by Jean Stone
Fiona stopped and stared at her. “Have you seen Colin’s movies?”
“No,” Annie replied, not wanting to admit to her Google search. “But I’ve heard about them.”
They started walking again, then Fiona folded her arms around her waist as if she’d caught a sudden chill in spite of the heat. “Daddy encouraged him to do them. He said the work might help Colin be productive, find his place in life, you know? But Daddy died before Colin pulled everything together. I think that was why he thought Sheila would invest in the first one. Out of respect for Daddy.” She shrugged. “Colin was wrong about that.”
“Did your brother have problems after having been in Afghanistan? Like, did he have posttraumatic stress?”
If Fiona wondered how Annie knew Colin had been there, she didn’t ask. “I doubt it. He worked in an office the whole time. Keeping track of what supplies were doled out where. No. Daddy worked some magic to keep Colin out of the fighting. As for my brother, the only thing he was ever very good at was not living up to Daddy’s expectations.”
“Does he work at all?”
“Not that I know of. We live in the same city, but we only see each other once or twice a year. Sometimes I text him to make sure he’s okay, and he usually replies, so I guess that’s good.”
“Do you think he needs money? Is that why he wants to sell the house?”
“I don’t know. Out trust funds aren’t humongous. He might have blown through his, driving a Porsche and all.”
Annie was overcome with sadness then. Sadness for a family that apparently had never quite gotten their act together, despite having had all the theoretical ingredients.
As they reached the intersection at Water Street, Fiona said, “I guess I need to go back to New York and pretend this never happened. I should let them sell the house and forget about it. But thanks for all your help. You’re the only one who hasn’t been against me.” She sounded genuine, not like an immature ballerina who was merely seeking attention.
Every lick of sense left in Annie warned her that she should let Fiona go, that Annie had done enough, that there was nothing left to do. But as her pal Murphy had said many times, Annie had a bad habit of cheering for the underdog.
“Come on,” she heard herself quietly say. “Let’s go to Among the Flowers. I’ll buy lunch. Or only tea, if that’s what you want. Then I’ll help you pack.”
Fiona nodded. “Thanks. I’ll try to get a flight off island tomorrow.”
Chapter 22
When Annie finally got home, she planned to go online and check for possible postings of new rental listings. She knew she needed to step away from Fiona’s problems and focus on her own. That’s when Earl called.
“Claire’s going to be released tomorrow. She’s made so much progress, they said she is ready to go to rehab. I don’t know what the hell to do.”
Once she calmed him down, Annie learned there was no room for Claire at the island rehab facility. Which meant they’d need to find a place off island, to the Cape at best.
“What am I supposed to do?” Earl cried. “I sure as hell am not going to let her go anywhere sight unseen.”
“We’ll figure something out,” Annie said. “Did you speak with someone from social services?”
“The doctor’s office called. They gave me a name of somebody to call tomorrow. But I can’t wait that long.” His voice quivered, as if he was going to cry.
Annie bit her lip. She still didn’t know much about the inner workings of the island, but she had an idea. “Are you home now?”
“Yes.”
“Did you call John?” Maybe John could help. Maybe he could pull some strings. After all, he was a cop. And, for God’s sake, this was an island family that had been there for nearly forever. They should be able to take care of one of their own.
“Will you call him for me? He’ll hear how upset I am and, well, we’ll end up arguing.”
Arguing? “That’s ridiculous.”
“I know. But it’s what we do. We get upset that the other one’s upset, and we wind up raising our voices. Claire’s always said it’s probably a man thing.”
Annie sighed and said she’d call. She and Earl rang off, then she quickly dialed John.
But his phone went right to voice mail.
She decided not to leave a message that his ex-wife might or might not delete before he saw it. So she called Earl back.
“I’ll go with you to the hospital first thing in the morning,” she said. “We don’t need to bother John. Somehow, we’ll find a way to keep Claire here.” Though she had no idea how on earth to make that happen, Earl didn’t contradict her. Perhaps he was too distressed.
Before going to bed, Annie finally checked the listings. There was only one new one: an overpriced, small cottage that looked moldy and neglected, the kind of place rodents would turn away from. She shuddered and quickly Googled the Vineyard Gazette site, and then wrote a brief editorial in which she thanked the anonymous tourists for calling the EMTs when they’d seen a woman collapse on North Water Street. Annie didn’t use Claire’s name, but reported that the woman was now doing well, thanks to those caring passers-by.
Shutting off her computer, she felt good about having remembered to do that. She would tell Earl in the morning, and he would be pleased.
Using that positive thought to avoid dwelling on John, she cleaned up, changed into her nightgown, and slid between her sheets. But just as Annie closed her eyes, her text alert sounded. She softly groaned and checked her phone. The message was from Fiona.
Can’t get a flight out until Thursday. I’ll be at the Kelley House, if anything comes up.
Annie knew that aside from assorted flights, transportation from the Vineyard to New York was complicated; it usually involved a boat, a bus, sometimes a train, all of which had different schedules. She half-wondered why Fiona didn’t call a car service—maybe it was too costly. But instead of asking, Annie simply typed OK, set the phone back on the nightstand, and went to sleep.
* * *
Tuesday morning, Annie woke up with an idea.
Brilliant! she thought.
Or, it could be a disaster.
She mulled it over while she showered, dressed, and poured a generous mug of coffee. After three sips, she decided it was worth a try. So she retrieved her phone.
“Taylor?” Annie asked. “You’re an EMT. Do you have any connections at the hospital that might help us find a rehab bed for Claire?”
After a moment, Taylor said, “The best chance will be if I go with you. I know how to talk my way around those folks. But the sooner we go, the better. I haven’t started working yet today. I’ve had a bit of a late start.” She told Annie she’d meet her at Earl’s and they could all go together.
It wasn’t until they’d rung off that Annie remembered that Kevin had taken Taylor out for dinner the night before.Which might have been why Taylor had had “a bit of a late start.”
* * *
Earl sat in the small office at the hospital; Annie and Taylor stood behind his chair. On the opposite side of the desk, a woman with gray hair and glasses peered at her computer screen.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “No available beds show up in the system.” She was not the person Earl had been told to call, but rather a woman Taylor knew.
“What about in real life?” Taylor asked. “Like, if we go over there, can’t we make a room for her? An old storage closet, maybe? Come on, Martha, you know we did that for my mother after she fell and broke her hip.”
The woman nodded and toyed with the short strand of wampum encircling her neck. She removed her glasses and addressed the three of them directly. “I remember, Taylor. I also know that was before the regulations were, well, well regulated. Monitored. It’s different today. We have to watch every step we make.”
“Who’s over there now?” Taylor asked.
“In the rehab office?”
“No. In the beds. Who’s there now?”
&
nbsp; “I can’t tell you that, Taylor. You should know that.”
Earl hadn’t spoken since they’d walked in and he’d said hello. But now he stood and said, “Sorry to be a bother, Martha. We’ll see you at the potluck.”
Until then, Annie hadn’t realized that the woman must be a Chappy resident.
“No,” Martha said, “I’m the one who’s sorry, Earl. But hopefully Claire will have a quick recovery and be home before you know it.”
He nodded and left the office. Annie and Taylor followed. Once they were in the corridor, however, Taylor said, “I’m going over to rehab. Go and see that other person, if you want. But I’m not ready to rule anything out.”
The person in the social services department was Mick McGuire. A nameplate on his desk included several professional initials that indicated he was a licensed social worker. “Sit, sit!” he instructed with a friendly smile.
Annie and Earl sat. After Annie related the dilemma, Mick McGuire got to work. For more than twenty minutes, he hummed and hawed between keyboard clicks.
“Got one!” he shouted at last, startling his audience.
“Where?” Annie asked.
“Weymouth. Not too far.”
Earl snorted. “Over an hour from Woods Hole. Two hours counting the damn boat.” He stood up. “Not to mention that it’s summer, in case you haven’t noticed. How the hell am I supposed to get reservations to bring my truck across to see her? Round trip? Every day?” He stomped out of the office.
Mick McGuire looked at Annie and shrugged. “Sorry. It’s really the best that I can do.”
Annie thanked him and said they’d let him know. Then she joined Earl in the hall.
“Screw them all,” Earl said as he paced a few feet one way, a few feet back. “I’ll bring her home. I’ll get one of those—what do you call them?—visiting nurses or whatever. I’ll have them twenty-four-seven. I’ll do it my way.”
“She’ll still need to see a doctor, though. Maybe not every day, but . . .”
“I don’t give a damn. Lived here all my life. Claire, too. I was born in this damn hospital. Well, not this one exactly, but the old one next door. So was John. Before that, the entire Lyons clan was born at home on Chappy. Generations of us, for Chrissake. And now they’re telling me there isn’t one lousy bed here to take care of my wife? After all we’ve done for this bloody island?” His face became a scary shade of red; his eyes had narrowed and turned dark.
Then Taylor came around the corner.
“All set,” she said as she approached.
“No!” Earl shouted. “I am not letting Claire off this island. And definitely not to Weymouth. It’s too goddamned far. And there are only strangers over there.”
But Taylor shook her head, her auburn mane swinging from one shoulder to the other. “No. Here. We’re all set here. I have a bed for Claire.”
Earl stopped pacing. Annie swallowed, pressing her lips together, realizing that she’d been about to cry.
“Bessie Adams is going home today. She said she’s sick to death of being here. I called her niece off-island; she’s agreed to come and stay with Bessie for a couple of weeks. The doctor has agreed that she’ll be fine.”
“Bessie Adams?” Earl asked. “I didn’t think she liked Claire. Not since Claire took first prize at the Ag Fair for her blackberry jam back in 1981. Up ’til then, Bessie always won. . . .”
“Earl,” Annie said, taking him by the arm, “it doesn’t matter now. Taylor has seen to it that Claire will stay right here.” She turned to Taylor. “Thanks, Taylor. You have no idea how much this means. . . .”
But Taylor only replied, “Yes, I do,” and let it go at that.
And Annie was left feeling that maybe Taylor wasn’t such a bad sort after all.
* * *
Taylor left to take the bus back to the Chappy ferry; Annie and Earl stayed at the hospital until Bessie Adams was released and Claire was moved into the rehab unit—which didn’t happen until after 3:00 p.m. Annie congratulated herself for having had the sense to grab them lunch from the hospital café before it closed.
When Claire finally was settled, she shooed them away.
“Since you’re ornery as ever,” Earl said, “I guess that means you’re really getting well.” He moved to the window and stared out. “At least you’ve got a nice view of Lagoon Pond,” he added, then nodded as if everything was finally as it should be.
Promising to visit the next day, Annie decided she would wait until then to ask for last-minute advice about the tour. Maybe she’d even ask how well Claire knew Roger Flanagan, since he was a donor to the garden club. Maybe Claire knew if he’d ever expressed an interest in the Littlefield property, and if she thought he might resort to murder in order to get it. As long as Fiona was still on the Vineyard, what harm would there be in trying to find out more?
By the time Annie had dropped off Earl and was back home, she was too tired to open her laptop and work on her manuscript. Her brain didn’t seem to want to re-engage in fiction; it somehow wandered back to Taylor.
Taylor knew almost everyone on the island—she’d proved that at the hospital. And chances were she knew way more than she’d admit.
Thinking back to the night Fiona had passed out on the lawn, Annie tried to remember if, when Taylor had first arrived, she’d said anything that might have hinted at something sinister about the family—its past or present. Anything that might provide a morsel that would steer Annie in a new investigative direction. But all Annie recalled was that Taylor had recognized the bridesmaid and that she’d said she’d seen Colin drive off the On Time when she was on her way back from seeing a movie. Jaws.
With a sigh of surrender, Annie realized that too much was going on for her to focus on her book. So instead of sitting idle—or, worse, making revisions that wound up being neither logical nor good—she decided to drive out to the Indian Burial Ground. Sitting on the hill, looking over Cape Poge Bay, might help clear her head. Though the view pointed east, if she waited long enough, she might get to see the sunset reflected in the sky and on the water. She might as well take advantage of the island’s beauty before needing to pack up and leave the way Fiona was.
Grabbing her purse, Annie walked out the door just as her cell phone rang.
“Come for supper,” Earl said. “We’ve got chicken for the grill. And while we were at the hospital, Francine made enough potato salad to feed a whole community supper in February.”
* * *
“Ammie!”
It wasn’t that Bella didn’t know Annie’s name, but it seemed easier for her to pronounce it with m’s instead of n’s. Annie laughed, scooped her up, and gave her a big hug. Lately, whenever Annie had a chance to see Bella, life was so frenetic she often forgot to pay close attention to the almost toddler with the big dark eyes. Nothing filled Annie’s heart more than knowing that so many people had taken loving guardianship of the little one whose life could have turned out so differently.
“Wine?” Earl asked.
“Sure. It’s long past five o’clock, right?”
“Ten past six by my watch.”
She followed him into the kitchen, where Francine was busy gathering forks and knives and napkins. “Strawberry shortcake for dessert,” she said. “Might be the last of the fresh ones.”
One of the best parts of living on the Vineyard was that Annie had become spoiled by mostly consuming food that had been grown, milked, or churned locally. Even honey, she thought.
“You want to eat outside or in?” Francine asked.
“Outside is good,” Earl replied. “The bugs won’t be out ’til later.”
Francine plunked the utensils on a platter that held a heap of chicken breasts. She disappeared out the back door as Earl handed Annie a glass of chardonnay.
“So . . . have you talked to my son lately?” he asked.
“Well, yes. Of course. The other night.” It had been Sunday night when he’d called to quiz her about the so-called inciden
t with Kevin’s gun. Wow, she thought. Had that only been forty-eight hours ago? It seemed like a week, maybe two. So far, the summer was projecting a skewed concept of time. Maybe it was due to the heat. Or not.
Earl poured an inch of scotch into a glass. “Let’s go into the living room and sit.”
Annie sensed there was a reason why he hadn’t suggested they join Francine outside. She hoped it wasn’t because there was another serious matter.
She set Bella on the carpet and handed her a Baby Learning tablet that the little girl was too young to understand but loved watching the lights. She also seemed fascinated by the electronic voice that spoke whenever she touched a button: “B is for Baby,” followed by the sound of a baby laughing; “F is for Frog,” followed by a couple of ribbits.
Annie sat on the sofa, Earl in his recliner facing her.
“What’s up?” she asked. “Claire’s okay, isn’t she?”
“Absolutely. She promised I’ll kick the bucket before she does.” He chuckled.
“Oh, God, please don’t tell me you’re sick.”
“Me? Hell, no. I’ll live to be a hundred. That’ll teach my wife to be a smart-ass. No, I wanted to talk to you about John.”
Oh.
Annie tried to ward off the gentle thump in her gut. Her efforts were futile. John must have told him what had happened at the airport; Earl would more than likely read her the riot act about interfering with police business, because John wasn’t there to do it.
“I was wrong,” Earl said bluntly. “He might not come back.”
That time, Annie’s stomach didn’t thump. Instead, all the small muscles in her face went slack, as if she were suffering a stroke the way Claire had. She stared at Earl, as if she’d misheard him.
“C is for Cow,” said the lady in the box, followed by an elongated Mooooo.
Taking a sip of wine, Annie tried to muster a reasonable response. Finally, she asked, “Do you mean, he might not be coming home? To the Vineyard?” She wanted to add the word, “Ever?” but could not get it out of her mouth.
Earl looked at her with a soft gaze. “I called him after you brought me home. I wanted to tell him Claire’s in rehab. Anyway, he said that Lucy has some issues.”