“Excuse me,” the woman asked as she stepped closer, “are you Annie Sutton?” She had captivating, cornflower blue eyes.
Though Annie had written several best-selling books, she wasn’t yet accustomed to being recognized. Or approached. She folded her hands and knitted her fingers together. “I am. Do you read mysteries?”
The woman hesitated. “Um, no. Didn’t you do an interview onBest Destinations? The TV show? You have a new inn, don’t you?”
When the show’s producer had contacted Annie for their segment on New England vacations, it had come as no surprise. Her editor, Trish, had arranged it as a chance to promote Annie’s books. “I have an inn, yes. On Chappaquiddick.”
The woman began to speak again, but paused, as if changing her mind. Then she glanced toward the opposite side of the deck and gave a slight wave of recognition. Annie followed her gaze, but did not see anyone return the greeting.
“Excuse me,” the stranger said, her words rushed and befuddled as she slipped into the throng of tourists, dogs, and rolling suitcases, leaving a cloud of curiosity in her wake.
* * *
The line at theOn Timewas blessedly short; by late afternoon, few people were interested in venturing off the main island and over to Chappaquiddick—the eastern arm of Martha’s Vineyard and technically part of Edgartown. Chappy had no restaurants—unless one counted Jerry’s Place, the mini–mini store that featured freshly made to-go sandwiches and bakery items, salads and ice cream, and recently had added some local specialties. Nor was there much shopping—with notable exceptions such as Slip Away Farm for fresh-picked produce and bountiful flowers, and, again, Jerry’s Place, with its stash of beach supplies, toiletries, and souvenirs. Though numerous houses and cottages were sprinkled around the island, most visitors who crossed were day-trippers: hikers, bikers, sunbathers.
With four cars ahead of her, Annie figured she’d only have to wait a few short minutes to board the tiny ferry that held three vehicles—two if one was a pickup.
Drumming her fingers on the dashboard of her Jeep—her favorite acquisition since she moved there two years ago—she tried to organize what was left of her day, a nearly impossible feat now that she ran The Vineyard Inn and all its lively components. Chances were, nothing significant had happened in the hours she’d been gone. She’d left Francine in charge, and Earl Lyons on call in case of emergency, though there hadn’t been any during this inaugural season.
Some days, Annie couldn’t believe how great things had been working out. Their three guest rooms had been booked all but five days, which only had happened because of a last-minute cancellation due to illness. September looked promising, too, with reservations already at seventy percent. More important, in addition to being low-maintenance, the amiable guests and the year-round tenants—who were ensconced in three additional rooms—were cheerful, engaging, and helpful whenever help was needed. In October, once the summer guests left, winter rental tenants would arrive to claim those rooms. Maybe then Annie could let out her breath. Except, of course, that her next book would be published around that time, so she’d no doubt have to leave the island for a publicity tour. She was waiting to learn the schedule; hopefully, it wouldn’t be grueling.
Yes, she thought as the first three cars in line boarded the ferry and she inched the Jeep forward, life was hectic, but wonderful. She only wished that Kevin had waited to bolt for Hawaii until after Columbus Day. Or Christmas. Or never. Annie knew that she wanted to protect her over-forty, very grown-up, “kid” brother because he was the only family she had left. And because she’d only known him a couple of years after she’d connected with her birth mother.
As her thoughts began to slide toward a smidge of sadness again, she heard a sudden rap-rap-rap on the passenger door as it quickly jerked open.
“Hey, lady, how ’bout a lift?” It was Earl, the stocky, white-haired saint of all saints, who still enjoyed a good chuckle at seventy-five, and whose spunk, as he called it, still functioned well. A ninth- or tenth-generation islander, he looked out for his neighbors, the land, and the shoreline, and was often called the Mayor of Chappy. On any given summer day, it wasn’t uncommon for Mayor Earl not to be driving his truck. Unless a situation made it necessary—a dentist appointment, an early morning run to Stop & Shop, a brother who needed a ride to the airport in Boston—few residents of Chappaquiddick brought a vehicle over to Edgartown when the calendar said it was not yet Labor Day: there were too many people, too much traffic, too few parking spaces in town.
“What are you doing here?” she asked with a grin. “Aren’t you supposed to be on call for Francine?” Along with everything else, Earl was the Inn’s “handyman extraordinaire,” though Kevin did most of the bull work, thanks to Earl’s advancing years.
He seated himself and buckled up without waiting for an invitation. Today he wore a pale blue T-shirt from Sharky’s Cantina; he enjoyed advertising island establishments to summer people. Patting the pocket of his well-worn jeans, he said, “Never fear. Francine made sure I brought my trusty phone. She’s on my case way more often than you are.” He chuckled again. “And she’s doing a fine job, Annie. We all should be proud of that girl.”
“We are,” she replied. Francine was their twenty-one-year-old go-getter who had become an island treasure. “So, did you come to Edgartown for business or pleasure?”
“None of the above.” His spiky white eyebrows crinkled above his warm brown eyes. “My son required my services. You remember him? Kind of a tall guy. Edgartown cop. Handsome like his father but half-a-foot taller? Pearl-gray eyes like his mother?” Of course, Earl was talking about John, the guy Annie had met soon after she’d moved there and now was engaged to. The guy she would marry one of these days.
“Very funny. What kind of ‘services’ did he require? If I’m not getting too personal.”
Earl shrugged. “Nothing life-threatening. I helped him move some furniture around.”
Furniture? John had been living in his townhouse in the center of Edgartown for quite a while; a year ago, Lucy, his now fourteen-year-old daughter, had joined him when she’d decided she’d rather live there than off island with her mother and older sister. He might have rearranged furniture then, but now? Was he was making the place ready for when they got married and Annie moved in? Did he want to set the date now that the season was nearly over?
A wee speck of doubt poked her like a deer tick—undetected until it bit. She hadn’t planned to marry again. Not for a third time. Now that she was a hairbreadth past fifty, she knew that marriage was more than champagne and cuddles, and that life was way more than romance. Which was why sometimes John Lyons fit the old cliché of being too be good to be true.
She looked back toward the water. The second ferry—two of them crisscrossed in summer—arrived from the other side of the channel; the captain was signaling the next vehicles to drive on. As Annie guided the Jeep over the sturdy planks, Earl waved at the captain and leaned out the open window. “I’m getting a free ride today. How ’bout that?”
Captain Fredericks (better known as Captain Fred) laughed and tore a coupon out of Annie’s booklet. When he moved on to the next vehicle, Earl turned back to her and said he assumed that she’d delivered Kevin to Logan okay; he asked if he’d been happy to be going and if the traffic had been god-awful up there, too, and Annie knew it was too late to return to the topic of moving furniture at John’s.
* * *
It was after four o’clock by the time Annie dropped Earl off at his truck on the Chappy side of the harbor, made her way to North Neck Road, and pulled into the clamshell driveway at The Vineyard Inn. She turned off the ignition, closed her eyes, and sat silently, glad to be home. Though Francine had the day-to-day responsibilities of running the Inn to allow Annie time to work on her next manuscript, Annie had to let her know that she was back. And she should text John to alert him, too.
But first, if only for a minute, she wanted to savor the light breeze that drifted in the window and listen to the gentle surf lapping the beach on the western rim of their property.Theirproperty, hers and Kevin’s, thanks to the gift from their mother. Earl would receive one-third of the Inn’s annual profit and one-third of the net if they ever sold the place. God knew he’d put in enough time, sweat equity, and worry to deserve an equal share. And now, with their first full quarter about to end, Annie was certain that, after they set aside a chunk to keep them afloat through winter, there would be a generous profit to share.
It had been an interesting few months, with too much to do to grapple with issues that Annie would have spent too many hours grappling about, anyway. Most of the issues, like nuptial plans, could wait until the chaos slowed to a simmer.
The thought of John’s kindness, his strength, his love for her, made Annie smile. So she reached for her phone and texted:HOME AT LAST. BOSTON SUCKS. MVIS PARADISE. DINNER?She hoped he’d invite her to his place. She was too tired to cook, and besides, he was better at it. She could have a nice cool shower before she left, maybe a short nap. Then she could put on something prettier than the denim capris and T-shirt she’d tossed on early that morning because she and Kevin had needed to make the eight-fifteen boat.
And, she reasoned, as she got out of the Jeep and crossed the lawn toward the back of the Inn, if she went to John’s, she could find out about moving the furniture. Maybe they could set a wedding date—perhaps around the holidays. By then she should be better prepared to be someone’s wife. Again.
