* * *
Annie woke up at four o’clock Monday morning after what she figured had been three hours of sleep. She could have paced the floor of the cottage the way she’d paced the downtown Boston apartment the night her first husband, Brian, had been hit and killed by a drunk driver; when she hadn’t known where to put herself, or how to stop her racing thoughts. Or quiet her trembling nerves. Back then, of course, she’d still been in her twenties. Innocent. Naïve. Absolutely heartbroken.
Now, for God’s sake, she was an adult, a real adult, solidly middle-aged. She wondered if gut reactions were predestined, like the size of someone’s feet or the color of their natural hair.
She could have sat outside and stared up at the night sky, which, in the darkness on Chappy, often presented a brilliant canopy of stars.
Pacing would accelerate her agitation; staring up at the sky might either soothe her or make her more wistful. Not wanting to tempt becoming wistful, Annie did the one thing she could count on to settle her anxiety: she opened her laptop and started to work. Writing would be far more productive than dwelling on John.
Three cups of tea and two thousand words later, when the sky was no longer dark but morning-sunny, her email pinged. She glanced at the clock: it was seven thirty. The message was from her editor; the subject line read: UPDATE. Knowing that Trish liked to tackle correspondence before heading to her office in midtown Manhattan, Annie promptly opened it.
GOOD MORNING, ANNIE. PUB DATE FORMURDER ONEXHIBITIS OFFICIAL: SEPT. 21. ATTACHED IS YOURTOURSCHEDULE. WE CUT IT BACK TO SIX WEEKS, BUT WE STEPPED UP INTERVIEWS AND SIGNINGS. SO YOU’LL MAKE MORE APPEARANCES IN LESS TIME. ALSO, THE SOCIAL MEDIA DEPT. HAS ARRANGED FOR YOU TO CONTRIBUTE A NUMBER OF ONLINE ARTICLES AND BLOG POSTS, SO PLEASE GET STARTED WRITING THOSE. THE ATTACHED SPREADSHEET OUTLINES THE WORD COUNTS AND DEADLINES.
IF THIS IS OVERWHELMING, IT’S YOUR OWN FAULT: IF YOUR BOOKS WEREN’T SO POPULAR, YOU’D HAVE LESS TO DO!
PLEASE CONFIRMASAPTHAT THE DATES WORK FOR YOU. AND KEEP GOING ON THE NEXT MANUSCRIPT. THANKS. TRISH.
Annie quickly did the math; September twenty-first was about five weeks away. Inhaling a deep breath, she opened the schedule: Boston, New York, Chicago, L.A. Followed by St. Louis, Houston, Atlanta, Miami. Eight major cities, with festivals and book fairs in between in places like Charleston, Milwaukee, and Bradford, Pennsylvania. She’d need to step up her energy level about ten thousand times more than she felt in that moment. She’d need to find time to prepare for speeches and interviews, to write blog posts and articles. To work on her next manuscript. And breathe.
If there was a bright side to Trish’s demands, it was that John’s antics—or rather, his non-antics—of the previous night would have to officially take a back seat. Their relationship would be, or it would not; there was little Annie could do, other than not let it overtake her. She supposed that few relationships were as easy as the one she’d had with Brian. Then again, they’d been too young and in love to think bad things could happen. At least, not to them.
They hadn’t considered there would be an impaired, seventeen-year-old boy behind a wheel. Annie had never seen his face or been told his name because he was a minor; she only knew he lost his license for a couple of years. Because the night had been dark and rainy, and Brian had been wearing dark clothes, it was implied that he’d contributed to his own death.
And Annie was left having no recourse, other than to grieve.
More than twenty-five years later, she still found it surprising that she’d made it through the weeks and months that followed. But she had. And after the big blip with her second husband, she’d learned to maintain her balance and take care of herself. And neither John nor Kevin nor Simon Anderson could take that away from her.
She lowered her head and counted to ten—she liked to think the exercise helped put her brain cells back into good order so she could deal with things one at a time.
When she reached ten, Annie knew that some pelting hot water might also help, so she decided to take a shower. After breakfast she’d look at the spreadsheet of the articles and blog posts she’d need to write and when they were due. And then she’d figure out where she could work. After all, she was not only losing her home to Simon for ten days—she was losing her writing space, too.
Chapter 6
After Annie showered, dressed, and felt sufficiently determined not to let the prickly parts of her past wreck her nearly perfect life, she went up to the Inn. She ate every bite of a delightful breakfast—Francine’s sinfully indulgent French toast casserole with peaches and a maple cream sauce. The guests clearly enjoyed it, too. Mary Beth, however, had not joined them, nor had she asked Francine for something to go. Annie hoped she hadn’t been put off by Annie’s sudden distress at dinner. Then she remembered that not everyone liked to be sociable, especially first thing in the morning. Perhaps Mary Beth’s reason for skipping the meal was as simple as that.
Annie helped clean up the kitchen, then quickly vacuumed and dusted the main floor. She retreated to her cottage, opened her computer and the spreadsheet, and counted her blessings that she had so much to do. However, she knew that trying to get it all done while staying at Claire’s might be difficult: she could easily be tempted to linger too long over tea, talk about John, speculate about the future. Claire would indulge her, but Annie would accomplish zilch.
She could have sneaked into the wonderful little cottage next door where she’d lived the first year she’d moved to the island, and where she’d often hid from the construction noise when the Inn was being built. But the new property owners had torn down the old place; the demolition had distressed Annie, as if the sweet memories of her new beginning had been bulldozed, too.
So now, grateful to at least have one last day to be able to work in her own place, Annie got started. An hour later, with the sizable list of her online commitments already organized, she had a good idea: she called Lottie Nelson, the manager at the Chappaquiddick Community Center, where Annie also had escaped more than once for a change of scenery in order to write. Those times, however, had been off season when the center was quiet; Lottie might not be able to accommodate her now, but maybe she could offer a suggestion or two. If anyone on Chappy would know who might have an isolated spot where Annie could retreat with her laptop, it would be Lottie. Or Earl, of course, but Annie had bothered him enough.
“I’m desperate for a hideout for ten days,” she said when Lottie answered the phone. “I have a book coming out next month, and I have to do a ton of things to promote it. The Inn will be hectic, so I need a quiet place to work in the afternoons.”
“What kind of place?”
“An attic? A shed with Wi-Fi? I’m not fussy.” She’d thought about the apartment over the garage at Taylor’s house where Jonas had been living before Taylor departed. But with Francine and Bella staying with Jonas while Simon was at the Inn, Annie feared she’d be as distracted as she’d be at Claire’s.
“You have to have Wi-Fi?”
“Preferably. Yes.”
“Well, that ups the ante to nearly impossible.”
“I know. But I’ll need to do some research . . .”
“How soon?”
“Tomorrow.”
