by Jean Stone
Annie had no words, not one. But she was reminded, once again, of how deeply secrets could not only scar but also change someone’s life . . . forever. She wanted to ask if Donna had known, but perhaps it didn’t matter now.
Waiving further conversation, they made their way to the car, with Annie holding back from crying for her brother, for the happiness he’d missed out on. She could do that later, when she was alone.
For now, the thought of painful secrets made her think of Brian again . . . and the cryptic message he’d left her the night that he’d been killed.
After the funeral, she’d asked his parents if they knew what he had meant. They said no. She asked his sister. She said no, too. Day after day, Annie asked anyone she could think of: his friends; the principal where Brian taught; the old man at the coffee shop where he stopped every morning. It had been less painful to focus on that than on the fact Brian was dead.
But no one claimed to know about a secret. Finally, Annie told a newspaper reporter who was writing an article after the accident; she’d hoped he’d mention it, and that someone, somewhere, might know what it was. But no one came forward. And Annie never got an answer.
Meghan’s secret was far more earth shattering. And so much sadder. And unlike Annie, who’d yammered about Brian’s secret to anyone who’d listen, or pretended to listen, Meghan hadn’t told the one person who had a right to know.
As they walked, their gaits slowed, their legs weighed down by the past. Annie remembered how crushed she’d been when the Globe hadn’t unearthed any clues. Maybe if the internet hadn’t been in its infancy then . . . or if the reporter had done a better job . . .
As she recalled, he had been young, determined, and he’d been...
She stopped. Her whole body stiffened. And suddenly, two of Kevin’s favorite words leaped into her mind: Holy. Crap.
No kidding, Murphy replied.
* * *
Despite that her adrenaline was pumping like a bilge pump on a lobster boat in a stormy sea, once they were in the Jeep and back on State Road, Annie tried to be kind to Meghan. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Do you want to tell me more about it?”
Meghan shook her head. “There’s nothing more to tell. By the time my memory returned, so much time had passed it didn’t seem as if any of it had been real.”
“I am so sorry for . . . well, for everything.” Annie’s eyes bounced from Meghan back to the road, her thoughts unable to stop boomeranging from Brian to Meghan and back again.
“Thank you. That means a lot.”
Pulling out onto Edgartown–West Tisbury Road, Annie stepped on the gas. “I’d like to stop at the library on our way back. But if you want to go straight to the Inn, I’ll understand.” Because it was Saturday, the library closed at five; it was nearly that now.
Meghan smiled and patted Annie’s arm. “It’s fine. And please, you don’t need to treat me like a porcelain doll. I’m okay. Really I am. It was a long time ago.”
“But you never got to talk to Kevin about it.” She knew her brother would have made a great dad; she would not, however, say that, especially since Meghan had said she hadn’t wanted kids. Annie didn’t need to know more details about that; she firmly believed that everyone was entitled to do or think or be whatever worked for them.
“One of the reasons I came here was to tell him.”
So, if Kevin returned, seeing Meghan would even be tougher on him than Annie could have predicted just a minute ago. “If it’s any help,” she said, desperate to change the subject, “the mere mention of secrets has led me to figure something out about Simon Anderson.”
“Something good?”
“It depends. First, we have to get to the library before it closes.” Now that some pieces had begun to gel, Annie needed answers. And she now knew where to start. With no cars ahead of her, Annie stepped on the gas. “I think I know who he is,” she said.
“Simon? So do I. I remember when he was on the news in Boston. Especially when he covered the Marathon bombing.”
But Annie was shaking her head. “Not then. Before. I think he was a newspaper reporter. I need to find out if I’m right. The library has access to the Boston Globe archives.”
Unlike Meghan, Annie had never had amnesia. She had not forgotten anything about the night Brian was killed—or the aftermath. She remembered standing outside the hospital, nearly catatonic, the big red letters of the Emergency Room sign glaring at her, the double-wide, automatic doors opening and closing, opening and closing, each time an ambulance arrived and a stretcher was wheeled inside. She’d been awaiting word if Brian could be saved. She hadn’t been able to stay in the waiting room because she couldn’t breathe in there.
But now, despite that her stomach was twisting like beach grass in hurricane-force winds, Annie was elated. She supposed it was possible that Simon wasn’t the reporter who’d interviewed her after the accident. She’d never seen the article; for all she knew it hadn’t been published. She’d called him two or three times; each time he said he was sorry, but he had no leads. He said he’d let her know. But she never heard from him again.
Zooming past the airport and the transfer station and Barnes Road, she was grateful that a steady stream of traffic was heading west, toward the fair, not east toward Edgartown. She was barely aware of Meghan sitting beside her. All Annie knew for certain was that the reporter’s name hadn’t been Simon Anderson. It had been Andrew Simmons. She remembered the business card he’d given her. The one with his direct line at the Globe.
She supposed it could be a coincidence that the two names were so similar. Just as it could be a coincidence that he’d landed at the Inn more than two and a half decades later. But Annie didn’t really believe in coincidences.
She wondered why Murphy wasn’t chiming in. Then she wondered if her lead foot was freaking Meghan out. In the same instant that Annie thought she should slow down and chill, flashing blue lights appeared in her rearview mirror.
“Rats,” she said.
Meghan looked behind them. “I wonder if you’ve been speeding,” she said kindly.
“I was.” The only benefit in having to pull to the side of the road was that her stomach settled a little, perhaps welcoming a reprieve from being on the fast track. Until she looked in the side mirror and saw the cop walking toward them. She recognized the stride, of course. How could she not?
“Annie?” John asked when he reached the window on the driver’s side. “Jesus. Do you have any idea how fast you were going?”
She sighed. “Not really.”
He hooked his thumbs into his belt. “Seventy-five.”
She could have done nicely without knowing that.
Then he said, “License and registration, please.”
If she’d gotten angry, that would only slow down her mission to get to the library before it closed. She reached for her purse, pulled out her credentials, and handed them to him. She bit down on her lip to stop from asking if he needed further proof of her identity.
“Sorry,” he said. “Pete from the OB force called it in, so I have to write it up.”
She shrugged. “Sure.”
He leaned down and looked over at Meghan. “You two been at the fair?”
“It was wonderful,” Meghan replied. “I bought a very nice piece of pottery from Annie’s friend Winnie. But I have a terrible headache so Annie was in a hurry to get me back to the Inn.”
The two of them chatted, their words floating back and forth across Annie, who remained perfectly still, staring at the pavement ahead. It was thoughtful of Meghan to lie.
“I’ll only give you a warning,” he said to Annie. “Okay?”
“Okay. Thanks.” Thanks? Was she supposed to thank her fiancé for giving her a warning instead of a pricey ticket?
As he walked back to the cruiser to do whatever he needed to do (check her for priors? Search for outstanding warrants? Make sure her vehicle wasn’t stolen?), she sat, numb now, only wanting him to hurry up a
nd do what he needed thanks to Pete from OB. Or, more precisely, thanks to her for speeding. Yup. Her bad.
She sighed again.
Meghan reached across the console and touched Annie’s hand. “This isn’t easy for you.”
Annie shook her head, grateful she had set a goal of getting to the library because it no doubt sidetracked her from totally breaking down.
In less than a minute John returned. He handed back her IDs and a slip of paper.
Then he squatted and looked over to Meghan. “I hope you feel better soon.” He might have looked at Annie then, but she was busy shoving the paperwork into her purse and restarting the ignition. She gave him a dispassionate wave, and pulled away from the shoulder, back onto Edgartown-West Tisbury Road.
Chapter 22
There was a concert on the library lawn—Johnny Hoy and the Bluefish—a special Saturday night performance to honor library supporter and island icon Herb Foster for the publication of his latest book about the cross-culture of Yiddish and jive. It looked to be a lively gathering. But the library was closed.
So Annie slammed the gearshift into reverse, turned around, and headed toward the On Time.
She was angry. Angry at herself that the Simon Anderson /Andrew Simmons connection hadn’t dawned on her earlier; angry that she’d been stopped for speeding, which had delayed her trip too long; angry that John had been the one to stop her, that he’d been so . . . professional, and that she’d responded as if she were a block of ice.
She was also angry that she wasn’t able to focus on Meghan right then. All she said was, “Maybe some good will come of all this. Maybe closure is on the horizon for both of us.”
When she reached Main Street, she slowed down: There was no point in causing more commotion.
“We might as well get back to Chappy,” she said. “So you can . . . pack?”
Meghan smiled. “Only if I’m going to leave tomorrow.”
Annie felt a spark of hope. “If?”
Pulling the bag that held Winnie’s bowl closer to her chest, as if afraid it would fall and break, Meghan replied, “Let’s just say I’m rethinking my impending departure. You might be able to find closure, but I won’t have a chance unless I see Kevin.”
Despite that there was little reason to think he’d be coming home soon, Annie decided it was important to have hope wherever—whenever—anyone could find it.
Navigating through the people-packed one-way streets of the historic village toward the dock, she spotted a parking space on Main Street and instantly claimed it.
“If you find a parking space in Edgartown in August, you have to grab it. Otherwise, you might never have good luck again.”
“An old wives’ tale?”
“Actually, I think it’s one of Earl’s. But as long as we’re here, do you want to get a glass of wine or a bite to eat before we go back?”
“After our gourmet food at the fair, I’m not at all hungry. But I’ll go if you promise to tell me what Simon maybe having had a job as a newspaper reporter has to do with you. It must be something serious for you to have dismissed John the way you did. And honestly, you were driving like the road was the Autobahn.”
Annie ran her hands around the steering wheel, its circle perfectly harmless, unless one lost control of it and killed a twenty-nine-year-old on a dark street in Back Bay, Boston. “I think Simon was the Globe reporter who interviewed me after Brian was killed,” she finally said. “And that his sudden appearance at the Inn is not a coincidence.”
“If it’s really him.”
“I know. It’s been years, and I was so rattled then I don’t really remember what he looked like, but in the beginning he seemed determined . . . and his name is too close to be a fluke . . .” Her words stumbled out. She blah-blahed the rest, including about how she’d enlisted the reporter to help her learn Brian’s secret, but that he’d never responded. That he might have lost interest. Or moved on.
Then someone banged on the window. “Excuse me, lady.”
Annie realized that the windows were still up, the engine was still running, the air conditioner still hummed. She put her window down.
A young woman in a taffeta pink sundress and carrying a matching pink clutch smiled and said, “Are you ever going to leave this spot? My husband is trying to find a place to park. We’re supposed to be at a wedding at the Whaling Church . . .”
“Oh!” Annie said. “I am so sorry. Yes. We can leave right now.”
“Can you wait until he comes around again? He’s driving a silver Range Rover.”
Summer people, Annie thought, often didn’t drive Jeeps. “Of course,” she said, then turned to Meghan. “While I wait for the Range Rover, how about if you pick up a couple of sandwiches for us? There’s a takeout place down by the ferry in case we want something later. Once we get home I can rest and you can decide if you want to pack. We can meet on the patio after dark, eat sandwiches, and watch for fireflies.”
“Sounds great.” Meghan opened the door. “But I have to warn you, I really am getting a small headache. If I take a pill, I’ll be knocked out for a while.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Okay, we’re on. But the treat is mine. Or actually, it’s Kevin’s, as I don’t have a paltry red cent that I can honestly say is mine.”
The sound of her brother’s name threatened to sap Annie’s energy again. She couldn’t let that happen; she had too much to figure out. “If you’re not out of the shop by the time I have to cross, just hop on the ferry and sit on one of the benches. I’ll wait for you on the Chappy side.”
* * *
The grounds of the Inn were quiet: Saturday evenings were usually like that, with the guests meandering around town and the tenants often working their second or third summer jobs, trying to make enough money to eke it out over the winter. If they were lucky, they were done working and were enjoying some pre-sunset time out at South Beach, where by then the beach chairs of the summer folks had been folded up, loud music had abated, and children had stopped jumping in the waves.
After checking to be sure Claire had left, Annie walked along the still-vibrant meadow on her way to the workshop where, indeed, she would rest. And “chill,” as Kevin might have called it. Whatever strength had propelled her across the Autobahn had nearly been sucked out of her when John had stopped her. At least it had been him and not an officer who didn’t know her and was as weary of summer as she was.
Now, in her peripheral vision, she saw her cottage standing in silence, almost as if it were waiting. For something. For someone. For . . . her?
Maybe it was time. Maybe if Simon was alone . . . maybe he wouldn’t be offended if she asked him outright if he was Andrew Simmons, and if so, whether or not he’d ever learned Brian’s secret.
Or maybe this all was a dream from which she’d wake up any minute.
In the meantime, Annie stepped, one hesitant sandal at a time, toward breaking her unwritten rule about never disturbing a guest unless there was an emergency.
Maybe this was one. For her.
As she went up onto the porch, opened the screen door, and raised her hand to knock on the main one, another thought zoomed into her brain cells: Had Simon come to the Vineyard to finally tell her what he knew?
Before Annie totally unraveled, she knocked.
But Simon did not come to the door.
He did not say, “Hello?”
He did not ask, “Who is it?”
She waited a moment, then knocked again. Still, no response. So she did what she reasoned any man or woman who perceived they had been wronged might do: she turned the handle. The door opened.
* * *
She left her sandals on the porch—a signal that she was inside and had nothing to hide, that she was merely checking on something in her own home, or making sure her guest had enough towels in the bath and treats in the refrigerator. She could come up with a thousand excuses that would sound plausible. But the bottom line was, she was technic
ally, and maybe—who knew—illegally trespassing.
The next thing Annie knew she was in the living room, her bare feet set firmly on her grandmother’s braided rug. She moved into the bedroom, went straight to her nightstand, and retrieved a tiny key: other than her, only Kevin knew where to find it. Then she went to the Louis Vuitton where she might find the corroboration she needed.
She remembered the initial article in the Globe—the who, what, where, when, and how of the accident. She didn’t recall if it had a reporter’s byline; still, it was doubtful she had saved it because she’d wanted only happy mementos of Brian in her scrapbooks.
But maybe Donna had clipped it out and tucked it away as she’d done with so many other things.
It still amazed Annie that her birth mother had followed Annie’s life, had documented records and photos of her since she’d been born, a legacy of a mother’s unconditional love that had never wavered, never died. When Annie first saw the trove of things concealed in the Vuitton, she unearthed the ones that she’d needed to know right then. But the Inn had been about to open, and there had been so much to do every hour, every day since then, she hadn’t had time to finish exploring the contents of the trunk. Instead, Annie had kept everything intact, knowing the treasures would be there, waiting, if she ever felt sad. Or alone.
Right now, she’d be happy if she found anything written by Andrew Simmons, even the one with the who, what, where, etc. Maybe something between the lines would trigger a memory or two that could point Annie toward learning Brian’s secret—the missing piece of her past.
Crouched on the floor, she spent the next couple of hours investigating every photo album, every scrapbook, every small cardboard box and 10” x 13” envelope that had been neatly clasped. Her jaw remained clenched, her pace was robotic; she did not allow tender emotions to surface; she could do that later. Off season, perhaps, when the luxury of time often permitted reflection.