A Vineyard Crossing

by Jean Stone

  “John . . . please . . . it isn’t like that . . .”

  “Okay,” he said. “Then let’s look at it from my viewpoint. Step one: With all the places on the island, why did the illustrious Simon Anderson pick the Inn as the place to bed down?” Then his breaths became choppy and his words stuttered out. “Did he interview you for one of your books? Did he think it would be cool to do an exposé on a celebrity who actually lives on our supposedly cushy little island? Or . . . is he someone else from your . . . checkered past?”

  He was clearly referring to an unfortunate incident that had happened in the spring, when an unwanted demon from Annie’s past had showed up at her door. She wondered if John would always be jealous, and, if so, how she should handle it when he seemed convinced that he’d been betrayed. Should she get defensive? Should she cry? Trying to pull her thoughts together, she wanted to say she had no more clues about this photo than he did. Or that she’d only met Simon Anderson two days ago.

  But as she started to speak, John huffed. “I’m going to go before you say something I don’t want to hear.” Then he bolted out the door and clomped back down the stairs, one clomp at a time.

  Then Annie had another thought: While it was clear to her—and apparently to all of social media—that Simon’s face looked snuggled on her neck, his assistant, Bill, was not in the picture. Nor had she seen him in the brief few seconds that the episode had lasted. Had he been lurking in the crowd with a telephoto lens, waiting for the chance to snap the photo? Had this been a setup? And if so, for God’s sake, why?

  * * *

  Annie took a long, hot shower because she didn’t know what else to do. But standing under the steamy water didn’t stop the questions from swirling. She dried her hair and dressed in a pale green T-shirt and white capris, but didn’t want to go anywhere. Though Francine would arrive soon to start breakfast, Annie did not want to see anyone, talk to anyone, be on stage. So she changed back into her pajamas, went back upstairs to the plywood floor, and crawled back into the sleeping bag, doubting that she’d fall sleep.

  Staring at her laptop that rested on the chair where she’d draped her clothes from yesterday, she couldn’t bring herself to look at VineyardInsiders again. Her only hope was that by eight or nine o’clock, other gossip would have flooded the site so the image of her in the supposed intimate moment would be emasculated by time. And hopefully lack of interest. But she knew enough to know that there would be comments followed by comments about the comments and so on and so on, bumping it back to the top. Annie had never been sure how the “thread” of online conversation technically worked; that was her publicist’s job. She wondered if anyone could make it go away.

  Could Lucy?

  John’s daughter had proved her expertise at dispensing with previous social media entanglements. But was she angry with Annie, too—so angry that she wouldn’t try? Then again, maybe Annie should leave her alone and not put her in the position of having her emotions pulled between loyalty to her dad and friendship with Annie. Especially when Annie knew who would win.

  Trying to ease the sensation that a fish bone was stuck in her gullet, she closed her eyes. But all she saw was a vision of John standing in her doorway, angry and accusing, not waiting for an explanation, as if it were too late for one.

  It reminded her of her friend Lauren DelNardi, when they’d been in the fourth grade. The day before Valentine’s Day, Annie’s mother had made her stay home with a cold. Lauren had stopped by after school; Annie showed her the sugar cookies with dollops of strawberry jam—Annie’s favorites—that her mother made for the class party the next day. But Lauren said that their teacher, Mrs. Landry, had announced that no one was to in bring cookies or cakes because everyone in school was getting fat. And there would be no valentine cards, either, because they were too old for that immature tradition.

  When Annie arrived at school in the morning, Mrs. Landry greeted each student at the door and accepted sweet treats that mothers had made, and she displayed them on a long table that the kids had decorated with red heart-shaped doilies. Annie shook her head and murmured that she hadn’t brought anything. Even worse, when she got to her desk, it was piled with valentines from the other kids.

  Annie felt sick. “Did you lie to me?” she asked Lauren.

  But Lauren giggled and said Annie should have known it was a joke—after all, Annie was the smartest one in the class, wasn’t she? A boy who Annie liked overheard the conversation; he and Lauren exchanged smirks.

  Back home, Annie and her mom and dad ate the valentine cookies every night for dessert until they were stale. Her mother threw the rest out.

  And though Annie stopped being friends with Lauren, she was left feeling hollow and alone.

  She felt that way now. The man who was going to be her husband—unless he’d changed his mind—had been more pissed over the gossip about him and the fact that his daughter had showed him, than he was interested in learning the truth. Or in trusting her. It was as if he, too, had betrayed her—not the way Lauren had, but it left Annie with the same kind of desolate feeling.

  Then another question started to simmer: If John was this upset about a frivolous photo that had been neither her doing nor her fault, what would happen when she wrote more books and gained more visibility? How would he react about whatever inaccurate gossip might blossom from that?

  She sat up as a lone question formed: Was this marriage meant to be? Would it prevent Annie from being her own person, having her own career, at the risk of John becoming jealous when it was unfounded? And why hadn’t it occurred to her earlier that living on the Vineyard wouldn’t protect her from that kind of nonsense?

  She hung her head. She felt deflated and defeated, all because she’d wanted to have fun while getting to know Meghan better. She couldn’t, of course, explain that to John because of her promise. Right then, however, she didn’t think he’d listen, anyway.

  Then Annie thought about Earl. He would no doubt be at the Inn early that morning. But Earl was patient; he was fair. He would want to know how the photo came to be. He would listen to Annie’s side of the story and maybe later try to talk some sense into his son.

  But right then Annie didn’t feel like talking to him, either.

  Claire would take John’s side because, first and foremost, she was his mother. She might confront him in private, but she’d defend him in public, because that was what mothers did.

  If Kevin were there, Annie could have talked to him, asked for his advice. But even if he came home tomorrow, he’d be too busy with his own predicament: Meghan.

  Annie knew she had to think this through, talk this through, with someone. It was her mess and hers alone, no matter that she hadn’t asked for it. As with what Lauren had done to her, whoever had snapped the photo and posted it likely had wanted to be vindictive toward Annie. Or maybe Simon. Or John. But the “why” was as elusive as the “who.”

  Murphy might have chimed in with a plausible guess, but she’d always been a late sleeper.

  Annie knew that though this was a totally crazy week all over the island, there was only one person she could speak to. So she climbed out of the sleeping bag again, put her clothes back on, skimmed a brush through her hair, and headed down the stairs for the long drive up island to Winnie’s.

  Chapter 14

  It was opening day of the annual Ag Fair, now in its 159th gathering, having been shuttered only once during World War II and again in the COVID-19 pandemic. The traffic on West Tisbury Road was bumper-to-bumper; many of the vehicles towed horse trailers or were small open trucks that were carrying pigs or alpacas. Annie supposed that the Ferris wheel, the Scrambler, and other amusement rides had already arrived along with a raft of food trucks, as had the crafts and produce displays, the 4-H exhibits, and much more.

  The first year Annie had gone she’d had a booth in the hall where she’d offered her wonderful soaps that Winnie taught her to make. Since then, Annie loved participating in the fair and lots o
f festivals, but though she’d had high hopes, she hadn’t been able to participate in any events since the Inn had opened; there had been little time to devote to her hobby. After the book tour she’d have to finish her manuscript-in-progress, but maybe there would be time to make enough soap for the Christmas Fair. It’s not as if she might be busy doing other things, like making wedding plans.

  As the vehicles inched toward State Road, Annie suddenly slammed on her brakes. Winnie! she thought. Winnie wouldn’t be up island—she’d be at the fair. She’d be showing and selling her lovely pottery that she made from the clay of the Gay Head Cliffs and her special wampum jewelry that she buffed and carved out of purple-and-white quahog shells that were indigenous to the Vineyard. Though wampum was still found exclusively on its shores, a few renegade pieces sometimes washed in with the tide on Cape Cod or Rhode Island.

  Luckily, the car behind Annie had been paying attention and Annie’s Jeep wasn’t rear-ended.

  When she finally reached State Road, she turned right toward the fairgrounds instead of left toward Aquinnah. Winnie might be too busy to talk, but at least Annie would be assured of a big hug, which she needed more than anything.

  By the time she parked in the dirt-packed lot and walked toward the Ag Hall, the fair was in full swing, the air was filled with the sounds of music and people and life, mixed with the country scents of farm animals that somehow pleasantly mingled with those of fried dough and clam fritters. All of which served to remind Annie that no matter what, time would pass, as would this latest crisis, and that being on the island remained far preferable to living in Boston.

  Inside the cavernous building, a large crowd milled in unison like the sheep outside that were patiently waiting to show off their bounty in a shearing demonstration. Weaving around the browsers and shoppers, waving at familiar faces, Annie couldn’t help but wonder how many of them had seen VineyardInsiders. Was there a chance they had but didn’t care?

  Dream on, she thought.

  She passed a booth of gorgeous handwoven shawls, passed the lavender lady who showed pouches and silk pillows filled with her homegrown buds, and passed rows of artful cloth handbags made by a young woman who did not look much older than Lucy.

  Then she spotted a girl with blond-highlighted hair pinned on top of her head. She was standing in a booth across the aisle, thumbing through what Annie recognized as Sue Freshette’s array of hand-painted long skirts and shawls—Annie knew Sue from artisan festival meetings. But Sue’s work wasn’t the only thing Annie recognized: though she hadn’t seen the girl in over a year, she was sure that it was Abigail.

  For a few seconds, it seemed that someone had hit the pause button in the Ag Hall, giving Annie the chance to study her not-yet-stepdaughter. She was a pretty girl, softer-looking than Lucy, perhaps because she was older. From this vantage point, she didn’t resemble her sister, though maybe her grandmother Claire. Mixed in with Jenn.

  Annie wondered if she had the courage to approach her. Perhaps there, on neutral ground, she could come straight out and ask if Abigail had taken the photo, and if she had, what on earth had been her intention? Annie would do her best not to be menacing . . . to try and act as if she were interested for no special reason—no big deal. Maybe she could make a joke about it.

  “Thanks for helping to boost my book sales!” she could say while flashing a big smile. “Some people might think I put you up to it!” Ha ha.

  She could then suggest that they do lunch one of these days.

  The muffled laughter that came from the high-pitched ceiling could only have been Murphy’s.

  Then Annie saw Abigail hold up a shawl that was woven with thin abstract ribbons in soft shades of green that made it look like beach grass. It was a lovely item; it appeared that Abigail made good choices in clothing if not always in actions. But as she reached to hand the shawl to the artist, Abigail’s body shifted; if she raised her head, they would come eye to eye. Annie ducked behind a row of handbags as if she were a private detective who’d nearly been caught stalking her prey. Or more like a preschooler with her hand in that elusive cookie jar. And, Annie realized, about as mature. So she gingerly peered round the corner and saw that Abigail was examining a skirt that was painted in shades of gold like fields of hay waiting to be reaped in West Tisbury or Chilmark.

  “May I help you?”

  Annie jumped. She turned and looked—dumbfounded, she knew—at the young woman in the booth where Annie stood, the one who did not look much older than Lucy.

  “Are you interested in a particular bag?”

  Glancing around, Annie regained her bearings. Right, she thought. She was standing amid a sea of handbags.

  “Yes,” she said, grabbing the first one she spotted. It was made of linen-colored canvas and was adorned with a number of felt flip-flops, most of which had seashells and rhinestones glued onto them. Annie supposed that the third-grade girls she’d once taught would have loved it, especially with the glittery magenta words “Martha’s Vineyard” that danced across the top and stood out like tourists up at the cliffs, binoculars and cameras dangling from iridescent cords around their necks. Like glow necklaces, she thought. She quickly plucked the bag from the peg. “This is lovely. How much?”

  “Sixty-five.”

  Annie nodded as if she were considering it.

  Then the girl said, “I know you, don’t I? Aren’t you Lucy Lyons’s friend? Lucy and I are in the same grade. You came to school last year and talked to us about writing, didn’t you?”

  So, of course, Annie melted. “I did,” she said, trying to keep her voice low. “It was a lot of fun.”

  The girl nodded. “Artists like us have to stick together, right?”

  Annie wasn’t sure what the girl meant, but in any event she fished into her purse and handed over her debit card.

  But as the girl rang up the sale, Annie felt an eerie shadow brush past her, leaving a slight chill in its wake. She shivered; she glanced over to Sue Freshette’s booth but did not see Abigail. If the shadow had been her, and if she’d seen Annie, she hadn’t bothered to stop and say hello.

  * * *

  Annie walked away from the handbag booth, toting a paper bag that held her purchase.

  “Annie!” Thank goodness, the voice that called her name was cheerful and familiar.

  Whirling around, Annie stepped right into Winnie’s hug. Oh. Yes. She had really, really needed that. By the time she pulled away, tears welled in her eyes.

  Winnie frowned. “Let’s go outside. Barbara’s person-ing my booth, and I need fresh air.” Barbara was Winnie’s sister-in-law, part of the “tribe” who lived under Winnie’s roof. She was also a nurse who worked at the hospital, but when it came to the fair, it was all hands on deck to manage Winnie’s popular creations.

  They went outside; Winnie led her to a quiet picnic table in the shade.

  “So here we are at the fair. Again,” Winnie said.

  “How are you?” Annie asked. “It’s hard to believe that summer’s almost gone. How was yours?”

  “Busy. The usual. Things going well at the Inn?”

  “We’ve been booked almost every night. It’s been great.” She knew that sooner or later they’d dispense with small talk and get down to what mattered. The elephant in the room that loomed larger than the draught horses on display in the Ag Fair’s back corral.

  “Until now?” Winnie asked.

  Annie’s lower lip started to quiver. “I haven’t seen you in weeks and you can still read my mind.”

  “I can also read the internet.”

  Of course Winnie knew. By now, everyone on the damn Vineyard did. Closing her eyes, Annie dropped her head. “I have no idea what happened. Simon Anderson is staying at the Inn. I ran into him last night at the Tabernacle. He put a glow necklace around my neck and wandered off into the swarm of colored lights. And, suddenly, I’m a pariah. John is furious. But he didn’t give me a chance to explain. It was nothing. Simon clasped the necklace, then he
went his way, I went mine. End of story.”

  “But someone snapped a picture.”

  “And posted it on that god-awful site.”

  “Was it a publicity stunt for him?”

  “But why on earth with me?”

  “You’re not exactly a nobody, Annie.”

  Annie laughed. “Compared to him? Come on, Winnie. Most readers who like my books might recognize my name. Period.”

  “Has he had any bad press recently? Has his reputation been tarnished? You’re an attractive, successful woman, Annie. It might help his career if people think he’s connected to you.” Winnie spoke so fast she must have been thinking about this before Annie had run into her.

  “Seriously? Thanks for the compliment, but I’m sure Simon Anderson can have his pick of ladies who are way more attractive and much more successful.”

  When Winnie smiled, her teeth showed bright white against her copper skin. “Apparently your John does not agree.”

  Annie groaned. “My John, as you call him, is not being rational.”

  “In that case, forget about him. He’ll come around. Right now, it might be more important for you to talk to Simon. See if he knows who’s behind it. Let him know it’s disrupted your life. Maybe he does not understand what a tight-knit place the island is. And that most of us don’t care for the kind of gossip that hurts one of our own.”

  Staring off into the mass of fairgoers, Annie knew that, as much as she loved the womb of the Vineyard, sometimes it was easier to live in the city, where she could walk the streets, go shopping, or have fun, all while remaining anonymous. Where I can get lost in the crowd, she thought.

  Then Winnie’s sister-in-law appeared; she was holding one of Winnie’s large, beautiful bowls and said a customer wanted to talk with her about it. So Annie’s visit was cut short, but it was okay. She’d heard enough on the subject of Simon Anderson to help her carry on. So she thanked Winnie, got another hug, then headed toward the parking lot.