by Jean Stone
Then she saw the pictures. Of Kevin. And his dad. Playing catch. Riding horses on a carousel. Fishing in a small stream using poles that looked like they were made of branches from a tree.
Kevin and his dad. The man he barely remembered. Annie emitted a small cry. She knew that Kevin didn’t know that these photos existed. Donna had protected him by helping him move on.
Happiness flooded through her; she knew how much the things would mean to her awesome brother.
After a few minutes, she put them back into the pocket of the trunk, knowing that her time had now come.
She held her breath and reached for the first notebook. It was heavy, filled with pages. But as soon as she turned back the cover, she realized it was not a notebook but a photo album, similar to Kevin’s.
She was greeted by a picture of herself. As an infant. It was the same image that was in the blue album in her bookcase. Annie, someone had printed beneath it. Three days old. The nuns must have provided the picture to both the birth mother and the parents who’d adopted Annie. How nice of them, she thought. Next to the photo a tiny bracelet had been taped; it was strung with lettered beads that spelled out Baby MacNeish, followed by her birth date.
Annie bit her lip, found her courage, and turned the page. And there was a photo of her dad holding her. The caption read: Bob and Annie, one week old.
Annie was confused. Why would the nuns have given Donna a picture of Annie with Bob Sutton, her dad? Wasn’t it a closed adoption? Had Donna known who’d taken her?
The next page showed Annie in a highchair at the table in the kitchen where she’d grown up. Annie, one year, it read.
She skimmed through the albums. Photo after photo was of her, taken on her birthdays—one, two, three—and days in between: the first-day-of-school pictures, her prom, graduation. And more. Many that were already in Annie’s blue album, but also many more that she’d never seen. Tucked between the pages were programs from school plays Annie had acted in, newspaper clippings from when she’d received Girl Scout merit badges, the announcement of when she’d been accepted into college.
It made no sense to her, no sense at all. And then, in the bottom of the trunk, were six boxes. She recognized the packaging: each held a different American Girl doll. Instinctively, she knew that they’d been hers; she remembered that they’d disappeared when she’d gone off to college. She picked one up; it held the doll that wore the red plaid dress Ellen had made that matched Annie’s skirt and the swatch that was now in the quilt.
That’s when Annie saw another note. It was attached to the bottom of the trunk. It was not in Donna’s handwriting, but her dad’s.
Annie, my wonderful Annie,
By the time you read this, both your birth mother and I will be gone. Please know that we thought it was best never to tell you while one of us was still alive; we did that for you, and for Ellen, the only mother that you knew.
Donna and I met one summer on Martha’s Vineyard. She was a waitress at the Blue Lagoon Restaurant, and we fell in love at first sight. One Vineyard morning, we had a picnic on South Beach—do you remember where that is? How we loved it there. It was quiet back then. And magical.
But I was much older than she was, and I was married to Ellen. We had our share of problems, mostly because we couldn’t conceive a baby, and she was very angry about that. When I met Donna, Ellen and I were separated.
Donna and I loved each other very much, but I felt awfully guilty. After that summer, we decided I should go back to Ellen and see how she was doing. She was my wife, after all. I felt I owed her that, and Donna agreed. But we said we’d stay in touch.
Three months later, after I’d reconciled with Ellen, I received a letter from Donna. She told me she was pregnant.
Neither of us knew what to do. We were so conflicted; we were moral, respectable people who’d fallen in love. So we arranged for a private adoption; we agreed that Ellen and I would raise you as our own. And that perhaps one day Donna and I could be together. The memories of my time with her on the Vineyard were deep—and why I wanted to go back every year. I wanted to feel the kind of happiness again that I’d felt with her. And I often did, especially as you grew up, whenever I saw her in your eyes and your hair and your beautiful face.
I never saw Donna again. We both carried so much guilt, and we wanted to do what was best for you. At that time, divorce was still a stigma, never mind what we had done. Sometimes we wrote, and I sent her lots of pictures and other news of you. Your American Girl dolls had all been gifts from her. I pretended that I’d bought them.
After many years, she married, and staying in touch became too difficult. When you went to college, I returned the dolls to her so she’d have something that had been a nice part of your childhood.
Ellen never knew the truth about your birth. And if she’s still alive when you read this, I trust that you won’t share it with her.
I love you so much, Annie. You have been the greatest joy in my life. And while it’s true that you were unexpected, you were never, ever, a mistake.
I hope, in time, you will forgive us. But Donna and I had agreed that at some point it would be only fair to you to let you know who your real father was. It was me. One and the same. I hope that’s okay with you.
Because we had a pretty good life, didn’t we, kiddo?
Much love,
Daddy
Annie stared, unmoving, at the letter. She wanted to tell Kevin that she now knew why Donna had wanted her ashes sprinkled off of South Beach. She wanted to tell John—and Lucy—she knew who her birth father was. She wanted to tell Earl and Claire and, especially, Winnie. Because in Winnie’s words, now that Annie knew her past, she might be better able to guide her future.
But those things were to come. Right then, more than anything, Annie only wanted to sit a while longer, and reread the letter from her dad. And then read it again.
It’s okay, my friend, she heard Murphy’s voice. I’m right here beside you. In fact, all of us are.
Author’s Note
Martha’s Vineyard is a destination for summer magic: festivals and fairs; music, shops, and restaurants; sailing days and clambake nights. And, of course, sunbathing on beaches, beaches, beaches—it’s an island, after all. But when my wonderful editor, Wendy McCurdy, suggested this new Vineyard series, we agreed I should go beyond the summer fun and delve into the year-round experience of true islanders.
From natives to wash-ashores, full-time residents are eclectic and diverse, a blend of cultures and customs, a cacophony of talents and ideas. Together they are the foundation of the island’s vibrant spirit of community. And, when mingling with summer residents and visitors, interesting things can happen.
My main character, Annie Sutton, a bestselling mystery novelist, moved from Boston to the Vineyard to put her past behind her. But whoever penned the saying “Wherever you go, there you are” must have had Annie in mind. Since the series debut, A Vineyard Christmas, Annie has been faced with truths about herself and the ongoing challenges that they still pose in her wonderful but very real world.
I hope you’re enjoying this series. Book number four, A Vineyard Crossing, will be published soon. It promises more choppy waters ahead—plus an unexpected bombshell or two. I’m rooting for Annie to navigate it all. But who knows?
—Jean Stone
Photo courtesy of Marcia Fenn
Jean Stone is the author of seventeen novels about contemporary women that have been published by Random House and HarperCollins. Her book Good Little Wives (written under her pen name, Abby Drake) has been optioned for a Lifetime TV movie. From Germany to Japan, over a dozen countries around the world have purchased the subrights to her novels and translated them. Jean has taught at a number of writers’ conferences and has been a guest lecturer at many colleges and conferences. A native of New England, she lived in Amherst, Massachusetts, for several years; she now resides on Martha’s Vineyard. Visit her website: www.jeanstone.com or her blog www.jeanstonemv.c
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