never told him about Larry Hendricks, he’d blame himself if time ran out for opening the Inn. But now that Annie had told Claire about Larry, would Claire tell Earl? Would Earl tell Kevin? Had Annie dug her own self-centered grave?
“It seems like you have nothing to lose,” Claire had said. But Annie did. She could lose her peace of mind. And John.
Even if she did do it, they could lose the Inn anyway. Earl and Kevin would have squandered a lot of money and wind up with a mountain of undeserved debt. Annie knew what that felt like. But she also knew that the sooner they found out, the sooner they could all stop wondering and worrying, and begin to deal with the reality, whatever it might be. As Annie’s dad once said, “It’s the what-ifs that will kill you long before the knowing-for-sures.”