A Vineyard Crossing

by Jean Stone

  Meghan placed her napkin on her plate. “Thanks, but I’d feel better if I were in the ICU, trying to be patient. I know he’ll still be sleeping, but . . .”

  “There’s no need to explain. I’ll join you in a while. Do you know how to get back from here?”

  “I think so. I saw a bookstore on Main Street the other day. I’ll pick up something to read, then make my way back to the ferry where I can catch the bus back to the hospital—can’t I?”

  Annie nodded. “It’s bus thirteen,” she said, not sure how she knew that since she’d only traveled by bus a few times since she’d lived there. “Just tell the driver you’re going to the hospital.”

  They stood and hugged, then cleared their plates. Once outside again, Meghan walked down the hill and Annie went up, hoping that her mission wouldn’t be in vain.

  * * *

  The library was quiet, which wasn’t surprising. It wasn’t only the final day of the Ag Fair, it was also a great-weather beach day. Lots of seasonal people would be heading home thanks to the unofficial end of summer. And islanders would start to regroup again.

  Annie went past the desk and the shelves of fiction toward the tables with the computers that provided digital access. Though she supposed she didn’t need total privacy, it was more relaxing to be alone. She signed on, went straight to the Boston Globe website, then to the newspaper’s archives. Taking a deep breath, she clicked the cursor on the Search bar and typed the name Andrew Simmons.

  One–two–three. She waited, wondering if a question would show at the top: Did you mean Simon Anderson?

  Finally a page loaded. She scanned it quickly. A number of entries for Simmons were obviously wrong: an Andrew Simmons had graduated from CalTech the previous year; another was an insurance agent who had to be at least seventy; another boasted a link to an indie rock band’s Facebook page.

  The name was too common, her search too broad. She went back to the top of the screen and added “Boston” after his name.

  Several Simmonses came up; the first was Andrew. It was an obituary, dated Oct. 13, 1984:

  Andrew J. Simmons, 42, of the Columbia Point section of Boston, died in his sleep, Thurs., Oct. 11. He leaves a wife, Margaret (McKenna), and three sons, David, Andrew, and Christopher. No calling hours; burial is private. Doherty-Jones Funeral Home is in charge.

  It had to be Simon’s father, who Simon said died of alcoholism. Annie wondered what the man would have thought about his namesake’s success.

  Next on the list was a plea from Boston Latin School, Class of 1990 Reunion Committee, that was searching for missing classmates, including one Andrew Simmons. Annie did the math in her head and decided that would make him around fifty now. Which meant it could very well be Simon.

  She did another quick search for Simon’s Wiki page: born April 3, 1972, Boston, Massachusetts. Close enough, she thought.

  She went back to the previous page and continued the search, but nothing was relevant. Until she reached another obituary: Christopher Simmons.

  Simon’s younger brother?

  She clicked on the link. The article was brief; it was dated Sept. 14, 2018.

  Christopher M. Simmons, 40, of Dorchester, died Friday from an accident sustained in his home. He leaves a brother, David Simmons, of Brookline, and a nephew. Services are private.

  Short, but not terribly sweet, Annie thought. Sad. An accident “in his home” could mean many things: a fall down the stairs, an electrical shock, or, she imagined, one of about a million things. There was no mention of Christopher’s parents or of Andrew/ Simon. No mention of Simon’s three daughters. It was as if he had vanished once he’d taken to the airwaves. Once he’d changed his name.

  “Cheers to the old days,” Simon had told Annie. “May they be forgotten.”

  The remaining links on the page did not include Andrew, either. And there was no reference to any articles he’d written for the Globe. Perhaps he hadn’t been granted a byline. Or . . . he’d never worked there. Which, of course, was impossible, because he’d given Annie his business card.

  It was as baffling as it was exasperating.

  However, Annie now knew she needed to confront Simon again and get him to confess to the real reason he was there . . . and if it was, in any way, related to why he had divested himself of all things “Andrew Simmons.” Including his brothers and his nephew.

  And while none of it might be connected to why he’d cut off communicating with her about Brian’s accident, she was now haunted by the question Simon had asked her back in the cottage: What do you know? It had now become more important to Annie to learn what it was that she didn’t know.

  But as she logged off the computer, Annie wondered if Meghan had been right, that the whole thing was a coincidence. Maybe Simon didn’t even remember the scared young widow he had interviewed. He’d had a new name for many years now, and a whole new life. In a bigger city. On a much bigger stage. With his grad school days long gone and probably forgotten.

  Then she remembered his toast when she’d approached him on the beach: “Cheers to the old days. May they be forgotten. And to all our days. May they be forgiven.”

  Whatever that meant.

  Chapter 28

  Annie walked the two miles from the library back to the hospital, wanting the exercise, wanting to think. Somewhere between the five corners and the drawbridge, she knew she needed to refocus on the present, on Kevin, and on Meghan. The old days were done. And, as Simon had further noted, “It’s crap, anyway.”

  When she arrived in the ICU, Meghan was sitting in the same chair in the waiting room where she’d spent the night. Next to her was Earl. He was holding her hand.

  Annie smiled. Earl was such a kind, caring man. He would have made a perfect father-in-law.

  She sat down on the other side of Meghan. “No news?”

  Meghan shook her head. “Earl’s been telling me how hard Kevin worked on the Inn, especially on the actual hands-on building. That’s what he always loved to do. When our business got so big that he had to stay in the office, he hated every minute of it. He was happier when he was hammering.”

  “Yes, Kevin’s a hammering fiend,” Annie said. “And I’ve had enough headaches to prove it.”

  Meghan laughed a sweet, gentle laugh. A laugh so much nicer than Taylor’s.

  “I brought Kevin some clothes,” Earl said. “Not that I think the kimono isn’t attractive on him.”

  “It’s called a johnny, Earl,” Meghan said. Her disposition seemed lighter, which was likely due in no small part to Earl’s company.

  “Speaking of johnny . . .” the jokester said, “here he is now.”

  Annie didn’t catch his meaning until a voice from the doorway said, “Hey, Dad.”

  She counted to three before turning her head.

  “Annie,” John said, then looked over at Meghan and nodded. “How’s he doing?”

  “The same,” Meghan said. “So that’s good.”

  “Great.” He looked back at Annie. “Can you give me a minute?”

  She closed her eyes for a second, then stood up. “The garden okay?” Not waiting for a reply, she said, “Excuse us.” She left the waiting room, knowing John would follow but not wanting to think about why he wanted to talk. Maybe he was there merely in a professional capacity.

  It was hotter on the rooftop than it had been earlier; the sun had inched across the sky, its rays now flared up from the cement walkway. “How many eggs did you fry out there?” her dad used to ask whenever she came inside after playing hopscotch in the driveway on a steamy summer afternoon. She wondered how many dad-isms he’d said over the years; she wished she remembered all of them. Especially now, when she’d rather be thinking about that than the impending conversation.

  “How ’bout here?” John said. “No sense walking all the way to Aquinnah.”

  She stopped at a bench; she realized then that they’d already passed a few. He must have thought she was losing her mind, as Kevin had tol
d Earl.

  He sat down next to her. “Man,” he said, “this has been one lousy way to end a summer.”

  “I had a lot to do with it. For starters, I practically browbeat Kevin into coming back.”

  “Does he know about Meghan?”

  “No. She didn’t want me to tell him. So I told him he was shirking his responsibilities at the Inn. Which probably made things worse. He must have been exhausted from rushing to get a flight, then coming all this way. I never knew he was afraid of flying.” She lowered her head, stared at the concrete squares that were laid out in a great grid for hopscotch. If she wanted to play, she’d only have to number the squares and not draw all the lines. She wondered how many eggs she could fry on it. She sighed. “God knows how long he went without sleep—which must be why he grabbed his gun when he heard us arguing.”

  “Annie,” John said. Then he paused.

  Ordinarily, his pause might have been disturbing, might have stirred up her insides. But her senses were still dulled from the night and the day to evoke any more emotion.

  “I’m sorry for everything that’s happened,” John said. “Most of all, I’m sorry for being a jerk.”

  She supposed he was referring to their relationship. “We all need a break sometimes, John. Even me.”

  It was so hot the gulls weren’t bothering to squawk; the drawbridge seemed too lazy to rise up; there was no breeze to filter the buzz from jet skis on the Tisbury side of Lagoon Pond. It was as if everything and everyone was either cooling in the water or at home in front of a fan.

  “Is it too late to say I made a mistake? That I overreacted because of Abigail, who’s known how to push every one of my buttons since the day she was born? Or because I’m jealous about a guy I’ve seen on TV for years but have never met? Or because last night I realized how much you’ve been going through, and how I’ve been so stuck in my own crap that I haven’t been very nice to you—of all people?”

  She didn’t know how to answer. It might be the perfect time to tell him about Abigail’s assertion that he was going back to Jenn, and to ask if it were true. Or she could turn toward him, lean into him, kiss him, and say that everything would be fine. But her numbness felt as if the weight of a thousand concrete squares like those in the garden were parked solidly upon her chest. And she felt nothing else.

  “John,” she said. “I appreciate what you said. Honestly, I do. But right now . . .” From out of nowhere, or from out of everywhere, tears came again. She wrapped her arms around her waist and hugged herself.

  He kept the distance of about two feet between them. But he reached over and brushed back her hair. “I was afraid you decided you don’t want to marry me,” he said. “We hardly see each other anymore. And when I said I needed to take a break, I didn’t mean for you to think I don’t want to marry you. Or that I don’t . . . love you.”

  Choosing her words carefully, then wondering why she needed to do that, Annie said, “I can’t talk about this right now. Can you understand that? I can’t think about anything except Kevin. Okay?” She looked out at the harbor, wishing one of the big boats was coming or going so she’d have something to focus on other than her feelings, or rather, her lack of them right then.

  John stood up. He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his uniform. Which was when Annie realized he was, in fact, in uniform, and he’d be on his way to work soon. Four to midnight. Or later if summer got out of hand.

  “I keep thinking about him, too, you know.”

  No, Annie thought. She hadn’t known.

  “I guess I’ve said what I needed to say,” he added. “I’ll check in later. To see how he’s doing. Unless you don’t want me to.”

  It was an odd thing for him to say. Or maybe it wasn’t. “I’ll be here,” she said.

  Then he left.

  And she stared down at the cement squares again.

  * * *

  The rest of the afternoon was a blur of people and nurses and hushed conversations in the ICU waiting room. Lucy came with Claire. Francine came without Jonas, which was understandable. By then, most people must have heard the truth about the Inn’s enigmatic guest Meghan, aka Mary Beth Mullen, aka Kevin’s wife. Jonas must be torn between his friendship with Kevin and loyalty to his mother. Annie hoped it hadn’t caused a rift between Francine and him.

  Winnie, blessed Winnie, came, too. She suggested that Annie and Meghan get out of the hospital and go for a drive with her before sunset; Meghan politely declined, but Annie agreed. Life, after all, always felt safe when she was with Winnie.

  They went to West Chop, not far from the hospital, yet removed from the whispers of people and the hums of machines and the faint scent of disinfectant.

  Standing at the tip of the chop, where the west side of the Vineyard sloped south toward Aquinnah, they watched the sun deliver its end-of-day spectacle. Annie gazed at the green mounds of the Elizabeth Islands and told Winnie about John’s visit and his apology and her reaction, or rather, her non-reaction. She could have predicted her friend’s reply.

  “Give it time,” her friend said. “Making important decisions when life is in turmoil often yields regrets.”

  The only breeze of the day flittered past them then. Or maybe it was Murphy, underscoring Winnie’s wisdom.

  In addition to advice, Winnie also had brought wine. Annie allowed herself a small glass; she sipped it slowly, savoring the taste and the way it helped melt her anxiety. She then told Winnie what she’d found out about Simon, though, in truth, it hardly mattered now. At some point that day, her interest in the mystery had slipped away. At least for the moment.

  Winnie listened. She was good at that.

  After an hour, Annie felt better.

  But when she arrived back at the hospital, said good-bye to Winnie, and returned to the second floor, Annie’s mood shifted again. Meghan was alone in the waiting room, her head down, the calves of her legs swinging back and forth.

  “Meghan?” Annie asked. “What’s wrong?” Her palms began to perspire.

  Meghan lifted her beautiful face, her cheekbones chiseled like an ancient goddess’s, though her eyes had faded in the twilight that now seeped into the room.

  “The doctor wants to wait until tomorrow morning to wake him up.”

  Annie asked as she took the chair next to her, “I suppose the longer he sleeps the better he’ll heal . . . ?” Had Doctor Mike explained it that way? Or had Annie made it up? She decided it wasn’t important; what counted was that Kevin hadn’t needed another surgery. So far.

  Meghan shrugged. “Supposedly, he’s stable, and his vital signs are strong. The doctor isn’t expecting any problems, but he did say when it comes to the body—especially with trauma—they can never be a hundred percent sure. But I know that from experience.”

  Annie put her arm around her. “The doctors here know what they’re doing, too. Kevin will be fine. I believe that.” Right then, she actually did. “Why don’t we go back to the Inn and get a good night’s sleep? We can come back early. Did he say what time they’ll wake him up?”

  “Seven o’clock.”

  As Taylor had pointed out, the first trip off Chappy wasn’t until six forty-five. In spite of that early hour, chances were they wouldn’t make it to the hospital and upstairs by seven.

  She thought about texting John to ask if he could pull a few strings. But Winnie’s words echoed: “Give it time.” So Annie called Earl instead.

  “Be at the dock at six,” he said. “I guarantee someone will be there to bring you across. It might be me in a kayak, but I’ll get you there.”

  What with Winnie and now Earl, they might get through this after all.

  But when they got back to the Inn, Annie’s optimism faded when she saw the light burning in her cottage. For some reason, she’d really hoped that, though John had told Simon to stay on the island, he had found other accommodations.

  * * *

  Deciding that in order to keep a modicum of well-being, right then Annie al
so needed to give the situation with Simon some time. So she summoned all her courage, looked away from her cottage, got out of the Jeep, and followed Meghan through the back door of the Inn where she intended to put together a quick and healthy meal. She did not expect to see a large shopping bag on the kitchen counter.

  There’s more in the refrigerator, an accompanying note read. It was signed Claire and Lucy, with several X’s and O’s under their names. The bag was stuffed with freshly baked brownies, a batch of peanut butter cookies, a loaf of home-baked sourdough bread (which must have been Francine’s doing), a box of oyster crackers, and a bottle of Chardonnay. A quick peek in the refrigerator revealed barbecued chicken breasts and thick slices of ham; pasta salad, broccoli, cole slaw, and potatoes au gratin; and a large container of creamy clam chowder.

  “Enough to feed all our guests and residents for a week,” Meghan said with a small laugh. It felt like days since Annie had heard her laugh.

  “The intention is more than enough to lift my spirits,” Annie said.

  “Mine, too. I might have a slice of bread and a small piece of chicken . . .”

  Annie retrieved clean plates from the dishwasher just as Francine scooted in from the great room.

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “The same,” Meghan said.

  “Stable,” Annie added. “But they won’t wake him up until tomorrow morning.”

  “So will you sleep over the workshop again tonight?”

  “I suppose so.” She took utensils from a drawer and set them next to the plates.

  “Don’t forget that the honeymoon suite’s available. It might be good to pamper yourself a little. Get you prepared for the future, you know?”

  How had it happened that Francine had missed the grapevine about John needing a break? Or perhaps she had but was being optimistic. Annie sighed. Then she realized that, yes, she could do with some pampering . . . a nice, warm Jacuzzi, a giant, comfortable bed . . .

  “Okay,” she said before she started to dwell on John. “I’ll take it. Shall I change the sheets?”