A Vineyard Crossing

by Jean Stone

  “How’s the grilled salmon?” Mary Beth asked.

  Beneath the table, Annie clenched her hands, her fingernails pushing into her palms. She pulled her eyes back to her companion. “Excuse me?”

  “The grilled salmon. Do you recommend it?”

  Annie wanted to leave. She wanted to run outside, around the corner to Dock Street, all the way to the Chappy Ferry. She wanted to jump on it and go home. Fight or flight.

  Stop it, she ordered herself because Murphy hadn’t. You’re not twelve.

  “Is there something I might like better?” Mary Beth asked.

  Annie tried to hide her agitation. “The salmon’s fine,” she managed to say. Her gaze traveled back to John and Jenn’s table. She did not want to stare, but couldn’t help it. John hadn’t mentioned that his ex would be coming with Abigail. Wasn’t that something a fiancé should have told his bride-to-be?

  From her vantage point, it was tough to see whether or not there were other place settings—perhaps Abigail was with them . . . and Lucy? That would be more understandable. But as Annie discreetly craned her neck, she couldn’t see other glasses or plates. Which made it obvious that John and Jenn were alone. Just the two of them.

  The waitress reappeared and set their wineglasses down. She asked what they wanted. Annie was barely aware that she’d uttered “Jambalaya”; she was too busy trying to rationalize the situation. Maybe John hadn’t expected to see Jenn, either—she did, after all, have a new boyfriend and was supposedly moving in with him. Which meant that surely she’d be leaving on the late boat.

  “Annie?” Mary Beth asked quietly. “Are you okay?”

  Annie knew her reaction was ridiculous; she blamed it on the stress of too many changes in the past two days: Kevin, Simon Anderson, now this. But she was currently with Mary Beth, a guest whom Annie wanted to help feel comfortable.

  “I’m fine,” she responded with a genuine smile. “Sorry. I’m just a little tired.” She raised her glass in a toast. “Welcome to the Vineyard,” she said. “Where everything is magical and only good things ever happen.”

  They clinked the stemware, and Annie carried on what she hoped was a halfway intelligent conversation until their meals arrived. That’s when, from the corner of her eye, she saw John and Jenn stand up. She refused to let her knotted stomach ruin what should be a good time.

  Jenn passed the booth first. She was looking toward the bar, oblivious, not that she’d remember Annie from their one brief meeting.

  Then John started to pass. Annie sat up straight, prepared to say “Hi, what brings you to these parts?” or something equally light. Breezy. Not accusatory. But John was following his ex-wife’s gaze until, as if by instinct, his line of sight flipped to his left and landed squarely on Annie’s. Their eyes met, then locked, for a flash of a second. Then, without so much as a nod, he turned his attention away from Annie and kept walking, following Jenn’s wedge sandals through the restaurant and out the front door.

  Later, she decided that part had been the worst.

  * * *

  Annie woke up at four o’clock Monday morning after what she figured had been three hours of sleep. She could have paced the floor of the cottage the way she’d paced the downtown Boston apartment the night her first husband, Brian, had been hit and killed by a drunk driver; when she hadn’t known where to put herself, or how to stop her racing thoughts. Or quiet her trembling nerves. Back then, of course, she’d still been in her twenties. Innocent. Naïve. Absolutely heartbroken.

  Now, for God’s sake, she was an adult, a real adult, solidly middle-aged. She wondered if gut reactions were predestined, like the size of someone’s feet or the color of their natural hair.

  She could have sat outside and stared up at the night sky, which, in the darkness on Chappy, often presented a brilliant canopy of stars.

  Pacing would accelerate her agitation; staring up at the sky might either soothe her or make her more wistful. Not wanting to tempt becoming wistful, Annie did the one thing she could count on to settle her anxiety: she opened her laptop and started to work. Writing would be far more productive than dwelling on John.

  Three cups of tea and two thousand words later, when the sky was no longer dark but morning-sunny, her email pinged. She glanced at the clock: it was seven thirty. The message was from her editor; the subject line read: UPDATE. Knowing that Trish liked to tackle correspondence before heading to her office in midtown Manhattan, Annie promptly opened it.

  GOOD MORNING, ANNIE. PUB DATE FOR MURDER ON EXHIBIT IS OFFICIAL: SEPT. 21. ATTACHED IS YOUR TOUR SCHEDULE. WE CUT IT BACK TO SIX WEEKS, BUT WE STEPPED UP INTERVIEWS AND SIGNINGS. SO YOU’LL MAKE MORE APPEARANCES IN LESS TIME. ALSO, THE SOCIAL MEDIA DEPT. HAS ARRANGED FOR YOU TO CONTRIBUTE A NUMBER OF ONLINE ARTICLES AND BLOG POSTS, SO PLEASE GET STARTED WRITING THOSE. THE ATTACHED SPREADSHEET OUTLINES THE WORD COUNTS AND DEADLINES.

  IF THIS IS OVERWHELMING, IT’S YOUR OWN FAULT: IF YOUR BOOKS WEREN’T SO POPULAR, YOU’D HAVE LESS TO DO!

  PLEASE CONFIRM ASAP THAT THE DATES WORK FOR YOU. AND KEEP GOING ON THE NEXT MANUSCRIPT. THANKS. TRISH.

  Annie quickly did the math; September twenty-first was about five weeks away. Inhaling a deep breath, she opened the schedule: Boston, New York, Chicago, L.A. Followed by St. Louis, Houston, Atlanta, Miami. Eight major cities, with festivals and book fairs in between in places like Charleston, Milwaukee, and Bradford, Pennsylvania. She’d need to step up her energy level about ten thousand times more than she felt in that moment. She’d need to find time to prepare for speeches and interviews, to write blog posts and articles. To work on her next manuscript. And breathe.

  If there was a bright side to Trish’s demands, it was that John’s antics—or rather, his non-antics—of the previous night would have to officially take a back seat. Their relationship would be, or it would not; there was little Annie could do, other than not let it overtake her. She supposed that few relationships were as easy as the one she’d had with Brian. Then again, they’d been too young and in love to think bad things could happen. At least, not to them.

  They hadn’t considered there would be an impaired, seventeen-year-old boy behind a wheel. Annie had never seen his face or been told his name because he was a minor; she only knew he lost his license for a couple of years. Because the night had been dark and rainy, and Brian had been wearing dark clothes, it was implied that he’d contributed to his own death.

  And Annie was left having no recourse, other than to grieve.

  More than twenty-five years later, she still found it surprising that she’d made it through the weeks and months that followed. But she had. And after the big blip with her second husband, she’d learned to maintain her balance and take care of herself. And neither John nor Kevin nor Simon Anderson could take that away from her.

  She lowered her head and counted to ten—she liked to think the exercise helped put her brain cells back into good order so she could deal with things one at a time.

  When she reached ten, Annie knew that some pelting hot water might also help, so she decided to take a shower. After breakfast she’d look at the spreadsheet of the articles and blog posts she’d need to write and when they were due. And then she’d figure out where she could work. After all, she was not only losing her home to Simon for ten days—she was losing her writing space, too.

  Chapter 6

  After Annie showered, dressed, and felt sufficiently determined not to let the prickly parts of her past wreck her nearly perfect life, she went up to the Inn. She ate every bite of a delightful breakfast—Francine’s sinfully indulgent French toast casserole with peaches and a maple cream sauce. The guests clearly enjoyed it, too. Mary Beth, however, had not joined them, nor had she asked Francine for something to go. Annie hoped she hadn’t been put off by Annie’s sudden distress at dinner. Then she remembered that not everyone liked to be sociable, especially first thing in the morning. Perhaps Mary Beth’s reason for skipping the meal was as simple as that.

  Annie helpe
d clean up the kitchen, then quickly vacuumed and dusted the main floor. She retreated to her cottage, opened her computer and the spreadsheet, and counted her blessings that she had so much to do. However, she knew that trying to get it all done while staying at Claire’s might be difficult: she could easily be tempted to linger too long over tea, talk about John, speculate about the future. Claire would indulge her, but Annie would accomplish zilch.

  She could have sneaked into the wonderful little cottage next door where she’d lived the first year she’d moved to the island, and where she’d often hid from the construction noise when the Inn was being built. But the new property owners had torn down the old place; the demolition had distressed Annie, as if the sweet memories of her new beginning had been bulldozed, too.

  So now, grateful to at least have one last day to be able to work in her own place, Annie got started. An hour later, with the sizable list of her online commitments already organized, she had a good idea: she called Lottie Nelson, the manager at the Chappaquiddick Community Center, where Annie also had escaped more than once for a change of scenery in order to write. Those times, however, had been off season when the center was quiet; Lottie might not be able to accommodate her now, but maybe she could offer a suggestion or two. If anyone on Chappy would know who might have an isolated spot where Annie could retreat with her laptop, it would be Lottie. Or Earl, of course, but Annie had bothered him enough.

  “I’m desperate for a hideout for ten days,” she said when Lottie answered the phone. “I have a book coming out next month, and I have to do a ton of things to promote it. The Inn will be hectic, so I need a quiet place to work in the afternoons.”

  “What kind of place?”

  “An attic? A shed with Wi-Fi? I’m not fussy.” She’d thought about the apartment over the garage at Taylor’s house where Jonas had been living before Taylor departed. But with Francine and Bella staying with Jonas while Simon was at the Inn, Annie feared she’d be as distracted as she’d be at Claire’s.

  “You have to have Wi-Fi?”

  “Preferably. Yes.”

  “Well, that ups the ante to nearly impossible.”

  “I know. But I’ll need to do some research . . .”

  “How soon?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  Lottie laughed. “Well, that’s doubtful, too, what with the fair and everything leading up to it. What about next week?”

  “Too late.”

  “Too bad. You could always come here, but we’re booked solid until after Labor Day.”

  “I figured as much. Well, thanks, Lottie. If you hear of anything, I’d appreciate it if you’d keep me in mind.”

  “No problem.” Then Lottie hesitated. “Wait. What about the fire station?”

  “The fire station?”

  “There’s a big room that they use for meetings, but those are mostly at night. There’s a table and chairs. And a small kitchen with a microwave and fridge, so you could bring food or make tea or whatever. I know it’s town property, but . . .”

  “But if no one was told . . .”

  “Well, then, no one would know.”

  It went without saying that “no one” referred to the politicos in Edgartown, because Chappy was governed by them.

  “It will only be for ten days.”

  “I’ll let you know. My husband’s a volunteer fireman.” The last sentence wasn’t really news because, at one time or another, most Chappy year-rounders were.

  “You’re my savior, Lottie,” Annie said.

  “Let’s hope it works. If not, I’ll keep my radar on for something else.”

  They hung up and Annie vowed to get Lottie something special for her trouble. Maybe something handcrafted by Annie’s dear friend Winnie Lathrop, an Aquinnah Wampanoag who lived up island—perhaps a piece of her pottery bowls or a pair of wampum earrings. Annie didn’t think the gift would be considered graft . . . but on the outside chance that she could be wrong, she’d be sure not to mention it to law-and-order John.

  Returning to the spreadsheet, she began to consider topics for the blog posts. Sometime after two o’clock there was a knock on the cottage screen door.

  “Hey, Annie, are you in there?” It was Lucy, John’s younger daughter, and she sounded in distress.

  Annie closed her eyes, counted to five (Lucy wouldn’t be patient enough to wait for her to reach ten), then said, “Come on in, honey. I’m in the writer’s room.”

  * * *

  “She’s impossible. Impossible,” Lucy said as she marched in.

  As badly as Annie wanted to ask if Lucy was talking about Abigail or her mother, she suppressed it.

  “I’m serious, Annie. I’m going to run away.” She flopped down on the beanbag chair that Annie had tucked into the corner for when she wanted a timeout from the ergonomic office chair with lumbar support and headrest that she’d splurged on when she’d moved into the cottage. And for when Lucy visited.

  “Where will you go?”

  “I don’t know.” She coiled the end of her caramel-colored single plait that she’d recently started wearing draped over one shoulder. The small splash of freckles around her pixie-like nose was one of the few hints of childhood that, so far, she’d retained. “They’ll find me if I’m on Chappy. Maybe I’ll hitch a ride up island. Do you think Winnie can put me up in that big house of theirs?”

  Annie smiled. “I slept on Winnie’s floor one night with Bella, when Bella was a baby. But I’m not sure they have a spare room, what with Winnie’s family—her ‘clan,’ as she affectionately calls them—growing every year. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  Lucy moaned. “It really sucks. She really sucks. Why can’t I have a sister who doesn’t suck?”

  Wheeling away from the small desk and moving closer to the beanbag, Annie said, “Well, I never had a sister, so I can’t help you there. Sorry.”

  “All she does is sit on the bed with her earbuds stuck in her ears, listening to music while she looks at stupid clothes on her computer. Like she needs a drop-dead wardrobe because she has somewhere special to go.” She rolled her eyes. “She won’t talk to me. And worse, she totally ignores Restless. Restless! Why would she ignore him? What’d he ever do to her?”

  Restless was the adorable dog that John had adopted from the shelter. He had grown a lot over the summer; he was black and white and fluffy, and John was convinced he had a good deal of Bernese Mountain Dog in him. Most of all, Restless loved people, and people loved him back.

  “I can’t imagine he did anything. But I do know it must be hard for her right now. She cares a lot about you and your dad, but she made no secret about not wanting to live here. Things in Plymouth must have been really uncomfortable for her to have come back.” Annie was rather proud of herself for sounding calm and understanding about the latest bit of turmoil that had arrived on yesterday’s two thirty boat.

  Lucy folded her arms and pouted. “Abigail, Abigail. Everything’s always about her. She’s always been spoiled because she can’t find her own way out of a damn paper bag.”

  Annie laughed. “I don’t think swearing will help resolve the situation. My dad used to say that, for better or worse, all things change with time. Until then, why not find something else to do? Did you bring Francine cookies today?”

  Lucy nodded. “She asked for peanut butter this week.”

  As per their original agreement, Lucy provided the Inn with cookies on a regular basis; the Inn made them available to the guests, day or night. Her profits were going into her college fund—hopefully they wouldn’t be diverted now to pay for her to run away from home.

  “Did you make muffins?” Annie asked.

  “No. Francine makes them better.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  She shrugged.

  Annie stood up. “Okay, here’s an idea. You have two weeks before school starts, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why not take advantage of it? I bet Francine won’t mind if you he
lp her with the baking. Maybe she can show you some things she’s been learning at college.”

  Pursing her lips, Lucy seemed to ponder the suggestion. “I suppose.”

  “Don’t suppose. Say yes. It will get you out of the house and away from the sister who right now really sucks.”

  She pursed some more. “I’m going to the fair with my friends on Friday.”

  “Good. Between now and then, maybe you can further cultivate your baking skills.”

  “But can I . . . can I stay here? Like here in the cottage with you until school starts?”

  Annie sighed. “I would ask your father, Lucy, honestly I would. But I’m going to be staying at your grandparents’. We had an emergency situation and needed to make extra space for a guest, so I’m moving out of here for ten days.”

  Lucy stood up. She’d shot up over the summer and now was nearly eye to eye with Annie. “You mean there won’t even be room for me at Gramma and Grandpa’s? I figured if Winnie had no room, and if you didn’t want me, then I could at least have gone there. With Kevin in Hawaii.” She wrinkled her nose as she said “Hawaii” as if she didn’t think that Kevin’s trip had been a good idea, either.

  Annie didn’t want to mention Simon’s name. Lucy was an avid viewer of the news but hadn’t yet perfected the art of tempering her teenage exuberance with discretion. “I’m sorry, honey. Please understand, it’s not that I don’t want you here. I don’t have a choice right now.”

  “Well,” Lucy said, her voice cracking most likely from feelings that were poised to let loose, “that sucks, too.” She then spun on her heels, left the cottage, and headed up the hill, hopefully to track down Francine.