by Jean Stone
“I did,” she replied as she caught up with her. “And Simon is looking for you.”
Her face contorted. “He is?”
“He remembered about your interest in leatherbacks. If he had a rental car yet, he’d have gotten here first.”
“And brought his cameraman.”
“I guess.”
Meghan glanced toward the bridge, then back to Annie, and braced herself as if preparing to flee. “Is he on his way?”
“I have no idea.”
She looked back at the bridge. “The Trustees won’t let us cross to the beach until they’ve cordoned off where she is. They said she’s alive, but badly entangled. They want to free her without scaring her.” The Trustees of the Reservations were part of the state organization that oversaw much of the protected land and all that entailed.
“You want to see her?”
She nodded. “Sure. They really are fascinating creatures.”
“Agreed. And don’t worry. I’ll keep an eye out for our friends. If they show up with a camera, I’ll make sure they aim elsewhere. Though I bet they already know that.”
“And we can take off if we need to?”
“Of course.”
Then one of the Trustees announced that it was okay to cross the bridge now. “Please stay outside the taped area,” he added. “We still don’t know how badly she’s hurt or how long it will take to free her.”
Annie and Meghan lagged behind the string of onlookers over Dike Bridge. As they crossed the portable walkway toward the beach, Annie frequently looked back, trying not to worry that Simon—crack journalist that he was—would figure out that Meghan was hiding her identity. And had a backstory that might be newsworthy.
As the boardwalk ended and they stepped onto the white sand, Annie knew that all this secrecy was exhausting. And unhealthy. She wondered if she should at least tell Meghan that she’d called Kevin and urged him to come home.
* * *
The turtle—“Let’s call her Tillie,” one of the thirty or so bystanders said—was entangled in what looked like plastic bubble wrap.
“She was spotted by the vigilant crew of a sailboat while she was thrashing in fairly deep water,” the US Coast Guard representative said. “They called the Center for Coastal Studies in Provincetown and relayed the coordinates. The Center provides training in rescuing sea mammals to a team at the natural resources department of the Wampanoag tribe. They’re out there in the rescue boat right now.” He pointed to a small craft about twenty yards from shore. A woman and a man leaned over one edge close to the turtle; another man balanced the boat. The trio was working in precision, while the struggling mammal flipped and flopped in quick splashes.
“She’s trying to free herself,” the representative continued. “She doesn’t understand that if she stayed still, she’d be free faster.” His words were wistful as if he were worried. Then he turned back to the group. “The sailors who called in the alert gave her a wide berth and circled the area until the rescue team arrived. For any of you boaters, please note that this was perfect protocol. Sea turtles are common around here at this time of year, and we all need to watch out for them.” He asked if there were questions, but the onlookers seemed immersed in the activity, waiting for Tillie to swim off and rejoin the others in her bale—a word Annie knew described a group of turtles, like a murder of crows or a pod of seals, both of which she’d seen on Chappaquiddick.
As the leatherback continued to thrash, Annie wondered if Meghan had felt trapped while she’d been recuperating: a prisoner in her surroundings, at the mercy of strangers, not always aware of her circumstance but knowing that her world had been turned upside down.
“Sea turtles have existed well over a hundred million years,” Meghan whispered to Annie now. “Most don’t make it to adulthood, but if they do, imagine the perils they’ve had to endure: weather events and climate changes; prey like killer whales and some sharks. They’re the real survivors of life.”
Annie wondered if that explained a large part of her interest in them. “You’re a survivor, too,” she said. Then, with their eyes fixed on the rescue, Annie touched Meghan’s shoulder and said, “I called Kevin.”
Meghan didn’t move; she didn’t even blink.
“I didn’t tell him you’re here,” Annie continued. “But I asked him to come home.”
Meghan folded her arms, her eyes still staring straight ahead. “What did he say?”
Annie had thought it would be easier to tell her while they watched the rescue crew murmur soothing tones as they struggled to hold onto their patient while they clipped sheets of plastic away as waves were dancing around them; that way, Annie could focus on what was going on in the water and not have to look Meghan in the eye. “He didn’t say much. I told him he was shirking his responsibilities at the Inn, or words to that effect. I told him we needed him. Urgently. I guess he thought I was overreacting, because he called Earl and said I was losing my mind.”
Meghan laughed. “I can picture him saying that.”
Annie linked her arm through her sister-in-law’s. “Won’t you reconsider talking to him? Rather than taking a chance that he’ll find out some other way? Just by virtue of you being here, your beautiful face could pop up on the internet. Simon is only one person—we have no way of knowing or controlling what our other guests post—or where.”
Before Meghan answered, a boisterous “Woo-hoo!” rose up from the rescuers; one of them brandished a length of gnarled plastic—proof of human negligence imposed upon the sea. “Go, baby!” he shouted toward the turtle, and the crowd applauded as Tillie splashed again, then dove below the surface and disappeared beneath a rolling wave.
Annie put her hand to her heart. “Wonderful,” she said.
“Beautiful,” Meghan added. Then she turned to Annie. “I appreciate your efforts, but I can’t talk to Kevin. If he knows I’m well and that I’m here, he might not survive the flight. It’s a long trip from there to here; trust me, he’d be a basket case.”
One of the rescuers shouted to the Coast Guard that he’d seen the turtle resurface and head out to deeper water. He started his small craft engine and, with signals from the crew, he carefully steered away, southwest toward Aquinnah. The crowd applauded again, then slowly headed back toward the footbridge.
Meghan started to follow; Annie quickly caught up. “I’m sorry, Meghan. I only want both of you to be happy . . .”
But Meghan shielded her eyes from the sun and shook her head. “I know you do. But right now one of my headaches is coming on, so I need to get back to the Inn and rest.” She traversed the boardwalk again, that time with her head bent, watching every step. “I know you want things to be different,” she continued, “but not every story has a happy ending, Annie. Not everyone is like the turtle that got unstuck today and hopefully went back to her happy life. You might not know it, but Kevin is afraid of flying. In fact, he hyperventilates. Which made it hard for us to get work out of the Boston area. And now it tells me that he must really have wanted to see that woman to have screwed up his courage and flown all the way out there.”
They traveled the short distance back to the Inn in silence.
* * *
John was on the patio, his sullen demeanor suggesting that a warm greeting wasn’t going to be in store. Annie wondered if this day could get any more complex: the highs, the lows, the damn crosscurrents of it all. Meghan uttered a meek hello, made a limp excuse about going upstairs, and ducked inside. Annie wished that she, too, could claim a headache as a reason to avoid him.
“Hey,” she said, offering a tight grin, an act of “bucking up,” that she’d taught herself about a hundred years ago. “What brings you to Chappy?” It was an asinine question, seeing as how both his parents and his fiancé—her—lived and worked there.
At first, he did not reply.
Annie sat across from him on the rim of a stone planter that was packed with tall, orange day lilies that were bowing in the breeze. “W
hat’s up?” she asked.
He closed his pearl-gray eyes. “I need a break.”
She didn’t know if that meant he needed a break as in a vacation from the chaos of August and the pressures of his job, or from his daughters and their squabbling, or from . . . her. Her heart, however, expected the worst, as hearts often do.
“Care to elaborate?” Her pulse quickened.
Opening his eyes, he looked toward the harbor and the lighthouse and the August panorama of sailboats in the distance and kayaks being paddled close to shore.
“I never thought of myself as someone who crumbles easily,” he said. “But now, I feel like I’m crumbling. I’m overloaded with too much responsibility, too many hassles. I’m trying to please too many people. And I’m not doing a good job at any of it.”
“How can I help?”
He stood up, his height, his strength, his virility more visible than when he’d been sitting down, yet his body, his person looked sapped. Tapped out. Done.
“John . . .” Annie said as she stood up and took a step toward him.
He held up one palm, a barrier. “I need a break from us.”
She supposed she should have seen it coming. The hours, the days, the nights that they’d been forced to be apart all summer; the addition of Abigail—and the sly insertion of the girl’s disturbing statement to Annie—tossed into the lobster pot of their relationship; and Simon. Simon Anderson and that stupid picture.
But Annie had not seen it coming. Earl had told her that his son could be ornery. “Give him time to cool down,” he’d said. It had been two and a half days since John had stomped up the stairs in the workshop and practically accused her of fooling around with Simon. If either of them should be angry, Annie thought it should be her.
But instead of being angry now, she felt a cold, gripping sensation enfold her chest, as if the air was being squeezed out of her lungs.
He ran his hand through the season’s buzz-cut of his hair. “I can’t do this right now. I can’t do us right now. I’m sorry.” He turned and walked from the patio, his footsteps crunching on the clamshell driveway. He was out of sight by then, most likely walking to the On Time, as Annie had not seen his truck.
She knew she could easily catch up with him. She could say that she’d give him all the space, all the time he needed. She could ask him not to leave her, not to be hasty. She could beg him to come back.
But as Annie stood, motionless, on the beautiful patio of the beautiful Inn that she and Kevin and Earl had fought hard to make happen, all Annie could think of was maybe John was right. Maybe they only worked as a couple when it was off season and fewer people were around and there were fewer distractions, fewer chances to screw up a loving relationship. Maybe they weren’t made to be together for more than eight or nine months in a year.
She waited, hoping to hear a reassuring word or two from Murphy. But the only sounds were the soft cry of a gull, the distant hum of motorboats, and a haunting echo of Meghan’s words: “Not every story has a happy ending.”
Chapter 20
Whoever controlled the weather had painted a perfect Vineyard evening. As the group maneuvered along the winding path that was bordered by fragrant pink beach roses and tall grasses that swung ever so slightly as they brushed past, Annie was thankful that it was still summer and she had so many people and obligations. There still were a few weeks left of guests coming and going and needing attention; her book tour would follow. By the time she stopped being busy, busy, busy, maybe the fact that she’d come close to marrying John would be a distant memory.
At least she wouldn’t have a chance to spend the next several weeks in isolation, curled up in a sleeping bag, feeling sorry for herself as she’d done the rest of that afternoon.
Pushing aside a lock of hair that grazed her cheek, Annie was determined to concentrate on the people around her and not on John. Or Kevin. Or Donna, Annie’s birth mother, whom she missed more than she could have imagined. But she knew that dwelling on them would only make things harder. Besides, Annie was truly grateful for tonight’s fireworks and this year’s additions to their party: the tenants (except for Harlin, who had a gig in OB with his mariachi band), the guests (despite that she could have managed nicely without Simon’s presence), Lucy’s new friend, Kyle (who was shy but sweet), and, mostly, Meghan. Annie was both surprised and pleased that Meghan hadn’t backed out of going to the celebration. Best of all, no one—not Earl, Claire, or Lucy—seemed to know about John’s split from Annie.
She tottered behind her sister-in-law now; both were laden with food baskets and blankets. The tenants carried watermelons—their unexpected contribution. Simon had insisted on supplying the beverages, some with alcohol, some without. He hadn’t said that he didn’t imbibe, but whenever Annie had seen him during the week he was drinking plain seltzer. Perhaps his sins moved in other directions, like sparking gossip and then lying about it.
Earl spotted a perfect area that was large enough for the group without anyone being able, as he said, “to kick sand in somebody’s face.” Annie distributed blankets, then sat next to Meghan. Francine, Jonas, and Bella joined them, as did Earl and Claire, and then Lucy and Kyle. Annie wondered if they’d all crowded around her so Simon couldn’t get too close. He and Bill had come over from Chappy with the sisters from Indiana, who for sure would return home with lavish tales for their friends and neighbors.
The group ate heartily and exchanged conversation from blanket to blanket. After dimple-cheeked, adorable Kyle had apparently consumed his fill that included two of Lucy’s giant cookies, his shyness took a marvelous turn when he brought out a fiddle and revved up the party: Earl got up and did a surprisingly good imitation of an Irish jig with Claire; Jonas and Francine laughed and applauded, and then joined them. Everyone applauded, encouraging the young fiddler and the dancers.
“We’ll keep you in mind for our next party!” Earl called out when he announced that he was “pooped” and plunked back down on the blanket. “Jonas, if your mother ever comes back, they’d make a great duo—Kyle on fiddle and her on cello. What d’ya’ think?” It was a nonchalant reference to Taylor’s early years in Boston, first at Berklee College, and then playing cello with the symphony.
Jonas laughed. “I’ll be sure to tell her.”
Annie glanced at Megan whose eyes were now fixed on the blanket.
Then Francine scooped up Bella and showed her how to dance. “We don’t know if Taylor will ever come back,” she said. “Unless it’s with Kevin. Then we could have an outstanding party!”
The merriment continued, with everyone but Annie seemingly unaware that Meghan was sitting very still.
Annie leaned over to her and said, “Hey. How about a walk on the beach before the fireworks start?”
Claire had already packed up the leftovers, so Annie and Meghan bagged the trash, stored it in the back of the Jeep, then went down to the water. Once out of range of the others, Annie said, “I’m so sorry, Meghan. I wish you hadn’t heard that.”
Meghan shrugged. “Facts are facts, aren’t they?” She put her hands in the pockets of her jeans, and kept her gaze fixed on the horizon as it tiptoed toward twilight. “I wonder what will happen if Kevin decides to appease you and comes back . . . with her. That would be a mess, wouldn’t it?”
Annie did not know how to answer.
“It’s funny, though,” Meghan added, “It honestly never occurred to me that he’d be involved with someone else. But why wouldn’t he? It’s been years . . . and he is a loving, terrific man. Lots of women would want him.” She pulled in a deep breath, then puffed her cheeks and slowly let it out. “I never thought I was a foolish woman, but I should have known better.”
Wishing she could tell Meghan that she was wrong, that Kevin would absolutely dump Taylor and come back to her if he knew that she’d recovered, Annie could not promise that. She couldn’t manage her own love life, never mind her brother’s. So instead of giving false hope, she simply said, “Yo
u don’t know what’s going on with them. I’m not convinced that he does, either.”
They walked on the beach until they reached a section that was posted as private property; they stood for a minute, looking up at the stars now sprinkled across a few small remnants of sunset.
“He loved me,” Meghan said.
“I know,” Annie whispered.
Then Meghan lowered her voice. “I have to go back to Boston. I have to start over without him.”
Annie hadn’t expected that. “But how can you? Where will you live? What will you do?”
“I’ll be able to stay with my dad and stepmother until I find somewhere to live. Ogre that my stepmother is, I can’t believe that she won’t let me. And I’ll get a job. I’m not sure what I’ll do, but I’m itching to get involved in the working world again.”
“And what about my brother?”
“All I know is I can’t keep pretending. I’ll need to use the trust until I’m on my feet again. I don’t think Kevin will mind—after all, he never thought he’d see any of that money again.”
Annie didn’t want to get involved in their financial doings, either. So she reached for Meghan’s hand and gently squeezed it. “How long will you stay?”
“My dad and his wife are in Kennebunk and won’t be home ’til Sunday. And I don’t have a key to their house.” Which Annie supposed made sense, as they’d once thought that Meghan would never again be back in Boston, back in one piece.
“Okay, I’ll stop badgering you. Let’s change the subject. Tomorrow our honeymoon couple will be checking out. They want to be on the two thirty, but first, they have to return their rental car at the airport. I’ll take them there, then to the boat. We’ll need to leave the Inn by twelve thirty to allow for traffic. If you want to come with us, maybe you and I can do something fun after. Like go to the Ag Fair?”
“I can hitch a ride, right?” It was a voice Annie hadn’t wanted to hear.
Against her better instincts, she turned around. Simon stood behind them, his grin as off-putting as his presence. She wondered how long he’d been listening.