A Vineyard Summer

by Jean Stone

  Dana? The bride? “Colin Littlefield dated your daughter?”

  “When they were teenagers. Children, really.”

  The EMTs hoisted the stretcher and headed for the ambulance. Taylor carried the black case for them; John followed, carrying the lantern and his flashlight. The procession disappeared around the back of the vehicle. Their voices faded.

  “But Colin came to Dana’s wedding,” Annie continued, “so he must not have hard feelings.”

  Roger let out a laugh. “Colin Littlefield is too proud to have anyone think that losing my daughter had been her choice, not his.”

  Annie might have pried more, but she was suddenly uncomfortable, standing in her bathrobe, staring at an ambulance, while making small talk with the man who was booting her out of her house. Then she heard a clang of metal that sounded like doors being shut. And the night grew still, silent again except for the incongruous party music in the background, the only light glimmering from the ambulance interior.

  Then Annie heard John say, “Thanks for the help, Taylor,” and Taylor responded, “No problem, Skippy.” Annie knew that “Skippy” had been John’s childhood nickname, a reminder that the two of them had known each other all of their lives.

  They walked back toward the cottage while the ambulance remained in place, the EMTs apparently doing whatever was necessary, maybe hooking up oxygen or setting up an IV. Taylor went to where Fiona had been lying and stood next to Roger, though Annie wished she’d go home. Whatever might be in store for Fiona Littlefield, the Edgartown EMTs were in charge now.

  John veered toward Annie’s front porch, where he reached inside and snapped on the exterior floodlight.

  Annie wondered why she hadn’t thought to turn on the outside light earlier. Shock, she supposed. After all, she’d first thought the poor girl was dead.

  Then John walked over and addressed Roger and Taylor.

  “Do either of you know how to get in touch with either Colin or Sheila?”

  Taylor shook her head.

  Roger loosened the white bow tie of his tuxedo. “Dana might have Colin’s number. They dated a long time.”

  No one asked why the bride would have her ex-boyfriend’s phone number.

  “Can you find out?”

  Roger blinked. “You mean, like, now?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned his head toward the party tent. “For God’s sake, John, this is Dana’s wedding. . . .”

  “I’d appreciate it, Roger.” John’s voice was neighborly, yet no-nonsense.

  The older man glared at him, then looked back toward the party. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks.” John handed him his card. “I’ve got to go back with the ambulance. Give me a call when you know. The last boat left Vineyard Haven half an hour ago. We’ll check to see if Colin was on it. If not, he can’t get off island ’til morning. Unless he leaves his car here and goes by private boat. Or by plane.”

  Roger gave a mock salute and tucked John’s card into his short-tailed jacket. “Knowing Colin, he probably slipped away with one of the other bridesmaids.” He winked, which, under the circumstances, seemed inappropriate. Then he waddled off down the lawn, oblivious to the fact that his white shoes were no doubt getting covered in grass stains.

  Then the lights of the ambulance suddenly flashed; John told Annie he’d be in touch, then he trotted to the cruiser, jumped in, and backed over the clamshells out to North Neck Road. The ambulance departed behind him, emitting no siren that time.

  “You going to finish making that tea?” Taylor asked. “Looks like we’re all that’s left here, and I could sure use a cup.”

  * * *

  As far as Annie knew, Taylor hadn’t been inside the cottage since Annie had lived there. But she seemed more interested in talking than in commenting on the décor. “The story goes that Colin Littlefield needs to sell the property,” she yammered, “because he’s in debt up to his eyeballs. Sheila wants to donate the place to the Trustees of Reservations with the stipulation that they’ll turn it into a bird sanctuary. Fiona wants to keep it in the family, though ‘the family’ is only the three of them now. Three squabbling heirs. I wish it was the first time I heard a story like this one on the island.”

  Annie took another sip of tea. Tell Taylor, tell the island, Earl had warned her more than once. Then again, Taylor could be a good source if ever Annie needed to learn something. And writers always needed to learn things, didn’t they? It certainly wouldn’t hurt anything to at least be nice. “In the meantime,” Annie interjected, “the Littlefields’ house sits there rotting?”

  “Precisely. Word is that Colin even fired the landscaper now, which hardly matters, because in the last year they only paid him to keep the lawn mowed.”

  “What a shame. It looks like it was once a beautiful place.”

  “It was. When I was a kid, I hung out with Sheila in the summers. She was different from the others. Not snobby, you know?” Taylor laughed. “Actually, she was different from most people. But she liked to hike around the island and check out the wildlife. One year, when we were around ten or eleven, we made a scrapbook of all the different animal shit we could find. Excuse me, the droppings, as Sheila called them. Did you know that mouse shit and rat shit are shaped differently? That mouse shit has rounded ends, but rat shit ones are pointed? Anyway, her mother was mortified, which I thought was hilarious. I don’t know what Sheila thinks the Trustees can do with the property, though. It’s boxed in by the Flanagans on one side and by the Astleys on the other. The Littlefields’ is a three-acre property, but that’s hardly enough for a preserve.” She stared into her tea as if she were searching for the answer.

  “You’ve lived here your whole life, right?” Annie asked.

  “Yup. Except for fifteen years.”

  That wasn’t the answer that Annie expected. Taylor seemed so entrenched on Chappaquiddick, it was hard to picture her not living there, not being part of the daily, ongoing fabric. “Where were you then, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Boston. I was a city girl. Went to college and everything. What about you? You’re a writer. You must have gone to college.”

  “Boston as well. I grew up there and went to BU. Before I was a writer, I taught third grade for nearly twenty years.”

  Taylor nodded as if she already knew that, which she probably did.

  Small island, Annie thought. Few secrets. “Do you ever use your college degree here?”

  Taylor snorted. “I’m a caretaker, which was hardly offered as a major. Besides, I don’t need a college education to tell a glacial stone from a rock, which is important because it helps the excavators who come over to Chappy to build, to dredge, or to try and stave off erosion. They come to me with questions. Which is fine. I like taking care of other people’s properties. It gives me the freedom to be me. And to do my part to try and keep Chappy out of danger. Safe from unwanted species, both animal and human.” She laughed. “Speaking of properties, how’s your house hunt coming along?”

  Of course Taylor would know about that, too; her reputation was well earned. “Not great. If you hear of anything, please keep me in mind.”

  Taylor stood up. “Will do. But sometimes it’s best not to mix business with pleasure. And now, I have to get home. Time for Mother’s pills.”

  Annie thought her reference to mixing business with pleasure must be some kind of joke. She and Taylor were barely friends, let alone “pleasurable” ones. Annie stood up, too. “Well, thanks for your help tonight.”

  “Part of my job. As a volunteer. By the way, I’m sorry to hear about John’s problems. I know you two are, well, close.” So she also knew that John would be going to Plymouth. Had he told everyone on the island except Annie?

  Setting her jaw, she remembered that Earl had once said that Taylor once had—maybe still had—a “thing,” as he had called it, for John. Maybe she was trying to get under Annie’s skin. And maybe it was why Annie shouldn’t expect her to he
lp in Annie’s house search: The woman might be happier if Annie was long gone.

  “Well,” Annie said with a smile, “family first.”

  “Ergo, Mother’s pills,” Taylor replied, as she pulled out her keys and swept from the cottage, her auburn mane leaving a slight breeze in its wake.

  Annie watched the pickup drive away while wondering if she, too, might be happier if she were long gone from the Vineyard. Then her text alert dinged. It was John.

  I’m off at 8:00 am. Meet me at the diner for bkfst? 8:30?

  Though Annie dreaded the conversation they needed to have, both Earl and Francine had insisted that they had to talk. She hesitated a few seconds, then typed: Sure. I’ll try to be in my clothes by then.

  If he grasped her attempt at a humorous reference to the bathrobe she’d been wearing at “the scene” of Fiona’s mishap, he didn’t acknowledge it.

  Chapter 6

  The morning was sultry and hazy, a red sun already smoldering on the horizon. After her shower, Annie slipped into a pale-pink sundress and flip-flops and coaxed her hair into a short ponytail. She carefully applied a light layer of makeup and mascara, then drove to the On Time. She knew that by the time she had finished having breakfast with John, it would be even hotter, too uncomfortable to walk back to the cottage. With enough “city girl” spirit still lingering inside her, Annie thought an air-conditioned car was preferable to needless perspiring. Still, she parked in the lot on the Chappy side to avoid having to hunt for a parking space in Edgartown.

  Though she was early, the diner was open, its black-and-white checkerboard floor gleaming, its red vinyl chairs and turquoise vinyl booths scrubbed clean, its retro chrome-and-white, Formica-topped tables polished to a mirrorlike shine. The place was packed; despite it being the day after the holiday, few people seemed to be sleeping in. It was summer, after all.

  The waitress, whose name was Esther, also worked nights at The Newes, a favorite year-round pub that Annie frequented with John. Esther gave Annie a hug and escorted her to the booth in the back. “Your handsome man called and reserved it,” she said with a wink. “Coffee?”

  “Please,” Annie said as she sat and picked up the laminated menu. She tried to look pleasant and happy, though inside, her stomach churned. The last thing she wanted was food. Gazing out the window at a gaggle of tourists with island maps in one hand, coffee-to-go in the other, Annie decided to distract herself by reviewing her duties for the garden tour. She took a spiral pad from her purse. Her list was short because, in spite of her venture into natural soap-making, Annie still had trouble telling a wildflower from a weed. But she could take direction fairly well, and Claire had issued specific tasks:

  • Make sure refreshments are at every house.

  • Remind greeters at each venue to limit viewers to six at a time. No one wants their gardens trampled.

  • Double-check that judges know the criteria and have enough ballots.

  That was all. Annie decided to also try and have fun. It certainly could be a pleasant diversion from house hunting and writing. And dwelling on John. And stumbling over a body in her yard.

  She was so engrossed in her efforts at distraction, she didn’t see John until he set a porcelain mug in front of her.

  “Special delivery from Esther,” he said.

  Annie blinked. “Oh,” she said. “Good morning.”

  He set another mug across from her and slid onto the vinyl cushion. “Or ‘good evening,’ if you pulled the night shift.”

  “Right,” she replied, managing a small smile. “Tough night?”

  “No different from any other Fourth of July. I’m sure you can fill in the blanks.” He looked tired.

  “How’s Ms. Littlefield?” Annie asked.

  He shrugged. “That little incident seems like a lifetime ago. After I saw you we had four DUIs, one overdose, three fender benders, one serious accident, two bar fights, and seven loud parties to break up. No. Make that eight. And two domestic disturbances, to put it politely. In other words, we had about the same amount of activity in one night as we do in total all winter. As for Fiona, I didn’t hear anything more. But she was breathing on her own, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, but she was still unconscious.”

  John mumbled, “Hmmph,” or something like that. Then Esther appeared and asked what they’d like to eat. And Annie was reminded of the real reason they were there.

  John ordered bacon and eggs; Annie, a plain English muffin, which she hoped she’d digest if, instead of butter, she used a thin layer of jam.

  She looked across the table at John. Let’s stop the small talk, she suddenly wanted to shout. Are you going to tell me you’re going to Plymouth? But she sat, and she smiled, trying to look unruffled.

  “You look like a girl this morning,” he said. He reached over and took her hand.

  “I am a girl.”

  “You know what I mean. You look young. Like in your twenties or something.”

  “Flatterer.”

  “Yeah,” he said, withdrawing his hand, “pretty big talk for a guy as exhausted as I am.”

  She half listened as he told her more about the night’s activities; she guessed he wasn’t ready to share his news. Waiting until their breakfast arrived, Annie could no longer keep silent.

  Lowering her eyes, she spread strawberry jam on the muffin. “I heard you’re going to Plymouth.” Despite the chill from the air conditioning, she grew warm. And flushed. She picked up her napkin, dabbed her brow, then glanced at John again.

  His forkful of scrambled eggs had paused halfway between his plate and his mouth as if indecisive about which direction to take. After a few seconds, he set the fork back on his plate, the eggs not eaten. “Yeah. I’ve been meaning to tell you about that.”

  So Francine hadn’t misunderstood. And Taylor’s bucket of gossip was, as usual, right.

  Annie reached for her coffee.

  “It’s Lucy,” he said quietly, as if Annie didn’t already know the girl was having problems. “Jenn caught her smoking a joint.” It took a couple of seconds for Annie to remember that Jenn—or Jenny, as John sometimes called her—was his ex-wife, mother of his two children. Not that Annie needed to remind herself of that.

  “Oh,” she said, her feelings mashing together like ice crushing in a blender. “Well. I’m sorry, John.” And she was. She’d seen it in the schools, back when she’d been teaching, back when drugs had begun creeping into the lower grades long before anyone believed that pot would ever become legal.

  “It’s the worst possible time for the department, but I have to go. She’s my kid, you know? She just finished seventh grade, for chrissake. Seventh.” His lovely gray eyes grew wet.

  Annie felt selfish and cross with herself for angsting about them when he was in such pain. She reached over and took his hand. “You’ll figure this out, John. I know you will. It’s so good that . . .” She didn’t know if she should refer to his ex-wife as Jenn or as Lucy’s mother, so she simply said, “Well, it’s good that Lucy got caught now. While she is so young.”

  “Too young,” he said, his chin dropping to his chest.

  “When will you go?”

  “After the weekend. Monday. Or Tuesday. For a couple of weeks or so. It might cost me my job. But I don’t have a choice.”

  “No, you don’t.” She was not being condescending; she was being realistic.

  They sat in silence a few more moments, clutching their mugs, neither one eating. Finally, John paid the check and they went outside, where he kissed her goodbye and said he’d stay in touch. She walked in one direction, and he in another, and Annie realized she hadn’t asked where he’d be staying, though that part probably wasn’t her business. It was in that gray area again.

  * * *

  Annie had grown up watching Little House on the Prairie and later Happy Days and Family Ties. On those shows, people always had problems but resolved them together because deep down they loved one another. It had been the same in her h
ouse, relatively speaking, so she’d never questioned why anyone had a family or even wanted one. Still, between what Francine had gone through, what John was going through, and now with the drama between the Littlefield offspring, it gave one pause, as her dad would have said.

  She boarded the On Time and squeezed onto a bench between a family of six and a young couple who wrestled with a stroller and twins. Not that Annie needed a reminder that she had no children, no husband, and apparently no boyfriend anymore. She was alone, which, she decided, was different from being lonely. Solitude, after all, was needed for her job, but was unhealthy for the other hours in her life.

  Then she looked up at the hot, hazy sky, pushed a loose strand of hair back from her damp forehead, and smiled as a happy thought crept into her mind: But I’m no longer alone! Good grief, she had a family now, didn’t she? A birth mother who had embraced Annie wholeheartedly, even though it had taken Annie years to reach out to her. And a brother! Annie had a brother, well, a half brother, which was almost as good. Wasn’t it?

  She’d met Kevin that one time in Boston, and they’d texted a few times. She’d sent him an eCard on his birthday, and he’d sent a photo of their mother, Donna, in New York Harbor when she’d embarked on her four-month-long world cruise. It wasn’t that Annie never thought about Kevin, she just hadn’t known what to say.

  But now, crushed between perspiring passengers, her knees nearly touching the wheel well of a Cadillac Escalade, she reached into her purse, took out her phone, and looked up his number. Before changing her mind, she typed a quick text:

  Hope your 4th was fun. It’s dreadful here. Hot, humid, too many people. Last night I tripped over the body of a bridesmaid on my front lawn, but I guess she survived. Ahh, summer on the Vineyard.

  She added a silly emoji that had gritting teeth. She touched “Send,” dropped the phone back into her purse, and felt better immediately. Connections were essential, especially, she knew, when one’s heart was feeling a little bruised.

  * * *