by Jean Stone
“Sorry I’m so early,” he said. “I wasn’t sure how long the ferry ride was.”
“Did you time it?”
He lifted his T-shirt and dabbed the sweat from his face. “Less than two minutes. Less than five, if you include getting on and getting off. Waiting in line took longer.”
They agreed that, thanks to the temperature, iced coffee made more sense than hot. Kevin also accepted one of Annie’s cinnamon rolls that were Earl’s favorites.
“I decided to wait to tell John I’m going to accept his offer until after I’ve met Earl. I want to make sure he’s okay with this. That he’s okay with me.”
“Good idea. Though I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t be okay with you.” Annie didn’t know much about Earl’s customers or his daily routine, only that typically, like most islanders, he was terribly busy in summer. But she filled Kevin in on a few tidbits, like how she knew that he mowed a couple of places with a hand mower and used an old-fashioned rake to keep shrubbery beds tidy because the owners were from New York City and the drone of mowers and leaf blowers grated on them like the sounds of traffic they’d come to escape. She also knew that Earl usually had a few carpentry projects going, which interested Kevin the most.
Without wasting time, he gulped the last of his coffee. “I’m ready when you are.”
Before leaving the cottage, Annie wrapped up a pastry for Earl. Maybe a touch of cinnamon would help ease his troubles. “Follow me,” she said. “And because you’ll need to know, the speed limit all over Chappy is only twenty-five.”
“So much for life in the fast lane,” Kevin said.
On the way outside, Annie grabbed the bag of Fiona’s things, then tossed it into her back seat. She realized she got a kick out of her half brother. Without the presence of their mutual mother, he seemed to feel free to be himself, unencumbered by the woman who, though delightful, would always have the role as his parent whether he was in his forties or a hundred and forties, and no matter if he were married, single, or the father of twenty kids of his own. He had, after all, been raised as an only child, the same way Annie had been raised by the Suttons.
Francine opened the door when they arrived at the house. “Man, am I glad to see you,” she said. “Earl’s turned into a freak. All he does is sit in his study, staring out the window. I think he sat there all night. He hasn’t eaten or anything.”
Annie introduced her to Kevin, then moved into the doorway of the study. She did not announce herself, but Earl must have sensed she was there.
“The doc won’t let Claire have visitors until after lunch,” he said without turning toward her. “He said she’ll have a full morning of physical therapy.” His skin tone was ashen, his jowls were sagging, his hair seemed to have thinned. He resembled an old actor without stage makeup. Annie thought of the old cliché about someone having “aged overnight,” and knew she was seeing a perfect example.
She motioned to Kevin to stay in the hallway, and she stepped into the room.
“The first few days are the toughest,” she said, sitting on the sofa across from him in the room he now called his “man cave” instead of his study. He was surrounded by history books that he loved, paintings of whalers in stormy waters, and framed photos of huge fish, many of which had been caught during the annual island-wide derby in autumn. “But the best news is it looks like Claire will be fine. You believe that, don’t you?”
He shifted his gaze from Annie back toward the window. “I’m getting old. Claire’s getting old. It’s time we started to accept it.”
“Well, it’s true that you’re getting older, Earl. We all are. But the Earl Lyons I know is not old, not in the sense you’re talking about. The Earl Lyons I know would get out of that chair and plan his next step. Come up with a way to right the ship, if that’s how you say it.”
He sighed.
” And I’ve come to help.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out the napkin-wrapped cinnamon roll, and handed it to him. “First, sustenance. Second, someone has come with me who you need to meet.” She signaled Kevin to come in.
Earl accepted the pastry, though he held off taking a bite. He did, however, stand up and shake hands with Kevin. He even said it was nice to meet him, and that he and Claire thought a lot about his sister. But when Annie explained that John had commissioned Kevin to take over Earl’s duties for a few days so he could focus on Claire, Earl sat down again. And stared at the cinnamon roll he’d placed on his desk.
“Thanks for the offer, young man,” he said, looking at the roll and not at Kevin. “John already alerted me to this cockamamie scheme. But I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. And what’s more, my son ought to know that by now.” With a swift motion, he grabbed the roll and pitched it into his wastebasket. Then he turned his back to them and looked out the window again, dismissing them without another word.
Under other circumstances, Annie might have been angry. But after her father had died, she’d quickly learned that a spouse without a spouse often becomes scared. And why wouldn’t that happen? She’d been scared after Brian had been killed. So scared she’d done a very stupid thing and married the next guy who’d come along, one of the biggest jerks on the planet. As difficult as it had been with Brian gone, they’d only been married a handful of years. She could not imagine what it would be like to be married nearly five decades and abruptly have your life flipped upside down. It had happened to her mother; Annie had always believed it might have been why her mother had died so soon after her dad. And now, Annie knew it would be best if she and Kevin simply stepped away, let things happen as they would, organically, as some would describe it. Earl should not have to feel that his work and his purpose would be taken from him the way his wife might have been, might still be.
They found Francine in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, biting her nails. “It’s my day off,” she said, “so I can at least take care of Bella. Maybe later I should bring her to the hospital to visit Claire?”
Annie marveled at how, though only twenty years old, Francine was more responsible than some adults she had known. “I think Claire would like that,” she said. “In the meantime, do you have any idea where her notes are for the garden tour? I know she kept them in a folder.” Though, unlike Earl, as soon as a temporary cell tower had been raised on Chappy, Claire had welcomed the convenience—and importance—of having a cell phone, she still liked to do “her business” by using paper and ink.
“It’s the pink folder, right?” Francine asked, pulling one from a kitchen drawer. “She had it with her when the ambulance picked her up. Earl brought it home from the hospital last night.”
“That’s it,” Annie said, taking the folder and scanning the contents: the previous year’s program guide with updated comments marked in red, a few pages of additional handwritten notes, and several forms for the judges that were neatly clipped together. “We might not be able to get Earl to accept help, but at least I can put the brochure together for Claire. And get it to the printer. I’ll text you a few photos of the gardens so you can add them to the website and put them on Facebook and Instagram, if you want. And I’ll take over anything else that Claire has to do for the tour.”
“Yes, send me the pics,” Francine said. “I’ll post them today.” She rubbed her thin arms. “Everything’s changed so fast, hasn’t it, Annie? Claire getting sick. Earl acting weird. John gone. Geez.”
“Geez is right,” Annie agreed. “But we’ll get through this together.And you, of all people, know we will.” She smiled and gave Francine what she hoped was a reassuring hug, then followed Kevin outside.
* * *
Kevin opted to stay on Chappy. He said he’d like to explore the land and the trails; he’d picked up a more detailed map at the hotel. He also said he’d call John and explain Earl’s reaction. Annie hesitated at first, then decided to stay out of the way. The transaction, after all, needed to be between John and Kevin—her boyfriend and her brother, both labels which still s
ounded bizarre in her brain. She gave Kevin John’s cell number, promised she’d be in touch, and drove off to the ferry, knowing what she had to do first: finish taking photos for the garden tour. She also thought that spending some time among beautiful, fragrant flowers might help put the past few days into better perspective.
The only downside to her plan was that she’d have to bring her car across and take a chance on finding a parking space in the village. But she knew that having her car would make it easier to get to the hospital later; maybe she’d be lucky and all the tourists would already have gone to the beaches on such a sultry, “sticky” morning.
Ten minutes later, she was in Edgartown, and, much to her astonishment, found a place to park. Murphy must have still been watching out for her from her station up in the white, cottony clouds.
Inside the pink folder was a note Claire had made that earmarked the Collins garden as the place for an important photograph; she’d jotted a comment that said the place had been in the same family for seven generations and was renowned for its showcase of roses.
The address was easy to find: Winter Street was directly off North Water, and the property was punctuated by a procession of deep-red, velvety blooms lining the white picket fencing that hugged a path leading straight through the backyard. It was breathtaking. Annie began snapping from one end to the other, determined to capture the radiant display that would not only attract visitors but please the Collins family as well.
“Hellooo!” The voice belonged to a woman who pronounced the o at the end of hello as if it were spelled oooh.
Annie stopped shooting and shielded her eyes from the sun’s hazy glare with one hand. A figure in a scarlet dotted Swiss dress with a full skirt and crinoline that swished with each step was approaching at a determined clip.
“Are you helping Claire?”
“Yes,” Annie said. “I’m Annie Sutton.”
“And I am Irene Landry Collins, seventh-generation owner of this grand home and garden.”
Though Annie would hardly call the house itself “grand”—without doing the math, she deduced that it must have been built in the mid-nineteenth century and that the single-car garage had been added later—it was pretty and quaint, a mere “cottage” compared with others in the village, though several of Annie’s current place would no doubt fit comfortably inside it. True to historic directives, it was painted white with black shutters and had a white picket fence in the front.
“You must be the girl who is helping Claire this year.”
Annie tried not to smile at being called a girl, especially since Irene Landry Collins looked only a decade or so older than she was. Perhaps it made the woman feel important to think of Annie as the hired help. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Collins.”
With a delicate hand, the woman reached to her throat and toyed with her triple strand of pearls. “How is Claire doing? I heard what happened. Such a shock. And in Mildred’s garden, of all places.”
Knowing that Claire would want Annie to defend her honor, or at least cover her embarrassment, Annie said, “She’s actually doing quite well. It turned out to be a minor mishap, but thank you for asking. I’m sure Mrs. Atwater’s hollyhocks will bounce back soon.”
The woman nodded stiffly as if she were unsure. Perhaps she thought the year-round islanders were on a secret mission to divest the island of seasonal people—even those whose families had been there since Thomas Mayhew washed ashore in 1642.
“That’s lovely news about Claire,” she continued, as if the flowers had not been mentioned. “She does such a wonderful job with the tour. We enjoy taking part every year.”
“It’s a terrific event for a really great cause. Any help that benefits the Vineyard children is important, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Collins twiddled her pearls again. “Yes. Which is why we try to do our part. Really, we do.” She looked almost apologetic about the fact that she and her neighbors had more than the rest of the world. Or than many islanders, anyway.
Annie hoped she hadn’t offended her. “Well, I can’t speak for everyone, but I do know that most of us who are crazy enough to live here year-round appreciate your support.” She added a smile. “I was an elementary school teacher in Boston for many years, and I admit that I’m in awe of the education system here.”
“Yes. Of course. Education is important. I graduated from Bryn Mawr back in the day.” Then Mrs. Collins’s cheeks turned a light shade of pink, as if she knew one had nothing to do with the other. “Well,” she added nervously, “if there’s anything I can do to help out during Claire’s recuperation, please let me know.”
Annie would have liked to ask if the space over her garage was an apartment, and if she’d ever thought about renting it out. Or if any of her cronies on the tour had any available quarters. But she knew from the rental agents she’d met that most garage suites and backyard cottages in town were reserved for use by the owners’ extended family and friends. And that the rest of the time they, like the main houses, sat vacant. “Thank you, I will.”
Then she had an idea that might help imply that she really did appreciate Mrs. Collins’s offer to help. “Now that you mention it, I’m going to try my best to put the brochure together. As a Bryn Mawr alum, you probably have top-notch grammar skills. Would you be able to proofread the brochure for me? Make sure I have everyone’s names right? Claire would be mortified if I spelled a name incorrectly or if I left anyone out.” Over the years, Annie had learned that a little schmoozing could go a long way. Besides, the woman seemed genuinely nice, in spite of her elevated station in life.
A broad smile broke through Mrs. Collins’s tight lips. “Why, yes, I’d be happy to do that. I’ve always enjoyed dabbling in writing.”
Annie said she hadn’t known and wasn’t that wonderful. Apparently, the woman had no idea she was speaking to someone who earned a living doing more than “dabbling” in the craft. “I’ll drop it off before I take it to the printer. I’m afraid it might be at the last minute, though. We’re a little bit behind because of Claire’s . . . accident.”
“That’s fine. All I pretty much do these days is tend to the flowers, sip iced tea, and play an occasional game of bridge. It’s been too hot for much of anything else. In the meantime, please do give Claire my best.”
Annie nodded, then strolled back through the arbors, pleased that John’s mother had clearly established a nice reputation among the seasonal island elite. Good for her, Annie thought and reinforced her plan to do her proud.
Chapter 13
With swift efficiency, Annie made her way through the rest of the gardens on the list, snapping what she hoped were enticing photos—the head-sized hydrangea blossoms at the Tuttles’, the spectrum of wildflowers at the Elliotts’, the bright collage of daylilies at the Coopers’. She had too much to do to waste any time, and was pleased when she finished just after noon. Heading back toward her car, she encountered few tourists on the sidewalks, for which she praised the humidity despite the fact that it glued her cotton tank and loose walking shorts to her skin.
It’s all good, she told herself. She had plenty of time to visit Claire, maybe share some of the photos, then get back to Chappy, shift creative gears, and complete the revision of the last chapter—the last chapter!—of her second draft. She would call Trish, alert her to the progress, and bask in a brief celebration before moving on to the final version. Trish would be elated but would, in her grim, teacher-like voice, remind Annie that the final-final deadline was nonetheless looming.
Maybe Annie could break for a quick dinner with Kevin—if he hadn’t been scared off the island—then work on the brochure. If she could set up and maintain a schedule, she should be able to juggle Claire’s duties while keeping a steady pace with the rest of her book. The tour was nine days away; the manuscript deadline in three weeks. Before then, maybe a place to live would drop into her lap.
Right, she thought as she spotted her car and noticed something white waving at her
from under the windshield wiper. But it was neither a friendly note nor a pizza delivery menu: It was a parking citation. She looked around. A NO PARKING sign was partly hidden by someone’s shrubbery. Yanking at the ticket, she muttered, jumped into the car, and tossed the paper on the passenger seat. She tried to rationalize that twenty-five dollars was worth the price for the space and that parting with the cash would not change her life or affect her ability to come up with a first-last-and-security deposit.
But when Annie reached the hospital, her annoyance was heightened by the fact that she couldn’t find a parking space in the lot. Perhaps there had been an uptick in surfing accidents or man-of-war stings, or maybe Jaws had revisited State Beach. She drove around the front and back three times and was ready to give up when someone got into an SUV. Annie waited, her engine impatiently humming, as if this were a week before Christmas and she was at Chestnut Hill Mall.
Finally, brake lights appeared, and a vehicle backed out. Annie signaled a big thank-you, pulled into the space, rested her forehead on the steering wheel, and let out a sigh. She hadn’t remembered that the island had been this crazy in summers when she’d been a kid; then again, her dad had always been the driver.
Upstairs, Claire looked better than she had the day before. A tray table rested over the bed; she held half a sandwich in her left hand. It appeared that she’d already eaten the other half.
Her eyes brightened when she saw Annie, though her smile was one-sided and limp. Annie bent down and hugged her.
“How’s lunch?” she asked, gesturing to the sandwich.
Claire stuck out her tongue and shrugged.
“Oh, look, you have a fruit cup.”
Claire set down her sandwich, placed her hands as if in thankful prayer, and looked up to the ceiling.
Annie smiled and pulled up a chair. “How was physical therapy this morning?”