by Jean Stone
The dream they had created was, in large part, why Annie still had trouble believing all the wonderful things that had happened in the past couple of years. With enough gratitude in her heart to rein in her worries about the future—if only for a moment—she stepped into the room and asked, “Can you use my help with anything?”
“All is blissfully under control,” Francine replied as she closed a drawer and jotted something on her iPad. “Claire’s still upstairs with Bella; they’re having a tea party.”
Earl’s wife had signed up for what she called “Morning Bella Duty.” Every morning at seven o’clock, either Earl or Kevin brought Claire to the Inn so she could take charge of Bella while Francine tended to breakfast. Their small team had learned to make things work, or, if need be, improvise.
Annie suppressed a wince, aware that the balance would be radically tipped if Kevin didn’t come back. But determined to stay positive, she pushed down her apprehension and said, “You’ve turned into a wonderful mom, Francine.”
“Only because of all the help I’ve had. But thanks, Annie. I mean, who knew, huh?”
Annie snickered. “I, for one, am not the least bit surprised.”
Francine lowered her dark, soulful eyes and gave Annie a cockeyed smile, as she did whenever she was embarrassed.
“Did you have a nice dinner last night?” Annie asked. “With Jonas and the bass?”
Tilting her head, Francine said, “Yes. And before you ask, I do like him. A lot.”
“I figured that. He’s a nice young man. He’s been through a lot.”
“I know.”
“And so have you.”
“Maybe that’s why we like each other,” she said, lowering her eyes again.
Annie nodded. “Whatever makes you happy, makes me happy.” She gave Francine a hug. “Now, I’m off to my other job. I’ll be in the cottage trying to channel Agatha Christie in case anyone needs me.”
“Good luck with that.”
Annie waved and turned toward the back door as Francine called out, “Oh! Before you leave, can you please check our calendar and messages? I was in a hurry this morning and forgot.”
“Will do, boss,” Annie replied, which was a joke because the team had collectively decided that at The Vineyard Inn, no one would be the boss. Instead, though they each had certain chores—Annie’s were to socialize with the guests when she wasn’t writing, to help out with the vacuuming, dusting, and reservations when needed, and take care of anything else that no one either wanted to do or did not have the time for—they all had a say in the overall operation. After all, they were more than a team; they were a family, most of them not bound by blood but love.
* * *
Retracing her steps through the great room, Annie circled toward the staircase in the commodious, two-story foyer. She stopped at the front desk—an antique that had belonged to Earl’s grandfather and, like his ancestors, had been on Chappaquiddick as long as anyone remembered. It was crafted of vintage, gleaming walnut, with nooks, crannies, pigeon holes, and, most important, a center drawer that now concealed a laptop so the old-world charm wouldn’t be blighted by a visual of technology. The laptop was essential; when anyone wanted to book a room online, they were automatically linked to the Inn’s calendar where they could see up-to-the-minute room availabilities and instantly make reservations.
Kevin had researched the perfect software. He was much better at understanding it than Annie, and light-years ahead of Earl, who took pride in his Luddite leanings. Kevin did not, however, get involved with the actual schedule; he jokingly referred to administrative “stuff” as women’s work. He also said he’d had enough of book work when he’d had his construction business.
It now appeared that a pair of four-night reservations had been added to September’s calendar. Annie checked the grid; the month was nearly full.
Then she listened to voice mail: “You have three messages.”
The first was a hang-up.
The second caller wondered if they were taking reservations for Christmas. “Not a chance,” Annie whispered, but would return the call because hospitality wasn’t always about making money. She would explain that islanders rented the summer rooms off season in winter. It was another vow the “family” had made in order to provide housing opportunities to Vineyarders as well as to summer visitors. Technically, Francine’s room would be available once she went back to college after Labor Day, but they’d decided to leave it open in case someone showed up on their doorstep in dire straits. More than anyone, Francine understood that. Kevin, Earl, and Annie also had made sure that Francine knew The Vineyard Inn was her home. Hers and Bella’s. For as long as they wanted. And that their room would never be up for grabs for the sake of added revenue.
“Yes, hello,” the third caller, a man, said. “I need two rooms starting this Tuesday for ten days. I just found out I can’t get a rental car until the following Saturday. I didn’t realize I’d need to reserve one this late in the season.” He had an authoritative, almost familiar voice. A nice voice. Still, Annie would need to find an equally nice way to say, “Sorry, we’re booked.”
But the caller kept talking so she kept listening.
“I’ll need someone to pick up my assistant and me. I’m not sure how the taxi service works out there. I’ve been told if we can get to the Inn, we can easily get back and forth from Chappaquiddick into Edgartown until I can rent the car. My flight arrives on Tuesday morning around eleven thirty.” He paused, then said, “It’s a private jet out of Teterboro. Thanks. Oh, and this is Simon Anderson.”
For a second, Annie froze. Simon Anderson? She waited to hear more, but the message had ended. She stood motionless, holding the handset. Could it possibly be the Simon Anderson, the internationally recognized and respected journalist from CBN? She considered his voice. Authoritative. Strong. Yes. It could be him. Years ago, she’d watched him every evening on a local Boston news channel, most memorably during his edge-of-your-seat, “shelter-in-place” coverage of the Boston marathon bombing and the subsequent hunt for the suspects, which he’d delivered with calming, steady composure. Back then, Annie had given up teaching and was working at home; thanks to writing mysteries, her mind tended to wander toward the perilous, so she’d been terrified. But she’d heeded Simon’s advice on how to be vigilant without being afraid, despite that the city was locked down for days. It wasn’t long after that was resolved when his voice—steady and resonating—and his face—chiseled, Viking-like jawline, penetrating, teal blue eyes—were catapulted to a larger stage, a highly rated cable network. From New York he then brought news of everything from political unrest and racial tensions to the pandemonium of the pandemic into far-reaching homes, his delivery as credible and reassuring as she’d witnessed in Boston.
She supposed she shouldn’t be shocked if that Simon Anderson wanted to visit the Vineyard. Though any accent he might have had was erased long ago (no doubt thanks to an expert voice coach), she remembered hearing that he’d grown up in Beantown. Besides, the Vineyard was a well-known respite for all types of celebrities. No, his presence wouldn’t startle anyone. But why—considering the number of more luxurious, better-established places from Edgartown to Aquinnah and every town in between—had Simon Anderson picked them?
Of course, his request wasn’t possible. They were full until after Labor Day weekend. Someone as in-the-know as he was should have guessed that.
Standing in the foyer, staring at the phone, she contemplated her next step. Should she return his call and say, “Thanks for thinking of us. I’ve been an admirer since you started out. However . . .”?
Suddenly, Francine was at her side. “Why are you standing here like a statue? And why are your cheeks so pink?”
Annie managed a tight grin. “Simon Anderson called.” She related the details.
And Francine joined her in staring at the phone.
Which was when Murphy whispered, Batten down the hatches, my friend. And she said nothing m
ore.
* * *
“He’s hugely awesome,” Francine said after they’d stood there, staring, for more than a minute. “We have to figure out a way.”
“We can’t,” Annie replied. “We’re booked.”
“Give him my room.”
“No. It’s your home. And Bella’s.”
“We can go to Earl and Claire’s. Kevin’s not there now, remember?”
Yes, Annie remembered. “But you only have one room. Simon needs two. We can’t ask one of our guests to leave early.”
“But I could call the sisters from Indiana and tell them we have a gas leak or something.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, never mind. It would probably go viral.”
God knew Annie had had enough of things going viral in the spring. “I’ll call him and say ‘I’m sorry, we don’t have a vacancy, but please think of us when you plan your next visit.’ End of story.” She aimed a finger at the call-back button; Francine pushed it away.
“Stop,” she said. “Let’s think about this.” She gnawed on a fingernail. “Bella and I can go to Jonas’s. You can go to Earl and Claire’s. Simon’s assistant—whatever that means—can have my room. And Simon could take your cottage.”
“No! Nobody gets my cottage, Francine. No one. Ever.” The cottage was her home, her quiet escape. Her place to work. Her place to be alone with John without his daughter—or soon, his daughters—around. “Besides, both of us can’t leave the Inn with no one to look after it. What if something happens during the night?”
Francine exhaled loudly. “Annie. It’s Simon Anderson.”
“No, Francine. Forget that he’s a celebrity. Think of him as a kid who, if he grew up in Boston, should have known to plan his Vineyard vacation earlier.”
“But he’d give us huge visibility. I bet we could get him to post stuff all over social. And our other guests will run home and tell their friends. We could become the overnight go-to place. Maybe even a household name!” Her cheeks were pink now, too.
Annie sighed. “None of which will help. The bottom line is we’ll still only have three rooms to rent in season. Everything else is for islanders, remember?”
Francine started in on another fingernail. “But it might jump-start Kevin’s idea for special events. Weddings and stuff. Can’t we get him on the phone? And bring Earl over? I think we should decide together. We’re a team, Annie. I don’t think we should walk away from this . . . this marketing opportunity, for the sake of a little inconvenience on our part.”
Sensing she’d regret it, Annie said, “It’s too early to call Hawaii, but when Earl comes back from the dump, we’ll call Kevin. He should have a say in this, too.” And maybe, she thought, it might help him know how much they needed him there.
“You should call Simon back and say we’re working on a few logistics for him.”
“No,” Annie said. “Not yet.”
“But what if he calls somewhere else while he’s waiting?”
“Then he does. And we’ll be off the hook. He should be no more special to us than the sisters from Indiana.”
Francine pouted. “But he’d be our first real live celebrity.” She cleared her throat. “Not that you aren’t famous, but . . .”
Annie laughed. “But I don’t happen to be in his league. I do know, though, that he’s a person. That’s all. If it’s meant to be, we’ll figure it out.”
Leaving Francine alone with her fantasies, Annie went outside to the patio, gazed across the harbor, and wondered if, as Murphy had warned, she should get busy battening the hatches.
Chapter 4
“It’s easy,” Kevin said over the speakerphone when Annie told him Simon needed two rooms. “Francine can move in with you, or with Claire and Earl. On second thought, she could bunk in with Jonas—you’d like that a whole lot better, wouldn’t you, Francine?”
Francine blushed. Suggesting it to Annie was one thing, but admitting to the men that she and Jonas were in love—if that’s what it was—must have been embarrassing. “I’ll do whatever works for everyone.”
“Good,” Kevin said. “Then you all can put Bella’s mattress back into the twin frame. It’s a nice room. And it’s big. Simon Anderson would be lucky to have it.”
“But we don’t know if sharing a room is an option for him,” Annie said. “He specifically asked for two.” She tried to keep from sounding argumentative. Or from letting Earl or Francine think that she was being cautious with Kevin. “On tenterhooks,” her dad would have called it.
“Give Anderson the choice,” Kevin said. “Let him decide.”
“And if he says no?”
He laughed. “Then give him a tent and charge him half price.” He paused for the briefest second. “In any case, you have my permission to do whatever you think will work. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a surfboard with my name on it awaiting my attention. Aloha to all.” With that, he disconnected.
Kevin had probably been joking about the tent and the surfboard. Earl had laughed; Annie had not. She knew if they were going offer space to a winner of multiple Emmy Awards, it was not a joking matter; it would behoove them to do it right. And though Annie very much wanted to make life easier by calling Simon and conveying her regrets, she also knew that the publicity could potentially do nice things for the Inn. And for Annie’s book sales, which Trish would definitely tell her when she shared the news. Maybe a few strategically placed photos on social media would result in a preorder boost for her upcoming Murder on Exhibit: A Museum Girls Mystery.
“Never miss a chance to touch greatness,” Trish had once told her. “Your readers will feel as if they’ve touched it, too.” Annie thought that referring to Simon as having “greatness” was a stretch, but there was no disputing that he was good at what he did. Or that he had a huge audience.
Calling Kevin, however, had been a mistake: hearing his voice only underscored the fact that he really was detached from them, disinterested in their trivial problems. Perhaps she would have been, too, if she were in Hawaii with someone she cared about.
The only solution was for Annie to take charge. So she told Earl and Francine they would only need to reconfigure the twin bed for aesthetics, that if Francine really didn’t mind going somewhere else, they could put Simon’s assistant in her room. Then she added, “And Simon can have my cottage. It’s the best solution.”
Earl’s eyebrows shot up. “You sure?”
“Not really. I’m concerned that none of us will be on the grounds during the night, but if I can go to your place, I won’t be far. And I’ll post my cell number at the front desk.”
Rubbing his chin, a habit that Earl often claimed helped him think, he said, “It’s a good idea for you to go to my house. But how about if I drag a sleeping bag upstairs over the workshop and camp out here? It’s only half-finished up there, but it would mean that one of us will be here twenty-four-seven.”
“Are you sure?” Annie asked.
“No reason not to. My wife will be grateful to have a break from me. Besides, I expect that, like most women in America, she has a crush on Mr. Anderson. She’ll want to know we’ve done everything possible to make him comfortable.” He rolled his eyes a little, the way Lucy, his granddaughter, often did.
Annie laughed, her anguish over their conversation with Kevin starting to fade.
“He is kind of good looking,” Francine chimed in. “For an old guy.”
The “old guy” was perhaps Annie’s age. Or close to it.
“Well, okay, then,” Earl continued. “Why not let him use Kevin’s pickup, too? Then our guest won’t have to wait to rent something.”
“Seriously?” Annie asked.
Earl shrugged. “Kevin left it up to us to figure it out. Besides, the truck sits in the driveway, taking up space. It’s unlocked. The keys aren’t in it, but I bet they’re around here somewhere.”
Leaving the keys in an ignition wasn’t uncommon on the Vineyard, especially on Chappy. After
all, if anyone dared to steal it, they’d first have to cross back to the main island via the On Time, then try and get it onto one of the big boats. Which meant they’d have to provide the vehicle number and an ID. In short, stolen cars and trucks happened so infrequently that when they did, the thieves were typically caught long before they made it to the mainland.
However, Annie wasn’t sure they’d find the keys, especially if Kevin had never gotten rid of the handgun that he’d kept locked in the glove box. She did not, however, mention that to Earl. Nor did she suggest they hunt for the keys. If she wanted to avoid making Kevin angry, giving Simon Anderson free rein with the vehicle wouldn’t help. So she nixed the idea.
Earl said he’d come back later and help her move whatever she wanted to get out of the cottage to make the place guest-worthy for Tuesday.
Before thinking about the million things she’d need to pack and store, Annie called Simon. “We’ve been able to arrange accommodations for you,” she said.
“Thank you,” he replied in a voice that sounded sincere, which boded well with Annie, who’d half-assumed that he’d be cavalier, because he might have expected nothing less. She wondered if his visit might turn out okay after all.