Francine shook her head. “They were children’s books.”
Annie scowled. “What?”
“Children’s books. Picture books, actually. If she’s a scientist, why the heck does she want those? Doesn’t she already know the stuff that’s in them? And if she works at the marine lab, why isn’t she staying at their housing? Don’t they have housing here for researchers?”
Annie refrained from saying she’d wondered the same thing. “The truth is, she doesn’t work there yet. She’s hoping that her research will help her land a job.”
“Really? Well, that raises the weird factor even higher. How is she going to get a job at a science-y place like that by reading kids’ books?” Adjusting the pillows so the bed looked tended to by a professional decorator, she added, “Like I said, it’s odd. Or maybe I’m taking it personally that she doesn’t join us for breakfast.”
Annie tried to recall if Mary Beth had said or done anything that could be construed as “odd.” After all, the night before when they’d been at The Wharf, if either of them had acted strangely, it had been Annie. “I had dinner with her last night, and honestly, she was okay.”
Francine shrugged. “Forget it. I’m overreacting, that’s all.”
But Annie pressed on. “Maybe she doesn’t want a job at all. Maybe she’s trying to write a children’s book about turtles, too. Maybe she didn’t want to tell us because, well, because she didn’t want us to think she was going to impose on me for advice on how to get published. Not that I’d have a clue.”
“Yeah. I suppose that’s possible.”
Francine then placed a bar of Annie’s honey-and-sunflower soap in one of the large oyster shells that Annie had collected on South Beach, then cleaned and varnished and set on the vanity in each guest room bath. Though Francine didn’t mention Ms. Mullen or the turtle books again, Annie couldn’t shake the feeling that, with all the guests they had welcomed over the summer, it was the first time she’d heard Francine complain about anyone.
* * *
Lottie’s husband, Joe, was a volunteer firefighter, a Chappy Ferry captain, and a guard at Wasque Point in summer. It was no surprise that, though Annie hadn’t known his name, she recognized the barrel-chested, ruddy-cheeked, smiling man as one of the many unsung people who made Chappaquiddick run.
After Annie left Francine, she’d gone straight to the station to see if it would make a sufficient temporary office for her displacement from the Inn. Joe let her in the side door of the white-cedar-shingled station that featured three tall bays, and, as Earl had once told her, was a “giant hook-and-ladder step up” from the single-bay garage that had been upgraded some fifteen years earlier. Annie wasn’t convinced his description made much sense as the equipment wouldn’t have needed to be big (there were no high-rises on Chappy), but she understood the gist.
“Happy to accommodate you,” Joe said once they were in a large room where a small truck and a rescue boat were anchored. “My wife’s a big fan of your books.”
That was news to Annie. It was also part of what she loved about the island—almost all of her readers who lived there allowed her to blend into the scrub oaks and be as anonymous as she wanted.
“Lottie says you need Wi-Fi. Not many people know it, but we get great reception here.”
Annie decided to take his word for that. If she said she’d like to test it, he might be insulted.
He gestured for her to follow him past the vehicles to an open room.
Several folding chairs rimmed the space; an eight-foot table sat in the center; an easy chair was tucked in a corner. A small kitchen was on one side; restrooms were on the other.
“All the comforts of home,” he said, “without kids, dogs, or chickens. Not that you ever have to worry about any of those.” He chuckled the same way Earl often chuckled, as if it were a trademark of Chappy. “You think that brother of yours is ever coming back?”
His question startled her. “I certainly hope so.”
“Now that your inn’s done . . . and what with Taylor gone . . . there’s been talk about trying to get Kevin to help out with the rescue team.”
“Thanks, Joe. I’ll mention it to him.”If I ever see him again, she was tempted to add.
“’Course, you all have had a lot on your plate. Starting up the place and being full most of the summer. Lottie said she saw Earl the other day, and he’s looking a mite haggard. The man loves to work, but, like the rest of us, I ’spect he’s getting up there.”
Annie was stunned. Was Earl “looking a mite haggard”? If so, why hadn’t she noticed? Maybe they—she—had been expecting too much from a seventy-five-year-old man . . . who was about to sleep on a plywood floor for ten nights.
Clearing her throat, she said, “None of us is getting younger, for sure. I guess staying active keeps us going.” She hoped she didn’t sound annoyed. “Anyway, thanks for helping me out of a jam. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon.”
“Ought to be a busy week for you. What with your special guest arriving.”
Once again, Annie was amazed at how quickly news was broadcast around the island, no matter how hard one tried to keep a secret.
“Here’s hoping Mr. Anderson’s visit won’t trigger any ambulance runs to your place,” Joe added. “We’ve enjoyed the peace and quiet over there these past few months.” He chuckled again and led her to the side door.
Annie laughed, but wished he hadn’t said that. She wasn’t ordinarily superstitious, but . . .
