“How’s it working out?”
“Okay. Fine.” There was no point in saying that Simon was in her cottage, that he’d been seen at the library reading one of her books, or that his assistant was very different from Simon. She would have shared all that if Kevin had been there, if they were sitting on her porch, him with a beer, her with a glass of wine. If he weren’t detached by so many miles of land and sea, by a Band-Aid now taped over his heart.
Annie turned away but could not shake the feeling that those cornflower eyes were boring a huge hole into the back of her skull. “How are things going over there?” She said it as if Hawaii, not Nantucket, was the next island over. Or Cuttyhunk, if one went west instead of east. Or, she wondered, were the Elizabeth Islands closer to Chappy than Cuttyhunk? She shook her head, annoyed that her mind always felt compelled to get the facts straight.
“All’s okay. It’s beautiful. And you’ll never believe it, but it looks just like its pictures. That was a joke.” He paused, then added, “And you didn’t ask, but Taylor’s okay, too.”
Without intending to, Annie turned around again; her eyes flicked to Meghan. “Oh,” she said. “Well. Good.” She knew she should say, “Tell her I said hello,” but that wasn’t possible, not right then.
She inhaled. Exhaled. “Is something on your mind or are you just checking in?” By then a light film of perspiration had formed on her brow.
“I can’t call my sister when I’m six thousand miles away?”
“I think it’s more like five. Five thousand miles. Six hours earlier.” Details again. Facts.
“You win,” he said. “Sorry I bothered you.”
“No. No, Kevin, you’re not bothering me. But right now things are crazy . . .” She would rather have told him that she was glad he’d called, that she missed him, that she loved him, that she was so sorry if she hadn’t been as supportive as he’d wanted her to be. She’d rather tell him that the love of his life was standing in front of her, healthy and beautiful, waiting for him to come home. To her.
“I know you must be wicked busy. Which is why I called. Because, believe it or not, I feel guilty about having left.”
She sucked in a quick breath. Did that mean he wanted to come back? “We all miss you,” was all she could think to say. Then she added, “A lot.”
“If you say so. But you sound weird.”
Closing her eyes in order to avoid Meghan’s, Annie said, “I’m weird? Well, thanks. I guess nothing’s changed, then.” She laughed. “Call anytime, brother. You should know that by now.”
“Will do,” he said. “In the meantime, I’ll try to have a good time. Not that you mentioned that, either.”
“Sure,” she said. “Have a good one.”
“Thanks,” he replied flatly.
But she knew that he knew she hadn’t meant it.
They hung up, and Annie flopped onto one of the tufted armchairs. “I blew my chance. I should have told him we needed him. And that he needed to come back. I should have made up a story . . .”
“Hush,” Meghan said. “It wasn’t the right time.” Then she added, “Is he okay?”
Annie hesitated, then nodded. “He’s okay.”
* * *
She knew it wasn’t fair.
Annie told Meghan she had to get some work done on the upcoming online promotions, but that she’d be back by six o’clock to pick her up. Then she put her laptop in the Jeep as if she’d been telling the truth. Instead, she parked in the lot at theOn Time, crossed over as a walk-on, and stepped onto land again in Edgartown. Dodging tourists on the narrow sidewalk of North Water Street, she finally reached the Harbor View Hotel. Across the road, she sat down on an empty bench that looked out toward the lighthouse and Chappy. From there, Annie could see the Inn as it ascended from the dunes, looking stately, majestic, welcoming. She sighed.
Her phone call with Kevin had been dreadful, as she’d been pretty much frozen from beginning to end. Not frozen like winters sometimes got during a nor’easter, but frozen stiff, like the bust of Agatha Christie in her living room unless Simon—or more likely, Bill—had ripped it off by then.
And though technically Annie hadn’t been lying to Kevin, she felt as if she had. She was caught in the middle, in that thankless chasm between someone you cared about who’d taken you into their confidence, and someone on the other side who you cared about as well, and who needed to know the truth.
Annie had been in that position years earlier when she’d only been fifteen, and had seen her aunt kissing a man who wasn’t Uncle Joe. They were on the “T” at rush hour; Annie was heading home from the dentist. And suddenly there was Aunt Sally, hanging onto a leather strap with one hand, her other arm wrapped around a man Annie didn’t know, had never seen before. Their lips were pressed against each other’s; their bodies were pressed, too.
“Aunt Sally?” Annie cried out before realizing it had been a stupid mistake to make her presence known, before she had the sense to slink off to another railcar. But Annie knew darn well it was Sally; she recognized the blonde-tinted hair, the ivory silk dress, the Etienne Aigner purse that draped from her shoulder on its long, narrow strap.
Sally had snapped her head toward Annie; the man did, too. With his open shirt, gold chain, and dark hair that hung over his collar, it definitely wasn’t Uncle Joe.
At the next stop, Sally urged Annie to get off the train with her. They went to a Brigham’s where Annie had vanilla ice cream with jimmies and Sally stirred an egg cream with a big straw.
