by Jean Stone
Picking up a pad, Claire took a pencil in her left hand and slowly, methodically, wrote: sucked. Then she laughed, emitting a sound similar to that of a seagull begging for crumbs from a tourist who walked by the water munching a cookie from the Black Dog.
“I’m glad you have a pad and can write! I can’t imagine not being able to convey what I’m thinking.”
Me, either, Claire wrote. Then, John brought before he left.
“Last night?” Annie asked.
He snuck in late. She let out another laugh.
Annie was pleased to see her in such good spirits. She took her phone from her purse. “I have a few things to show you. But first, I don’t want you to worry about the garden tour. Everything is under control. I finished taking the pictures this morning. Francine will post some online; I’ll write the brochure copy tonight and design it tomorrow.”
Claire frowned. She pointed at Annie, then put her hands together again and opened them, palms up, like a book. Then, with her left hand, she pretended to scribble words on her right palm.
“Don’t worry about my book,” Annie said. “That’s under control, too.” Sort of, she didn’t add.
Picking up the pencil again, Claire drew a box. She added a triangle on top, and two small boxes inside the main box. Then she drew what looked like a door. And a small tree in front. She printed: You find one?
Annie shook her head. “No. The one I saw yesterday was about the size of this room. Not that this room isn’t lovely, but . . .”
Claire laughed again.
Annie picked up the fruit cup and peeled off the lid. “Finish your sandwich like a good girl, and I’ll let you have dessert.”
“Oh, boy,” Claire muttered, and Annie understood. It was encouraging that the woman’s voice seemed to be returning.
Claire went back to her lunch. Annie wasn’t interested in eating; she was more preoccupied with silently checking the time.
The food tray wasn’t cleared until two o’clock. “Okay,” Annie said, “time for pictures. Tell me which ones you like. Especially the ones that should be featured.” Turning her phone toward Claire, she scrolled through the shots. When she reached Irene Collins’s red, velvety roses, Claire pointed and nodded. “That one,” she grunted.
It was almost artistic, a long shot of the stunning blossoms. Sunlight kissed the petals, casting a magical shadow.
“Front cover?” Annie asked.
Claire nodded. “Big . . .” She could not seem to form her next word. She picked up the pencil and drew: $$$.
Annie was confused. “People will pay lots of money to see this?”
Shaking her head, Claire tore another page from the pad. Donor. Collins.
“Oh! You mean, Mrs. Collins is a donor to the club.”
Wrinkling her face, Claire said, “More.”
“She’ll give more if you feature her roses?”
“All,” Claire responded, then huffed in frustration.
“Write it down, okay?” Annie asked.
The writing seemed to take Claire forever. When she was finally finished, Annie took the pad and read: They are all big donors. Collins. Atwater. Tuttle. They pay for the honor of showing their gardens on tour.
It was a couple of seconds before Annie understood. Then she said, “Wait. Are you saying that the donation the club makes to the schools isn’t only from ticket sales? That it’s also from the people who own the gardens?”
“Big,” Claire said again. That time, with her left hand, she rubbed her thumb against the inside of her fingers, signifying that the word big referred to dollars.
“Every year?” Annie knew she shouldn’t have been surprised. Though Earl had told her Roger Flanagan supported island causes, she hadn’t considered that the “support” of seasonal people was more than a token donation. She’d assumed they considered their property taxes and money spent at restaurants and in shops as their contribution.
Claire nodded. “Big money,” she repeated. “Thousands. Very nice.”
“Yes,” Annie agreed, “very nice, indeed.”
* * *
After a short while, Claire fell asleep. Annie gathered her things and dashed away, heading down the hall toward Fiona’s room. There wouldn’t be much time to chat, which was just as well, because Annie really did not want to get involved with combative siblings, especially when attempted murder might be involved. It was out of her league and none of her business. None at all.
Outside the room, Annie stopped for a moment and drew in a breath. Then she put on what she hoped was a warm, friendly smile, rounded the corner, and went in.
Fiona was sitting up in bed, arms folded, a bit more color in her cheeks than the previous day. One of her IVs was gone, though both monitors were still connected. Her attention seemed focused on someone else in the room; perhaps it was only the television. But when Annie followed the girl’s gaze, she saw Roger Flanagan sitting in a chair at the foot of the bed. They noticed her at the same time.
“Hello,” Annie said. “I hope I’m not interrupting.” That was a stupid comment, she thought. What could she possibly be “interrupting” between a seventy-something-year-old curmudgeon and a thirty-something-year-old trust fund baby? Then she remembered she was no longer the third-grade teacher who had worn rose-colored glasses for far too long.
Roger stood. “No problem. I was just leaving.”
“I hope not on my account. I only stopped by to drop off a few things.” She turned to the patient. “Would you like me to put these in the closet?”
Fiona nodded. “I’ll be out of here tomorrow, I think. So thank you.” She turned her head back to Roger. “Please remember what I said, Mr. Flanagan. If you see Colin, ask him to wait. Tell him I need to speak with him.”
“I’ll do my best. But no guarantees. Your brother has always had a mind of his own.” He walked to the side of the bed and patted Fiona’s shoulder. Then he nodded at Annie and hurried from the room. It would have been nice if he’d asked how she was coming along with her search for a place to live.
“He doesn’t agree with me, either,” Fiona said. “That Colin poisoned me. Even though he said I was the only guest who got sick. Out of all those people, I was the only one? That tells me it must have been Colin. Who else would do such a thing to me? Anyway, Mr. Flanagan offered to let me stay at his house. I don’t dare go home if my brother tried to poison me.”
So there had been nothing odd going on between them after all. Still, Annie wouldn’t have pegged Roger as someone who visited a patient in the hospital for no reason. Reminding herself this wasn’t her problem, Annie wanted to change the subject. “Where is that, Fiona? Where’s home?” Google had said that her home was New York, but Annie felt no need to let the girl know she’d done a quick search.
“Manhattan,” Fiona said. “I’m a dancer. Ballet.”
That matched the search engine results, though it had been a while since Fiona’s most recent mention. “Oh, how lovely. When does the season begin?”
“Mid-September. But auditions start next month.Then rehearsals.”
Annie knew nothing about ballet except she’d once been told she was “too big” to wear a tutu: too tall, her shoulders too broad. “You’ll be busy then. It’s good to be busy.”
“What?” the girl asked, her light-brown eyes narrowing, making her small oval face look scrunched and older than Annie assumed she was. “Do you think if I’m busy it will help me forget that my brother wanted me dead?”
Setting the bag in the small closet, Annie turned back to her, smiling again. She’d already decided not to take a seat—aside from the clock ticking way too quickly, she really, really did not want to get involved.
She stood next to the bed and called up her teacher instincts to soothe a young student who was overreacting to a bad grade, forgotten homework, or the fact that a classmate had picked a fight on the playground. “Fiona,” she said, “I know you’ve been through a lot. Ingesting poison must have been terrifying. But th
e most important thing you can do now is get your health back up to snuff. Mr. Flanagan has generously offered for you to stay with them until you’re able to go back to New York. Maybe you should consider that. A little time spent in an Adirondack chair in the sunshine, looking out at the water, can work wonders. Will you consider that?”
“Colin is my brother. What he did was a crime.”
“Well,” Annie said, readjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder, “if you feel strongly about that, then you must talk with the police. Don’t try to handle this on your own.”
The girl didn’t respond.
“And I’m sorry, but I really must go. I have work to do. A deadline.” She smiled again. “As a dancer, you must know what that’s like. There’s never enough time until the curtain goes up!” It was a silly parallel, and Annie knew it. But she didn’t think it was hurtful or mocking, and it helped her exit the room with a little philosophical grace.
Chapter 14
“My son has informed me that I’m an insensitive jerk.”
On her way through the lobby, heading toward the door, Annie ran smack into Earl. “Well,” she said, “hello to you, too.”
He raked his fingers through his hair the same way John often did. “I’m sorry, Annie. For the way I treated your brother. I didn’t know he was in tough shape. I had no idea what he’s been going through.”
Annie had no clue what Earl was talking about, though it was odd that, while referencing Kevin, he’d uttered words that were similar to those she’d just used with Fiona. She opened her mouth, about to say that, when she realized that Earl had said he’d spoken with John. “What did John tell you?”
Taking her by the elbow, he guided her to two chairs by the window that were under a colorful, well-done acrylic of what looked like Old Mill Pond in West Tisbury. They sat, facing each other.
“That Kevin lost his wife. If I’d known that, I hope to God I wouldn’t have behaved that way. Especially since I almost lost mine yesterday. Anyway, I’m real sorry, Annie.”
She remained a little confused, but let Earl continue.
“And I do appreciate his offer to help me out with my work. If it will help him get past his grief, I’m more than glad to help out. To be honest, it would be a load off my mind, too, not to have to worry about getting the work done for my customers.”
Well, that explained it. John must have turned the situation around. Knowing that his father wouldn’t want to admit he needed help, and knowing that one of the many things Earl was famous for was helping others, John must have decided to reposition the situation so it seemed that Kevin—not Earl—was the one who needed the help. And, of course, Earl would not say no to Kevin because he was Annie’s brother. John Lyons, she thought, is indeed a good man.
“I think Kevin misses working,” she said. “If he feels someone needs him, it might help him get back in the swing of things. Back into his work and into life.”
Earl chewed on that for a minute. “He’ll stay at John’s?”
“John has offered.”
“Well, then that’ll be good, too. No sense leaving a place empty at this time of year. We don’t have much crime, but every so often, usually in summer, we get a doozy or two. House breaks and vandalism aren’t unheard of.” He’d used the word doozy months ago when he’d told Annie a blizzard was on the way. That particular doozy had changed Annie’s life in many wonderful ways. A house break and vandalism, however, would not be what John needed right now.
“I’ll call your brother when I leave Claire. Do you have his number?” He pulled out his phone.
She gave him the number, which he promptly entered into his contact information. Annie refrained from mentioning again how happy she was that he’d caught up with the communications age. Instead, she said, “And for the record, I don’t think you’re an insensitive jerk.”
“You haven’t known me as long as my son has,” he said with a snort. “But speaking of Claire, how’s she doing today?”
“I think she’s doing great. I’m no doctor, but I think she’s amazing. And her voice seems to be coming back.”
He beamed. “I knew she’d get better. She’s too ornery not to.” Then, with a sweet chuckle, the kind that reminded Annie so much of her dad’s, he stood, said goodbye, and marched down the corridor to visit his wife of almost fifty years.
* * *
Once out in the parking lot, Annie called Kevin. He said he was sitting on what he’d been told was East Beach, having a ham sandwich and drinking lemonade, both of which he’d picked up at the small Chappy Store, only open in summer. His words mingled with the background sounds of the surf and the breeze and the clamor of children playing.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” Annie said. “Earl changed his mind. He’ll call you in a while, so don’t say I told you.” She explained the angle John had used to convince his father that he would be helping Kevin—that he’d said Kevin had “lost” his wife, apparently, not unintentionally—leaving Earl to think the woman had died and not left him. Then she giggled to herself at the thought that this was what brothers and sisters probably did—kept secrets from the adults. “Do you want to have dinner tonight? I can cook. After today, I’m going to have to dig in my heels and do the final revision on my manuscript—another round of polishing it from page one.”
“A job and a free dinner.What more could a man ask for?”
Annie laughed. “Don’t forget the free housing at John’s. In the heart of the village. Do you have any idea how much a place like that would cost to rent?”
“Not a clue. But what about you? What are you going to do about finding a place?”
“Don’t remind me.”
“We’ll talk later. At dinner.”
“My house. Seven o’clock?”
“You got it, Sis.”
“Good. Now hang up and finish your lunch. I can barely hear you through the noise of happy tourists.”
They rang off. She turned on the ignition and backed out of the parking space, marveling at how often she caught herself smiling these days despite the chaos whirling around her.
Though time pressed on, Annie took the beach road to avoid heavy traffic that would be heading into the Edgartown Triangle. It hadn’t occurred to her that a line of vehicles would also be creeping alongside the beaches, their drivers praying for a coveted parking space. Still, it was fun to watch the conglomeration of straw hats and beach blankets; the high-riding windsurfers; and the perpetual conga line of kids who waited their turn to leap off the jumping bridge. It was definitely summer, very different from winter, but still feeling very much like her home.
She wished she could call John. She wished she could tell him about Fiona’s situation, and how determined the girl seemed to be about confronting Colin. But Annie didn’t think John needed further distraction.
Besides, he would tell her not to get involved.
Slowing at a crosswalk, she spotted two preteen girls who waited to cross. Annie stopped the car, and the pair with not-quite womanly bodies, their tiny bikinis, and their long hair flowing behind them pranced toward the sand, savoring what they surely didn’t realize might be their last innocent summer. Or maybe they were no longer as innocent as they appeared.
Annie shuddered. The world was so different now, a thought that her parents, and their parents before them, must have felt, too, in dramatic ways. After the summer Annie had met Brian, after she’d gone home to South Boston and he to Brookline, they lived close enough to still see each other. Annie’s mother had taken her to have a gynecological exam; on the way home they’d stopped at the pharmacy and filled a prescription for birth-control pills. It hadn’t mattered that Annie tried to assure her that she and Brian weren’t having sex. “Better safe than sorry,” was Ellen Sutton’s terse reply.
Neither of them mentioned that Annie’s birth mother might have been around the same age when she’d become pregnant.
As it turned out, however, the pills had been a good idea,
because by Christmas that year, Annie and Brian had “done it.”
The girls finished crossing now, followed by an older couple, weighted with beach chairs and blankets, then three boys and someone who might be their father. Finally, Annie was able to resume driving.
She stopped at the market, and, amazingly, found a legal parking space. “Shop early in the morning, late at night, or on a sunny day,” Earl had advised when the season was on the horizon. “Otherwise, you’ll be picking berries down at Wasque or fishing out at Pogue, to avoid going into Edgartown for food.”
Nearly an hour and a half later (twenty minutes in the store, ten to the dock, forty-five in the queue for the On Time, five to the cottage—all of which would have taken fifteen minutes total in winter), Annie was safely in the cottage and ready to shuck a few ears of corn.
After that, she’d go back to revising her manuscript.
After that, she would cook.
After that, she’d break bread with Kevin.
After that, she’d work on the program for the garden tour.
She dropped onto the rocker. Something would have to go, or she’d wind up in the hospital in the room next to Claire. Or worse, next to Fiona.
* * *
Dinner was delightful. She’d tossed a couple of steaks on the grill that would no longer be “hers” once she found a new place to live, if that ever happened. She made a big green salad and she and her brother ravaged the corn. For dessert, she served brownies she’d made a few weeks earlier and stuck in the freezer, along with a heaping scoop of ice cream for Kevin.
“This will help me keep up my strength for my new job,” he said with ardent justification.
He told her he’d spoken with John again, and that they agreed he’d move into John’s place the following day. Annie desperately wanted to ask if John had mentioned how his daughter was doing, but she knew he wouldn’t have confided in Kevin. She would have felt better if she at least knew when the surgery would be.
But, as with Fiona’s situation, Annie knew that Lucy’s abortion was none of her business.
After dinner, Annie pulled out old photo albums so Kevin could see what she had looked like when she was a kid. He oohed and ahhed in the right places, commenting on how much they looked alike in grammar school pictures.