by Jean Stone
After arriving on the Chappy side of the harbor, Annie decided to drive over to see Claire under the guise of reviewing her garden tour duties again: Socializing would be smarter than going back to the cottage and watching the wedding remnants being dismantled and listening to the post-party fun from a solitary distance.
“I can’t believe you found one of the Littlefield girls on your lawn! Unconscious!” Claire wasted no time launching into what must have been the gossip of the day. Or, more than likely, of the season to date. Her wild white hair looked more like a dandelion puff ball than usual, no doubt due to her excitement. “The Littlefields have been such an enigma. The parents seemed nice, but the kids never took part in any activities at the community center, not even when they were young. There was always something a little ‘off’ about them. Do you know what I mean? That oldest one, the girl, what’s her name? Sheila? I think she turned out to be a lesbian, not that it matters, but she was always hiking and doing boy things before, well, you know, before girls really did that. And that boy insisted on driving fancy sports cars not built for Chappy roads. He was always bumping up and down on our ruts and laughing like he was a trust fund baby and owned the whole island, though I think their assets were a lot smaller than anyone might have guessed. And the one you found? Fiona? Oh,” Claire sighed, “she was a timid little thing. Always hiding behind her big sister. Or her parents. And now this. My goodness.”
Annie listened politely without interrupting, sipping from a delicate china teacup.
“What happened, anyway? Was she drunk?”
“I don’t know,” Annie replied. “But I didn’t smell any alcohol.” There was no reason to bring up the seizure, though Taylor might already have told Claire. Annie didn’t know whether or not confidentiality was required between patient and EMT. “But I’m sure she’ll be fine,” she added, though of course she had no way of knowing if that were true. “What I’d really like to talk about is the garden tour. I’ve gone over my checklist—is there anything else I can do? Have tickets started to sell?”
“Online, yes. And a few at the library. Other than posting the notice in the Gazette, if you have any ideas how to boost sales, we could use them. We get stuck in the same old rut, and this year we’re raising funds for elementary school programs, so I want to do better.”
“Do you have a Facebook page?”
“Yes! I almost forgot. Francine talked me into it and she set up the whole thing.”
“That’s terrific, Claire.” Annie didn’t know if the target audience enjoyed social media, but she was sure Claire was pleased that Francine was now involved, too. “And I’ll do whatever else you need. I hope you know that.”
“Can you join me Monday morning? I have to go into town and look at the gardens, see what kind of shape they’re in, maybe offer suggestions. And take pictures! You can take pictures for the program. And for Facebook. Francine said we should have lots for that. But she’ll be working, so we’ll have to bring Bella. . . .”
“I’ll be glad to take pictures, Claire.” Another morning off from working. She was so close to finishing the book, would one more day really matter? She hoped that her editor, Trish, could not read her mind from a distance.
“Are you sure you have time? I know you’re looking for a new place to live and trying to get your work done. And now . . . what with John leaving . . .”
It occurred to Annie that she now had her own kind of family right there on Chappy. She laughed, because if she started to cry, she might never stop. She had a feeling she’d be laughing a lot in the next couple of weeks. “I’m fine, Claire, really I am.” Then she heard her text alert ding in her purse, and a happy wave rippled through her. It might be her brother, her actual brother. Her blood family. Sort of.
Annie stood up. “It’s really important that John helps out with Lucy. That’s what matters most, Claire. She’s his daughter.”
Claire nodded but stared at the floor.
Then Earl appeared in the dining room; Annie hadn’t heard him pull into the driveway. “Don’t worry about John, Claire,” he ordered, then turned to Annie and said, “He’ll be back.”
That’s when Annie understood the real reason she’d been worried about John leaving: She was afraid she’d never see him again.
Pushing down that thought, she told Claire she’d pick her up Monday morning at nine thirty. She thanked her for the tea, said goodbye to Earl, and went out to her car. On the way, her text alert dinged again.
Hey, Sis, it read. Yeah, the Vineyard sounds interesting. Up here in Boston it’s only hot and humid. Like, you can’t breathe. No ocean breeze, but no dead bridesmaids, either, so that’s good, I suppose.
Annie laughed. She wanted to get to know him better, but knew it would take time. Still, four months had passed since they’d met; saying that time passed too quickly had become such a cliché for life.
“September,” she said, as she climbed into her car, her head and heart feeling lighter than when she’d arrived. Once the bulk of the tourists had left, once she was resituated with a new place to live, once her birth mother was back home in Boston after the cruise, Annie would invite them to come to the island.
But as she backed out of Earl’s driveway, she remembered she could only invite them if she was still there.
Chapter 7
“I have a place for you to look at.”
The call from Hannah Smith, the Realtor, came Sunday afternoon. Annie had spent most of the weekend sheltered in place at her desk, reveling in the fact that, in spite of her imagination occasionally trying to drag her into depression, she’d made great progress on the book and was feeling like she might meet her deadline. Just in time for Trish to go on vacation. But at least Annie would be done.
When her phone rang, she’d hoped it was John. The long weekend was nearly over; maybe he’d have time to see her before he left for Plymouth.
But the rental agent might have good news, too, so she relaxed and waited for details.
“It’s a year-round rental in the village. And I have a few winter rentals now that should be available in September if you want to look at photos.”
“How big is the one in the village?”
“A one-bedroom garage apartment. Sweet little place. About six hundred square feet. Give or take. And it has a two-car garage—one of the bays is yours. Inside the apartment, it’s all been redone. Cozy, tasteful. Fully furnished. Vineyard Decorators did it.”
Annie wasn’t sure, but she thought where she lived now was about that size. “How much is the rent?”
“Four thousand. All-inclusive.”
Commanding herself not to use one of those words that years ago resulted in kids getting their mouths washed out with soap, she quickly remembered that to stay on the island, she’d have to pay the price. And that, once she finished her manuscript, she’d get the next half of her advance, so her checkbook would be flush again.
If only she could get the book done.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s take a look.”
“Tomorrow morning?” Hannah asked. “This one will go fast.” It wasn’t a sales pitch: Everything on the island that was tagged “year-round” was scooped up faster than Mad Martha’s ice cream in July.
“Can we make it early afternoon? Say, one o’clock? I have a commitment in the morning.” No matter how important finding the right place would be, she wouldn’t go back on her promise to Claire.
Hannah sighed. “I guess I can hold off listing it until then. Only because my bet is you’ll want it.”
“Thanks. I’ll be at your office before one.”
They rang off, and Annie was too excited to work any longer that day. But four thousand dollars . . . a month? Even though more income was on the horizon, she’d depleted her savings by paying off the debt that Mark left. Now that she was free of that burden, shouldn’t she take a financial break? Take some time to replenish the coffers, as her dad had taught her?
Maybe she’d been too quick to turn John down. No
t that moving in with him was an option now.
Never, ever depend on a man, her mantra had become after Mark had done what he’d done.
“He just walked away?” John had asked after Annie had told him about her sleazeball ex-husband.
“He didn’t exactly walk,” she’d explained. “He went to work one day and didn’t come home that night. Or ever again. To his credit, he called that afternoon and said he’d be tied up and would be late.” She’d laughed. “He was late, all right.”
“Did you file a Missing Persons Report?”
“Yes. But not for almost two weeks. I kept thinking he’d be back. Smart, huh? And to think I was a teacher.”
At that point, John had put his arm around her and pulled her close. It had been an unusually warm day in January; they were sitting on a blanket on South Beach, savoring the beauty around them: the tall dune grass that arced a gentle dance in the breeze; the mounds of sand that, so far, had survived winter’s blast; the deep winter-blue of the ocean. Before stopping to rest, they’d walked, holding hands. They’d filled their pockets with purple wampum and silver oyster shells that looked like tiny footprints sculpted by the tides.
John had leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Would you like me to track the bastard down? You could press charges, maybe ask the court to get you some recompense.”
She thought about his offer for all of five seconds, then shook her head. “Thanks, but no. I’ve always known I was as stupid as Mark was sleazy. I never asked where his money came from. I knew he was in commercial real estate; he convinced me it was lucrative. It’s taken a long time, but I can finally sleep at night.”
“And him?”
“As much as I’d like to think otherwise, I’m sure he can sleep just fine. It’s one of the inequities of life we sometimes have to accept. Or choose to drive ourselves crazy.”
“No,” John said, “I mean what about him? Do you still . . .”
She faced John, their eyes, their lips nearly touching, the wind threading their hair into each other’s. “Do I still love him? Good grief, not at all. I’m not sure I ever did. I’d been so traumatized when Brian died . . . I was so young, and I was crushed. Mark was magnetic. He loved having fun—big, expensive fun. He was nothing more than a panacea for me. Not that I’m proud to admit it.”
John kissed her again, that time on the lips. She loved how he kissed her. Loved it more and more.
She looked out the window now, past the front porch, out toward the patch of lawn where Fiona Littlefield had, for some reason, dropped to the ground. And Annie wondered why life—even on the Vineyard—often became so damn complicated.
* * *
Later that night, Annie awoke to what sounded like snapping and crackling of more fireworks. She quickly realized it was thunder, not fireworks, that Mother Nature was having the last word on the holiday weekend. Then another sound jarred her: a loud banging on her front door.
Rolling onto her side, she checked the time: one forty-five. In the morning.
The banging came again.
Easing herself from under the top sheet—the only covering she’d needed on the hot, humid night—she grabbed her robe and threw it on top of her sleeveless cotton nightgown. Then she padded from the bedroom into the living room. When she was halfway to the front door, another flash of lightning lit up the porch; through the window she saw John peeking in.
At least it wasn’t a leftover wedding reveler.
Annie opened the door. He stood on the porch, his dark hair wet against his head, his thin cotton T-shirt clinging to his broad chest, an impish smile making him look like one of her former third-graders who’d been misbehaving.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi, yourself.” She clawed her hand through her hair.
“Mind if I come in?”
She didn’t mind. Rubbing her eyes, she only hoped she wasn’t dreaming.
“I was in the neighborhood. . . .” he said, as he stepped inside and took her into his arms.
She didn’t know how he’d managed to get to Chappy. It was well past the final On Time crossing for the night. “But . . .” she began, until he shushed her with his lips.
* * *
The sun rose in the morning as if nothing dramatic had happened in the night: none of nature’s electrifying displays; no dispensing of the godawful humidity; no handsome, albeit drenched, man appearing at her door. Except that the same handsome man was walking into the bedroom now, dressed in a T-shirt and khaki shorts as dry as he was, and carrying two mugs of steaming coffee.
“So,” Annie said, “how did you do it? How did you get here from Edgartown last night?”
He handed her a mug and sat on the edge of the bed. “Boat.” “The On Time was done for the night. Please tell me you didn’t request an emergency transport.”
“I didn’t say I came over on the On Time. I said I got here by boat.”
She smiled. “Kayak?” It was a joke. She knew he loved to kayak, and always complained that he no longer had time to enjoy it.
“Yes.”
Annie laughed. “No.”
“Yes.”
“In a thunderstorm?”
“It wasn’t thundering and lightning when I left. And I really wanted to see you.” He didn’t add, “Before I leave.”
Staring into her mug, she tried not to think about that part. “Where did you park it?”
He laughed. “You’re such a city girl. Did you mean where did I dock it?”
“Park. Dock. Yes. Whatever.”
“Outside.”
“Outside . . . here?”
“I pulled in on the edge of the Littlefields’ beach. I knew no one was there. Then I hauled it out and came here.”
“You carried the kayak here?”
“Like this.” He stretched his arms toward the ceiling. “Hey, it was raining. I needed to cover my head.”
“And then you put it down here.”
“Yes. I docked it on your front steps. So no one would bother us during the night.”
She laughed again. “My God, you are incorrigible.”
“I was hoping you’d think that.”
She took a long drink of coffee, impressed as always with John’s brewing skills. No doubt he’d learned how from Earl. “I have to leave soon to get your mother and Bella.”
“I know. I believe you and my mother are going to Edgartown to check out the quality of this year’s garden entries?”
How did he know that? Once again, she tried not to feel left out that he’d spoken with his mother but hadn’t called her. “Something like that,” she replied.
“It’s all part of my plan. If you wouldn’t mind helping me strap the kayak to your car roof, I’ll go with you to my mom and dad’s, then drop off the kayak there. Then I’ll go back to Edgartown with all of you.”
“You’re bringing the boat to their place?”
“Yup.”
“You’re leaving it there?” Their roles seemed to have switched, as if she’d become the interrogator.
He drank his coffee, set the mug on the floor, and retrieved his sneakers from the foot of Annie’s bed. “Yeah. They’re going to keep it while I’m gone.”
So there it was. The real reason for the romantic gesture of arriving by kayak in the middle of a storm had merely been a convenient way to transport his damn boat so it would be safe while he was away. In Plymouth. At his ex-wife’s. For two weeks. Or three, according to Francine.
Swinging her legs off the bed, Annie said, “I’d better get into the shower. I have a busy morning ahead.” She was too annoyed to tell him that, in addition to helping his mother, she was going to meet the rental agent about the apartment. She was growing tired of trying to figure out what this relationship was or might ever, or never, become.
* * *
An hour later, with the kayak safely delivered and stored in the Lyonses’ barn, and with Bella strapped into the car seat that John switched from Earl’s truck to Annie’s L
exus, the three adults and the ten-month-old baby made their way to the On Time.
En route, the only one who talked was Claire, which was fine with Annie. When they reached the parking area on the Chappy side, Claire turned to John and said, “What time are you leaving, dear?”
His eyes flicked to Annie, then back to his mother. “I’m on the two thirty.”
Annie knew that islanders referred to the car ferry schedules by the departure time: “The two thirty” meant John would be on the boat that left the Vineyard at two thirty that afternoon, bound for Cape Cod. “America,” some islanders called it. “Abroad,” others said.
They got out of the car by the On Time slip, where John took Bella out of the car seat and secured her into the stroller. If the gesture had been meant to show Annie how much he cared, it did not work: She had to resist the urge to shout, “Just GO! You’re not needed here!” But she knew she’d regret that, and that shouting would make her eyes and her heart sting even more than they already did.
Somehow, she avoided erupting. They boarded the “little ferry,” as Francine called it. By the time they reached Edgartown, her anger had melted into a puddle of unspoken distress.
John hugged his mother first. “Give Gramma’s love to the girls,” Claire said. “I know you’ll make everything right.” Grasping the handles of the stroller, she tottered toward Dock Street. Then she stopped and looked back. “Ms. Bella and I will head up the hill to number twelve North Water Street.” She obviously wanted to give them privacy.
“So,” John said once Claire was out of earshot, “this is goodbye again.”
Annie looked off toward the wharf. The Pied Piper shuttle had arrived from Falmouth: A few dozen vacationers were disembarking, toting children and backpacks, and wearing eager smiles.
“So,” Annie echoed, “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks?”
He nodded.
She turned to him, hoping for a hint about their future. But when she looked in his eyes, she only saw her reflection. “I guess we’ll see how things are between us when you come home.”
He frowned. “Huh?”
The On Time was loading again; she scooted to the Old Sculpin Gallery, out of the way. Earl once told her that sculpin was the name of a fish species found in fast-moving waters like the channel in Edgartown Harbor.