By the time they reached the Inn the sun was almost shining.
The honeymoon couple greeted them in the driveway and offered to take their bags. They were smiling and pleasant and extremely friendly: that’s when Annie realized that, like Lottie’s husband—and the others who’d stuck around the Inn that morning—odds were they’d heard that Simon Anderson was coming to Chappy. To the Inn.
The thought of which helped her right mind finally slip back into place.
Both men declined the offers to for help, saying thanks, but they could manage their gear.
“Bill, you’ll be upstairs in the Inn,” Annie said. “Simon, we’re giving you the cottage, down toward the beach. I hope it works for you.” She could have said it was the best they could do on such preposterously late notice and during the second-busiest week of the season. But she knew that an important part of being an innkeeper was to stay both friendly and positive, and if they received a poor TripAdvisor review, Kevin would be all over her case. That is, if he still cared.
“I’d like to see the Inn first,” Simon said. “Get the lay of the land, you know?” Leaving his bags on the patio, he gestured for Annie and the others to go inside, and he followed.
For Simon, the highlight of the tour wasn’t the media room, as Annie might have expected, but the reading room. “Very nice,” he said, while his gaze skimmed the volumes that lined the shelves. “Eclectic.” Apparently it didn’t bother him that her tenants the elementary schoolteachers were sitting in the comfy chairs, pretending—yes, pretending, Annie thought, as she hadn’t seen the pair in there before—to be reading. He said hello to them both; they twittered nervous replies.
For Bill, the best part seemed to be the great room with its wall of windows that, according to him, offered “a photographer’s fantasyland.” Indeed, as the sun struggled to burn through the leftover murky air, in the distance, the Edgartown lighthouse was bathed in a pale golden aura.
Simon suggested they get organized in their rooms; he told Bill he’d text him when he was ready to hunt for lunch. He said good-bye to the honeymooners, who had tagged along for the tour; to Greg and Harlin, who were huddled in the media room playing some sort of game—also no doubt pretending because, again, Annie noted this was the first time she’d seen them in there—and to Toni and Ginny, who were still in the kitchen, scrubbing and disinfecting the stainless appliances and smiling the whole time. Annie wondered if Simon thought the ladies were members of the staff.
“Sorry about asking for a tour,” Simon said to Annie as they went outside and he picked up his bags. “I’ve found that whenever I land somewhere new, it helps if I get the gawking out of the way. But I suppose you know what I mean.”
Annie hardly considered that being recognized in bookstores or at the post office could be compared with what Simon had to deal with. Few best-selling authors would be picked out in a generic crowd—Stephen King, J. K. Rowling, Neil Gaiman, perhaps more. But Annie was fairly certain that countless more people turned on the news at night than picked up, or ever would pick up, one of Annie’s mysteries and study her image on the back cover.
“This way to the cottage,” she said with what she hoped was only the slightest hint of a smirk, then led the way down the sloping hill.
* * *
He used the word “quaint,” when Annie opened the door. She’d been hoping for “homey” or “comfortable”; “quaint” reminded her of the peony wallpaper that had decorated her grandmother’s dining room. He shoved his bags into the corner of the living room, plunking the duffel on the edge of her equally quaint braided rug. The one that her peony-wallpaper-loving grandmother had made.
Annie told him to help himself to anything he wanted in the kitchen; she then showed him the bedroom, the bathroom, and the writer’s room.
“You live here?” Simon asked.
She laughed. “Don’t worry. You’ll have the place to yourself. We’re a little tight this time of year, so we make do however we can.”
“Please tell me you won’t be sleeping on the beach. Remember the opening scene inJawsthat took place at night and that young couple . . .”
“Yes,” Annie said she remembered. “Are you planning to make a film? Is that why you’re here?” She hadn’t intended to ask outright, but, well, there it was. There had to be a good reason that he’d left New York and come out to the island and brought an assistant who’d noted that the view was a “photographer’s dream” and therefore might have cameras and equipment inside the duffels.
Simon smiled his several-million-dollar smile but didn’t answer.
“I didn’t tell our guests that you were coming,” she added, returning the smile. “But it’s a small island. Apparently, the word had spread before I’d hardly known. But though my audience is miniscule compared with yours, I understand your need for privacy. Most islanders do. Celebrities are everywhere here.” She hoped she hadn’t offended him, but she didn’t want him to think that she engaged in gossip. “But please,” she added, “let me know if any of them bother you.”
“Don’t worry. I can handle it. Besides, my reason for being here isn’t terribly sensational. I’m laying the groundwork for a special report on how climate change is affecting our country’s top vacation spots. I’d give you the details, but I wouldn’t want one of my competitors to scoop me on it.” He winked. She melted a little. Just a little.
Then, as she pulled her thoughts back to reality, Annie realized that the topic of climate change in top vacation spots didn’t sound like one of Simon’s cutting-edge, never-been-done documentaries; perhaps he had a shocking new angle to the story.Of course there would be more to it, she thought. No journalist won as many Emmys as he had by exposing too much about a project—to anyone—prior to the airdate. “We have a guest who’s also interested in the influences of climate,” Annie said. “She’s actually doing a study of the leatherback turtles. Their patterns are changing due to warmer waters.”
“Is it one of the ladies in your library?”
“No. You didn’t see her.” It occurred to Annie that, once again, Mary Beth had been absent. She hadn’t seemed like a loner and yet . . .
“Perhaps you and I can have dinner one evening,” Simon was saying. “I can tell you more about my concept and we can talk about how I might be able to tie-in a promotion for your Inn. It’s the least I can do after kicking you out of your home.”
Unsure if he were asking for a date, trying to drum up advertising sponsors, or simply tossing off a casual remark, Annie didn’t know if she should tell him that she was going to be married soon. But that would be presumptuous, so she only said, “Perhaps we can.” She smiled again and left him to settle in. Slipping off her rain jacket, she walked back to the Inn to tell everyone they were now free to get on with their day. After which there was one more thing she needed to do.
Chapter 9
Sitting in the reading room that Toni and Ginny had deserted, Annie penned an old-fashioned, ink-on-paper note that she hoped sounded pleasant:
Hi Mary Beth,
