A Vineyard Crossing

by Jean Stone

  * * *

  A couple of hours later, Annie was nearly done layering her clothes into plastic tubs, leaving her closet empty for Simon’s belongings. She had until Tuesday morning to finish looking through, storing, and/or securing whatever else she wouldn’t want him to have access to, though she supposed he’d have more interesting things to do while he was there than prowl through her closets or the junk drawer in the kitchen. She decided to leave the abundant volumes of reading material in her bookcases; he might enjoy perusing them. Maybe he’d admire the small but weighty reproduction of a famous sculpture of Agatha Christie that Annie kept on the top shelf. Murphy had given it to her when she’d started writing her first mystery. “To help channel your muse,” she’d said. Annie continued to consult it whenever she had writer’s block.

  She thought about the other items she should tuck away. The electronic files pertaining to her books and finances were on her computer; she’d take that with her. There also were scores of notebooks where she scribbled down ideas, but she doubted that he’d want to steal them. Still, she locked the notebooks and a few hard copies of personal files in her Louis Vuitton trunk that held treasured photos and memorabilia from her past. There was no need to let a journalist loose among the intimate details of her life—no matter how hugely awesome he might be.

  Annie wished she could talk to John about whether she’d been too hasty in giving up her space. Her home. But Abigail must already have arrived and was hopefully enjoying catching up with John and Lucy. And though Lucy had invited Annie to join them (actually, she’d begged her), Annie had politely declined. As much as she wanted to meet Abigail again and try and figure out how they might be friends, she knew John well enough to know that he’d need time to convene, assess, and regroup. She also knew it was going to take a whole lot more than moving the girl’s old bed up from the basement for harmony to emerge. Harmony between John and Abigail, and, as important, between Abigail and Lucy.

  Murphy was the closest Annie had ever come to having a sister. But the key difference was that they’d chosen each other as best friends; they hadn’t been tossed together thanks to the same parents and a helix of similar DNA. Instead, they’d met in the hallway of their dorm the day they both were moving in for their freshman year at Boston University. With a map of the floor plan stuck between her teeth, a giant cardboard box heaped high with pillows, clothes, and shoes, Annie fast-walked around a corner toward room 507 and ran smack into a redheaded girl who’d also been fast-walking in the opposite direction, her arms overloaded, too.

  They both fell on their butts, their worldly belongings shooting across the linoleum, transforming the hall into what looked like the sorting area in the back room of a thrift store.

  The redheaded girl said, “Well. We have collided. Are you okay?”

  “It was my fault,” Annie replied. “I’m sorry. I’m okay. Are you?”

  “Yup. But don’t be sorry. I was going too fast, too. Let’s forget about it and make a pact to be best friends. Unless you already have one?”

  Annie laughed. “Hardly. I just got here.”

  “Okay, then. I’m Murphy.”

  “Annie.”

  “Good. Now let’s clean up this crap and find something to do. Four years is a long time. If we’re going to be best friends, we might as well find out where the fun is.”

  It had been that simple. They’d stayed best friends for more than thirty years; through the weddings of their youth and Annie’s young husband’s tragic death, through Murphy’s giving birth to twins, and through Annie’s unfortunate years with her second husband. They’d held each other’s hands when their parents died. The only time Annie had gotten angry with Murphy was when she’d become sick and died, too.

  “Some friend you turned out to be,” Annie said now as she snapped the lid on the storage tub closed.

  Oh, stop whining, Murphy retorted from above, with more insistence than her usual whisper.

  “I can’t help it,” Annie sighed. “You’d be whining, too, if I was the one who was dead and you were left to figure out how to do stuff on your own.” She’d said it half-jokingly, so she was more than surprised when Murphy replied, No kidding. My life would have been a disaster without you.

  Though intellectually, Annie supposed she knew that Murphy’s words always came from Annie’s imagination (or did they?), she chose to believe that her stalwart best buddy was still with her, would be with her to the end. And who could argue with that when Annie was the only one who Murphy talked to? Smiling now, somehow comforted, somehow having gained the will and the strength to start layering the contents of her bureau into another tub, Annie kept enough things out to put into a suitcase to take to Earl and Claire’s.

  Then Earl’s trademark three short knocks on the screen door interrupted.

  “Hey,” she said, peeking from the bedroom and quickly whisking away the remnants of her emotions.

  He went into the cottage and took a seat at Annie’s compact table. “Hey, yourself. You packed?”

  “Pretty much. I locked my valuables—what there are of them—in the Louis Vuitton. You don’t suppose he’ll pick the lock, do you?” Donna, Annie’s birth mother, had gifted the pricey antique trunk to Annie; it wasn’t until Donna died that Annie found secrets hidden inside.

  “I have the impression you’re not excited about this.”

  “I’m fine. I think it will be okay. And, by the way, I tacked on a little extra revenue for the cottage, so maybe Kevin will be impressed.” Tired of her chore, she dumped the contents of the bottom bureau drawer into the last tub and snapped the lid closed. Then she pushed it into the living room. “It’s strange, though, isn’t it? Things had been going so smoothly. And now look at us. Francine and Bella are going to move into Jonas’s. I’m moving to your house. And you’re going to camp out in a sleeping bag on a plywood floor.”

  He rubbed his chin, as he’d done earlier. “For starters, I don’t think Francine has a real problem moving in with Jonas, do you?”

  Annie couldn’t argue with that.

  “And a change of scenery might be good for you, too. Like maybe staying with Claire will not only give her a rest from me, but will give you one from this place.” He chuckled. “And after nearly fifty years marriage, I’m not above admitting I’m happy to get away from my dear wife.” Of course, he was devoted to Claire, and she to him, and everyone on the Vineyard knew it. “Still,” he liked to say, “fifty years is fifty years.” Point taken.

  She plunked down on the chair across from him. “You want a cinnamon roll? A cookie or something?”

  “Nope. Leave ’em in the freezer for our celebrity guest.”

  She uttered a small groan. “I hope we haven’t been too hasty. I can’t stop feeling that this is exactly what we agreed we never would do: chase the money. It’s as if we’re saying, ‘Honestly, we’re full, but if you need a room, no problem. We’ll hang from the rafters because we want your cash.’ Yuck. Sure, the Inn is a business, Earl, but we all agreed we wouldn’t be greedy.” She didn’t mention that she’d also up-charged their standard rate to give Simon’s assistant Francine and Bella’s room.

  “We did. But I’ve been thinking about this, too, and if I were a betting man, I’d say that having Simon Anderson at The Vineyard Inn will be so good for our image it outweighs the rest. Who knows? Maybe he’ll want to get married here.”

  “He’s not married?” Annie asked, then hated that she’d stooped to that kind of natter. “Never mind. The fact is, I don’t want this to be a precedent. We only rent three rooms in summer because we didn’t build the Inn to have it become a big money business but to help out with the island housing crisis, including mine. The money from summer rentals is supposed to help us get through the winter and so we can keep the rentals affordable for islanders.”

  He nodded six or seven times; they had discussed those goals and objectives over and over since he and Kevin had come up with the plan a year ago.

  “But
there’s another upside you haven’t mentioned, Annie. Simon will be here for, what, ten days? I don’t think there’s any question that during his visit he’ll be pumping big bucks into the local restaurants and the shops.”

  “Are you implying they don’t get enough in August?”

  Earl stood up. “If I were you, I wouldn’t ask any of them that. Now, if you’re finished, let’s get those buckets stored in the workshop, and I’ll pick out a prime spot for my old sleeping bag.”

  * * *

  After they’d finished moving Annie’s things, Earl went home. Annie went back to the cottage and stretched out on her bed, trying not to think about the fact that, once again, someone other than her would be occupying it.

  The next thing she knew, it was six o’clock.

  She bounded out of bed as if she’d been caught dawdling by one of the nuns at the Catholic elementary school that her mom, Ellen Sutton, had made sure Annie attended.

  “It’s nineteen seventy-four, Bob,” Annie had overheard her mom say to her dad. “This isn’t the fifties. The world is scary now, and Annie will need a proper education or she’ll turn into one of those hippie girls in a psychedelic miniskirt.”

  “She’s only six,” her dad had replied.

  But her mom had stood her ground.

  So Annie ran a comb through her hair now, brushed her teeth, and smoothed her jersey and her jeans as if Sister Catherine Aloysius was waiting in the living room to conduct the mandatory grooming inspection.

  Moving into the kitchen, Annie poured a glass of wine and pondered where she would have gone to school if Donna MacNeish had raised her, if Donna hadn’t given Annie up for adoption. As she retreated outside to the porch, Annie didn’t think she was feeling sorry for herself; she was merely sad that she was going to have to leave her comfy nest, her writer’s room, and the silence she cherished more than she felt she should admit.

  There was, she knew, a fine line between wanting, needing to be alone, and wanting, needing to be with another, who in this case was John. And though she’d accepted that her living arrangements would change once she and John married, Annie had imagined that though she’d move into his place, she would return to her cottage every morning to fulfill her duties at the Inn and to write. It had made perfect sense in Annie’s world of make-believe, which was a good place for her brain to be when she was writing fiction, but wasn’t always in sync with real life.

  For starters, her dream had not considered that John mostly worked at night so he often wouldn’t be home when she was there . . . and it would never have predicted that both his daughters would be living there, too, which was going to add a potentially difficult dimension. Nor had her fictitious plan addressed who’d be on the property of the Inn throughout the nights, a factor that suddenly felt significant.

  “Excuse me,” a woman’s voice called out.

  Grateful for the intrusion, Annie turned and saw Ms. Mullen, their turtle-researching guest, heading toward the cottage.

  Oh, good, Annie thought. Whenever her mood began to slither down a somber path, she always welcomed positive distraction.

  Chapter 5

  “Sorry to intrude, but may I ask a quick question?”

  Annie set her glass on the wood decking and stood up. “How can I help?” She noticed that Ms. Mullen had changed into black linen pants and a white top and wore a soft aqua scarf around her neck. Rather than pretty, she looked almost exotic, as if she were from an island in the Caribbean or far west, in the Pacific.

  “Is there a restaurant on Chappaquiddick that’s open for dinner?”

  “I’m sorry, but no. There’s a catering company, but I think you have to order before noon. Other than that, you’ll need to go into Edgartown. Or catch a fish. Or forage for wild blueberries.” She hoped she sounded cheerful and not as dour as she was. “The truth is, though we’re only a ninety-second ferry ride into Edgartown, Chappy’s fairly remote. And we love it like that. Will you join me for a glass of wine?”

  “How nice. Thank you, I will. Unless I’m disturbing you . . .”

  Annie raised a hand. “No. Please. You have no idea how badly I needed to be disturbed.” She smiled and added, “I’ll be right back.”

  Thankfully, she hadn’t packed the wine, though she supposed she should. Simon Anderson certainly could afford his own libations.

  Returning in a flash with an empty glass in one hand, a bottle in the other, Annie asked if Pinot Grigio was okay.

  Ms. Mullen nodded and the two women sat on the Adirondack chairs that were positioned for perfect sunset watching.

  Annie poured; they sat quietly for a moment, gazing across the harbor.

  “What a wonderful view you have,” the woman said.

  “It’s a gem, all right.” Annie felt her body and her brain finally begin to relax. “We were lucky to find this property.”

  “You’re facing west; the sunsets must be magnificent.”

  “And every one is different. Some are muted; some are blazing. Some are pink; some are orange. I never get tired of them.”

  “And the Inn is new, right?”

  “We opened Memorial Day weekend. And we haven’t had a single glitch . . . yet.” She saw no need to add the reshuffling required to suit Simon Anderson. “But tell me about yourself,” Annie continued. “Starting with your first name, if you’d like.”

  Her companion sipped her wine. “Mary Beth.”

  “I’ll remember that,” Annie replied. “A teacher at the school where I taught was named Mary Beth. She wanted us to call her Mitzy, though. She said Mary Beth sounded provincial.”

  “And was she? Provincial?”

  “I have no idea. She had white hair. Her body was pleasantly rotund. She wore dark red lipstick and flowered dresses that fell below her knees. She also wore white stockings, well after they’d gone out of style. I think she was past retirement, so I suppose she could have been provincial. She was nice, though. She was soft-spoken and kind to her students. I used to hope she had a secret life. You know, schoolmarm by day, harlot by night.”

  Mary Beth laughed. “Well, you can forget about imagining those things of me. Believe me, I am neither.”

  Annie’s cheeks grew warm. “Good grief, I didn’t mean anything like that. I was only reminiscing . . . oh, never mind. My imagination sometimes forgets it should not be connected to my mouth.” She took a long sip of the Pinot. “But seriously, tell me about yourself. You’re researching the leatherbacks?”

  Mary Beth, who was not Mitzy the schoolmarm, rubbed her thumb against the glass. Then she said, “I never realized they were in the waters here. I knew that they come out of the water on Florida beaches to lay their eggs in the sand; I guess I always thought they stayed down there. But they migrate here when the waters get too warm in the south.”

  “The water’s getting warmer here.”

  “I know. Which is why there’s a greater need now to keep track of the leatherbacks.”

  “So, you’re a marine biologist?”

  She hesitated again. “Not really. Not yet. I’d like to get a job at the biological lab. I hope my research will give me a foot in the door. I’ve always been fascinated by the big turtles. They’re prehistoric, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that, but it makes sense. They’re huge. And it’s amazing that they swim all the way up from the south.” She wondered if John realized that. Lucy might, as she was so curious.

  “They can weigh anywhere from half a ton to two tons,” Mary Beth continued. “Imagine! A four-thousand-pound turtle. Swimming in Vineyard Sound!”

  Their conversation drifted to climate change, and Annie shared what little she knew about the impact it was having on the island. Before long, one of the beautiful sunsets began to tint the sky, and Annie said, “I have an idea. How about if we venture over to Edgartown together and grab a bite to eat? Some place casual like The Wharf?”

  Mary Beth vacillated, then politely declined. She stood up and said she’d bothered Annie to
o long as it was.

  But Annie said she was hungry and she’d cleaned out her refrigerator except for a few cinnamon buns that wouldn’t constitute a very nutritious meal. What she didn’t say was that she felt comfortable with her guest, and that that night Annie needed a friend, or at least the makings of one. She didn’t think Murphy would mind.

  Mary Beth finally agreed, and Annie went inside to grab her purse and a sweater.

  * * *

  Sunday nights in August typically posed a challenge to get seated for dinner. Like many islanders, Annie didn’t eat out often in summer, preferring to let festive vacationers enjoy the lobster rolls and crocks of chowder. In addition, John’s crazy work schedule often made it impossible for them to dine together, let alone in a restaurant with a long line. That night, if Annie had been Irish not Scottish, she would have thought she’d been granted a dose of ancestral luck when, after less than five minutes, the host led them through the lively bar into the large dining room that also was crowded. To say that The Wharf was hopping was an understatement.

  Best of all, they were seated at a booth, not a table. Annie thought booths were more comfortable for conversation; Kevin would have joked it was a sign that his sister was getting old.

  He’d been gone less than two days, but it felt like a million.

  They scanned the wine list, then each ordered a glass. Annie already knew what she’d order for dinner: the Seafood Jambalaya was one of her favorites.

  While Mary Beth looked at the menu, Annie glanced around the restaurant—sometimes it was fun to be immersed in the happy clatter of summer. All around, people were decked out in August finery: Lily Pulitzer pastel sundresses, Vineyard Vines classic striped polos, Black Dog T-shirts. Everyone seemed merry, except across the aisle, a few tables away, where a man and woman sat, engaged in what looked like somber dialogue. The man’s back was to Annie; she might know the woman, but didn’t know from where. Her hair was neatly cut and coiffed, and she wore oversized silver hoop earrings. But there was something about the couple . . . about the man. And then . . . oh, God. It was John. Annie squinted. She knew those wide shoulders. And the woman . . . yes. The woman was his wife. Ex-wife. Annie had only met her once, but she’d had the same visceral reaction then: a knot twisting in her stomach.