The next thing Annie knew, everyone—everyone—stood up and began to divvy up the chores. As badly as Annie would have liked to sit there and cry at the awesome group of veritable strangers, she knew she needed to get a move on. She suspected that Simon Anderson wasn’t accustomed to waiting for much of anything, let alone an innkeeper in a Jeep on a rainy Vineyard day.
* * *
The small waiting area at the entrance for private plane passengers was crowded. Several people were grouped close to the door that led out to the tarmac; they held signs with bold, felt-marker names: Mr. Reynolds; The Franklins; Waterson Wedding Party. Annie wondered if she should have made one to let Simon know she would be his chauffeur.
The rain had let up a little, but the sky was still gray and moderately foggy, the air still damp and chilly. As tempted as she’d been to toss a yellow slicker on over her regular old jeans and sweatshirt, at the last minute she’d changed into a pale blue linen shirt and sweater, white jeans, and a Stutterheim Mosebacke navy raincoat that she’d bought for her upcoming book tour. She had no idea why she’d felt compelled to make a good first impression on the journalist, whose head was probably already larger than the plane that he was flying in on.
Airport personnel assured her that, yes, a private plane from Teterboro was due in at eleven twenty-eight, but they could not say if it was Simon’s flight. Annie had no way of knowing if he owned the plane, had chartered it, or if it belonged to the TV station. Thenetwork, she corrected herself.
She glanced at her watch again: eleven twenty. She wondered if she should text John to let him know where she was and whom was she was picking up. Maybe Earl had told him. Or the island’s mysterious, high-speed grapevine. Celebrities were no big deal on the Vineyard; if anything, the police stifled their groans when they learned that another high-profile tourist was en route. To them, it tended to mean one word: disruption. Having been born and raised there, John certainly had seen more than his share of famous people and was not about to become googly-eyed. She hoped the guests and tenants at the Inn would be respectful and give Simon space. Though Annie still had no idea why he was coming, or why he’d chosen the Inn, he—like all their guests—was entitled to privacy. For sure.
The trill of a small jet engine vibrated nearby; the necks of the bystanders crooked to see who would alight. After a few minutes, several young men and women strutted down the steps and onto the asphalt. The woman with the sign that read “Waterson Wedding Party” stepped forward. Perhaps she’d seen photos of her passengers beforehand.
The rest of the greeters, Annie included, moved aside to let the wedding party through the doorway.
“Welcome to Martha’s Vineyard,” their driver said.
“Which way to the bar?” one of the young men chortled and the others snickered as they crammed together, pack-like, and followed the driver through the terminal.
Annie quietly whined.
The next thing she knew, another plane had arrived, though through the din of the wedding party, she hadn’t heard the engine. But when she looked up there was Simon Anderson, moving toward the entrance with a bit of a swagger, juggling a backpack and a duffel bag. The others in the waiting area moved apart again with nonplussed precision.
Annie stepped forward. “Hello. I’m Annie. From the Inn.”
He was more handsome than he appeared on the small screen—if that were possible—with thick black hair that was faintly brushed with silver, teal blue eyes, and a smile that could light up a starless night on Chappaquiddick.
She wondered if he realized she had gulped.
His handshake was firm, confident, warm. He introduced her to Bill something-or-other as his able-bodied assistant, who also had a backpack and a duffel. Annie shook his hand, too, saying it was nice to meet them both. She was grateful she’d changed out of her island day-to-day wear.
As they made it outside toward the Jeep, the men walked with purpose and did not mention the soggy weather. Instead, Simon explained that they’d hitched the flight with a colleague who was en route to Boston—something about an in-depth story on the big casino that had made an historic comeback after having been shut down during the pandemic.
Annie told him they’d been fortunate to weather that storm fairly well on the island. For people who always stuck together, they’d quickly learned to socially distance.
Thankfully, she’d removed Bella’s car seat, so there was enough room in the back for their gear.
Then the three of them got in, with Simon in the front. Much to Annie’s embarrassment, they hadn’t made it out of the parking lot before she said, “I watched you every night when you were in Boston. You were amazing in the aftermath of the Marathon bombing.”
He didn’t answer at first, but she noticed a thin smile cross his lips. Then he said, “Is this my cue to tell you that I’ve read your books?”
Annie steered the car down the airport access road toward Edgartown-West Tisbury Road. Her cheeks flushed, her stomach twitched.
Then Simon laughed. “In all honesty, I planned to, but I haven’t had a chance. They take place in Boston, don’t they?”
She nodded silently.
“Then I absolutely must. There’s nothing like a good old hometown mystery.”
With a mortified smile, she said, “I guess.”
Andsnap!—Annie Sutton became a googly-eyed girl.
* * *
All the way back to Chappy, Annie tried to not talk incessantly, but whenever she was nervous she tended to “run off at the mouth,” as her dad used to lovingly call it. Right then, it was hard not to. Once she’d learned that Simon had only been to the Vineyard once, years ago, she felt a need to point out the sights—allthe sights: the transfer station, which most folks still called “the dump”; the library, that was so much more than books; Main Street in Edgartown, the picturesque eighteenth-century whaling village that had been captured in many photographs and on many artists’ canvases. He asked a few questions about the town’s history, though they seemed to be more out of courtesy than genuine interest. For Annie, the trip was mentally and physically exhausting.
She didn’t relax until they boarded theOn Timeand the men were so enamored by the simplistic, harbor-worthy vessel that she finally took the time to shut up. And breathe. She wondered if Simon had that effect on all women or only on muddleheaded ones like her.
