A Vineyard Crossing

by Jean Stone

  The good part was that Lucy hadn’t once mentioned her mother. So maybe Jenn had left last night after all.

  Annie rubbed the back of her neck, hoping it would help her relax.

  * * *

  After resuming what she referred to as her “writing position” while at the keyboard—feet flat on the floor, backbone straight, two fingers on each hand arced in a highly unprofessional, yet effective-for-her, manner—Annie tried to come up with a few clever blog post ideas (she’d be happy if she only concocted one) that could somehow relate to Murder on Exhibit. But she was feeling glum, and her thoughts wouldn’t gel. She wondered if other authors had trouble remembering the details of a manuscript they’d finished months ago when they were deeply embroiled in the next.

  Several minutes later, she gave up, slipped into her flip-flops, and went outside for a walk. Instead of going toward the road, she turned and headed down to the beach, which she’d avoided most of the summer thanks to the tragedy it had wrought last spring. Like with other things, she needed to get over that.

  The early afternoon was hot, the sun still filled with summer. She adjusted her sunglasses, tucked her hair behind her ears, and put her hands into the empty pockets of her sundress. She hadn’t brought her phone; she hadn’t locked the cottage door, so she didn’t have her keys, either. Sometimes when she felt a need to focus, Annie paid little attention to minutia.

  She tried to remember the types of questions that readers tended to ask at her previous appearances—maybe they would offer a few kernels that she could turn into guest blog posts.

  “Do you write every day?” No, she decided. Too boring.

  “Where do you get your ideas?” No. Too broad-reaching.

  “Why do you write mysteries?” Huh, she thought. That might be a good one. Then she remembered it was one of the first questions Kevin had asked her. He later admitted he had been trying to decipher whether or not his newly found sister was a closet sociopath. Or worse. They’d laughed together over that because by then Annie knew he could be a comedian. He had, however, insisted he wasn’t kidding until she threatened to stop feeding him, at which point he immediately confessed that yes, it had been a joke.

  She slipped out of her flip-flops now and let the sand rise up between her toes, knowing it was not the right time to be thinking about her brother. She simply had too much to do.

  Instead she watched the gentle waves lap the shore and the lovely, small Pied Piper as it entered the harbor, ferrying visitors to Edgartown from Falmouth on Cape Cod. The Inn had a coveted strip of beachfront that stretched over four hundred feet in each direction—Earl said they should tell their “fitness-fervent guests” that, from one end to the other, a mere three and a quarter round-trips equaled a mile. Annie hadn’t checked his math, but assumed that he was right or, as he often boasted, he was “close enough.”

  Heading south, she began to pace the first four hundred feet, hoping the activity would recharge her brain. She wondered if she should open the blog with an amusing anecdote that her choice of writing murder mysteries had absolutely no connection to having taught third grade for over fifteen years. At her appearances, that tended to bring hearty laughs. She wasn’t sure if it would have the same effect in print or if it would be creepy.

  The truth was, Annie had no concrete idea why she’d landed firmly on mysteries. She supposed it was because, having been raised as an only child, she’d always loved to read. Agatha Christie—the woman whose 3-D head likeness graced Annie’s bookshelf—had been a favorite. But so had Joan Collins and her steamy romances. And Maeve Binchy and her small-town, friends-and-family dramas. However, for the blog, she supposed she should stick to the Christie vein—she could include a photo of the sculpture and add a short comment about her best friend who’d wanted Annie to be inspired by it.

  “Whenever I see you out walking alone,” a voice interrupted her thoughts, “I’m not sure if you’re getting fresh air or if you’re working in your head.”

  Annie bit her lip. Then she turned and looked up at John, who was standing on the grassy dunes. “A little of each today,” she said.

  “Want some company?”

  “Sure.”

  As he jumped down to the beach, Annie noticed he was wearing cargo shorts and a T-shirt, not exactly a detective sergeant’s outfit.

  “You’re not on duty?”

  He shook his head and caught up to her. “Not right now. I worked midnight to noon. I switched with Dan when Abigail texted to warn me that Jenn was with her. I didn’t want to be in my house all night with . . . her . . . there.”

  “Oh.” What else should Annie say? That seeing Jenn must have been a nice surprise?

  Snarky, snarky, Murphy would have whispered though when John was around, she typically gave them privacy.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” John continued. “I didn’t expect to run into you at The Wharf.”

  Annie nodded and resumed walking; he fell into step beside her.

  “I didn’t know what to say,” he added. “I thought it would upset you. That I was there with . . . her.”

  “It did,” she replied. “But only because I wasn’t prepared. And because you didn’t say hello. It felt as if you thought you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t have been doing.”

  “I know. That was pretty stupid.”

  She didn’t feel a need to say she agreed.

  “Jenn wanted to talk about Abigail. To tell me about some stuff she’s been doing. Like smoking. Cigarettes, you know? Who the heck in their right mind starts smoking cigarettes these days?”

  Annie nodded.

  “You’d never know it, but she’s a smart girl. Or at least she used to be.”

  Because Annie did not really know the girl, she didn’t reply to that, either.

  He stopped. He reached out and took her arm, so she stopped, too.

  “I’m sorry, Annie. But everything happened so fast. I didn’t know what to do. When Abigail said her mother was coming with her and would stay overnight, I only had time to call Dan.” He huffed out a little air as if he’d run out of words. “I didn’t see the message ’til I was on my way to get her. I was going to wait to tell you until after Jenn left. As soon as I got off duty today, I changed my clothes, rustled her into the truck, and dropped her off at the one fifteen. Then I drove here.”

  Annie pivoted in the sand until she faced him. She raised her hands, put them on his cheeks, and gave him a light kiss. “I believe you. It’s not as if you could have gotten away with me not knowing. Not on this island, anyway.”

  He smiled. “Man, that’s the truth.”

  “Can we have dinner tonight?”

  A thin veil of apology crept across his face. “Sorry. I’m back on four-to-midnight.”

  “I hate your job sometimes. Well, I hate the hours, anyway.”

  “Me, too. I’d come over after but I only slept a couple of hours before I went in last night and . . .”

  “And you’re exhausted. And you need to be home for your daughters.”

  “Just for now. Until I’m sure . . .”

  She shushed him with another kiss. One way or another, they would find a way to work on their relationship. Or they would not. Perhaps the six weeks of separation that her book tour would impose might turn out to be a test. Because Annie knew her dad had been right that, for better or worse, all things really did change with time.

  Chapter 7

  By the time John left for Stop & Shop to buy food that Abigail had requested (“She’s a vegan now and only eats plant stuff,” he’d said), and then to go home and get ready to go back to work, Lottie called to say Annie could use the fire station’s meeting room—as long as she didn’t mention it to anyone. Lottie’s husband, Joe, would be there that afternoon if Annie wanted to check it out.

  Grabbing her laptop, phone, and purse from the cottage, Annie decided she might as well go and test the Wi-Fi connection. Being able to search for things—including proper spellings
—had become an important time-saver as it meant she could write a draft that was close to a final version. With everything else she had to do, there would be little time to “lollygag.” She loved that old-fashioned word; she’d often used it to round up her third-graders and get them indoors after recess because it made them laugh. Annie missed teaching sometimes, missed being a pseudo-parent for six or more hours a day. Pseudo, not like John, who was a real dad twenty-four seven. But Annie knew that he was trying. She also knew he would put forth his best effort to be a good husband, too. One day. Soon.

  Before heading out, she dashed into the Inn to see when the sisters from Indiana would be arriving, and to ask if Francine needed help revamping her room for Simon’s assistant.

  Francine was upstairs, putting a downy white comforter on the twin bed Bella used in their special room. In order to make it toddler-safe, Earl and Kevin had moved the frame and headboard into the storage room and set the box spring and mattress on the floor. Francine had dressed it with bedding that was identical to what she had on her bed—and Bella loved it. But now, with the frame and headboard in place, and Bella’s toys and dolls evacuated to the storage closet, it looked like a room for grown-ups.

  Annie set down her things and helped make the bed. “Did you put the frame and headboard back together by yourself?”

  Francine laughed. “Men are like cops. There’s never one around when you really need one.”

  “I won’t tell John you said that. But you could have called me.”

  “Don’t worry, I haven’t turned into a martyr. Lucy helped. We also made more muffins and put them in the freezer in case of emergency.” Francine looked happy, almost radiant; Annie sensed that, these days, life was agreeing with her.

  “Where’s Lucy now?”

  “She rode her bike to Earl and Claire’s.”

  “Ah, yes,” Annie replied. “Like many of us, she’s in need of some major distraction.”

  “Loo–see,” Bella mimicked from her seat on a tiny stool at her very own table (Earl’s wood crafting again) that would soon go into the closet, too. She was drawing colorful lines and squiggles on pieces of cardboard that looked as if they’d come from cartons of supplies sent to the Inn. Clever and conscientious, Francine recycled the shipping material after Bella had repurposed it for artwork.

  “Fow-ers,” Bella said next and held out her masterpiece for Annie to admire.

  “Very pretty!” Annie exclaimed. “They look like the flowers at Gramma Claire’s.”

  Bella’s large dark eyes—that mirrored Francine’s—widened as she studied the picture. Then she started to draw something purple.

  “I think Bella and I should go to Jonas’s tonight,” Francine said. “Now that the room’s clean for Simon’s assistant, I’d rather not mess it up again.”

  “Good thinking. I’ll be here in case anyone needs anything. We could risk leaving the Inn alone for one night, but with the sisters arriving . . .”

  “But,” Francine interrupted, “the sisters have landed, and they might need help with who knows what. And Ms. Mullen’s only been here a couple of days so . . .” Her words trailed off as she smoothed the comforter, plumped powder blue and lavender pillows, and then, lowering her voice, said, “Which reminds me, there’s something odd about her.”

  “Mary Beth?” Annie said. “Her first name is Mary Beth.”

  “Yeah, well, she makes me nervous, so I don’t care about being on a first-name basis. I really think that something strange is going on with her.”

  “What do you mean? She acts fine to me.”

  “When I was cleaning her room this morning, I came across a bunch of library books.”

  “So?”

  “They were about turtles. The leatherbacks. The kind she said she’s researching.”

  “People use library books for research. What’s odd about that?”

  Francine shook her head. “They were children’s books.”

  Annie scowled. “What?”

  “Children’s books. Picture books, actually. If she’s a scientist, why the heck does she want those? Doesn’t she already know the stuff that’s in them? And if she works at the marine lab, why isn’t she staying at their housing? Don’t they have housing here for researchers?”

  Annie refrained from saying she’d wondered the same thing. “The truth is, she doesn’t work there yet. She’s hoping that her research will help her land a job.”

  “Really? Well, that raises the weird factor even higher. How is she going to get a job at a science-y place like that by reading kids’ books?” Adjusting the pillows so the bed looked tended to by a professional decorator, she added, “Like I said, it’s odd. Or maybe I’m taking it personally that she doesn’t join us for breakfast.”

  Annie tried to recall if Mary Beth had said or done anything that could be construed as “odd.” After all, the night before when they’d been at The Wharf, if either of them had acted strangely, it had been Annie. “I had dinner with her last night, and honestly, she was okay.”

  Francine shrugged. “Forget it. I’m overreacting, that’s all.”

  But Annie pressed on. “Maybe she doesn’t want a job at all. Maybe she’s trying to write a children’s book about turtles, too. Maybe she didn’t want to tell us because, well, because she didn’t want us to think she was going to impose on me for advice on how to get published. Not that I’d have a clue.”

  “Yeah. I suppose that’s possible.”

  Francine then placed a bar of Annie’s honey-and-sunflower soap in one of the large oyster shells that Annie had collected on South Beach, then cleaned and varnished and set on the vanity in each guest room bath. Though Francine didn’t mention Ms. Mullen or the turtle books again, Annie couldn’t shake the feeling that, with all the guests they had welcomed over the summer, it was the first time she’d heard Francine complain about anyone.

  * * *

  Lottie’s husband, Joe, was a volunteer firefighter, a Chappy Ferry captain, and a guard at Wasque Point in summer. It was no surprise that, though Annie hadn’t known his name, she recognized the barrel-chested, ruddy-cheeked, smiling man as one of the many unsung people who made Chappaquiddick run.

  After Annie left Francine, she’d gone straight to the station to see if it would make a sufficient temporary office for her displacement from the Inn. Joe let her in the side door of the white-cedar-shingled station that featured three tall bays, and, as Earl had once told her, was a “giant hook-and-ladder step up” from the single-bay garage that had been upgraded some fifteen years earlier. Annie wasn’t convinced his description made much sense as the equipment wouldn’t have needed to be big (there were no high-rises on Chappy), but she understood the gist.

  “Happy to accommodate you,” Joe said once they were in a large room where a small truck and a rescue boat were anchored. “My wife’s a big fan of your books.”

  That was news to Annie. It was also part of what she loved about the island—almost all of her readers who lived there allowed her to blend into the scrub oaks and be as anonymous as she wanted.

  “Lottie says you need Wi-Fi. Not many people know it, but we get great reception here.”

  Annie decided to take his word for that. If she said she’d like to test it, he might be insulted.

  He gestured for her to follow him past the vehicles to an open room.

  Several folding chairs rimmed the space; an eight-foot table sat in the center; an easy chair was tucked in a corner. A small kitchen was on one side; restrooms were on the other.

  “All the comforts of home,” he said, “without kids, dogs, or chickens. Not that you ever have to worry about any of those.” He chuckled the same way Earl often chuckled, as if it were a trademark of Chappy. “You think that brother of yours is ever coming back?”

  His question startled her. “I certainly hope so.”

  “Now that your inn’s done . . . and what with Taylor gone . . . there’s been talk about trying to get Kevin to help out with the rescue t
eam.”

  “Thanks, Joe. I’ll mention it to him.” If I ever see him again, she was tempted to add.

  “’Course, you all have had a lot on your plate. Starting up the place and being full most of the summer. Lottie said she saw Earl the other day, and he’s looking a mite haggard. The man loves to work, but, like the rest of us, I ’spect he’s getting up there.”

  Annie was stunned. Was Earl “looking a mite haggard”? If so, why hadn’t she noticed? Maybe they—she—had been expecting too much from a seventy-five-year-old man . . . who was about to sleep on a plywood floor for ten nights.

  Clearing her throat, she said, “None of us is getting younger, for sure. I guess staying active keeps us going.” She hoped she didn’t sound annoyed. “Anyway, thanks for helping me out of a jam. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Ought to be a busy week for you. What with your special guest arriving.”

  Once again, Annie was amazed at how quickly news was broadcast around the island, no matter how hard one tried to keep a secret.

  “Here’s hoping Mr. Anderson’s visit won’t trigger any ambulance runs to your place,” Joe added. “We’ve enjoyed the peace and quiet over there these past few months.” He chuckled again and led her to the side door.

  Annie laughed, but wished he hadn’t said that. She wasn’t ordinarily superstitious, but . . .

  She decided not to think about it and followed Lottie’s husband back outside.

  * * *

  It wasn’t going to work. Annie sat in the Jeep that she’d parked on the clamshell driveway once she was back at the Inn. From there she could see two gray-haired ladies on the patio chatting with the young honeymooners, all of whom were drinking what looked like lemonade, all gazing toward the harbor and the sailboats and the lighthouse and its beacon that blinked red every sixty seconds. From where she sat, she could tell that the conversation was upbeat, the pleasant white noise of summer vacation.

  But Annie wasn’t on vacation; this was her life. And she knew that her plan to focus on her book promotions, at the exclusion of her other responsibilities, simply would not work. Not this week, anyway, which promised to be as busy as the week of the Fourth of July, with its pulse set to quicken the next day when Simon arrived. He and his assistant (whoever it was) would total seven guests, with the honeymoon couple, Mary Beth Mullen, and the Indiana sisters. Adding the four year-round tenants—two singles and one couple—the count increased to eleven people who’d be depending on Francine by day and Earl by night—both of whom, of course, must be worn out by now. Annie wished she’d paid closer attention to the state of their well-being. And as upset as she was about Kevin having taken off, she suddenly realized that she hadn’t been carrying her share of the load, either; she’d selfishly expected that the place would run smoothly with her barely lifting a finger.