A wistful look crossed Meghan’s face again. “Our marriage wasn’t perfect, Annie. I’m not sure any marriages are. But it was good. So I’ll wait. If nothing else, I owe it to him to let him see that I’m okay. And because I’ve never been sure if I did the right thing by not letting him know I was recovering.”
Annie nodded. “Where would the fun be if life was perfect?” She tried to be upbeat, for Meghan’s sake. But all she could think of was Brian’s beautiful face, and the four words he whispered to her each night before they fell asleep: “My Annie; my love.”
If she’d been able to go back to her cottage that night, she might have opened the Louis Vuitton trunk and taken out the album that held the memories of Brian and her. She would have sat for hours, lightly touching the photos of him. She still did that sometimes. She knew she should stop once she married John because it would upset him and why would she want to do that? But she’d never forget how much Brian had loved her. That was how she’d finally found the courage to move on.
But of course, Annie couldn’t go home that night, couldn’t wallow in the past, because the cottage was now occupied by Simon Anderson, who might or might not think that Annie was fair game for his lair. If he had a lair. Which, if he did, would surely be sizable.
When they arrived back at the Inn, Annie said, “I’d love to suggest coffee or tea but I’m bushed. So I’ll see you at breakfast?”
“Absolutely,” Meghan said. “And I’m going to try not to be afraid of what’s going to come next.”
* * *
Zipped in the sleeping bag, not ready for sleep, Annie’s thoughts drifted to Meghan—how much she had been through, how many years she had lost from her young life. Kevin once said that he’d wanted children . . . if they did reunite, was it too late for that?
From where she was lying, Annie could see stars outside the window; she hoped Donna was up there in the heavens.
It must have been difficult for Donna to have kept Meghan’s secret, to not have told Kevin that his wife was healing. Maybe Donna’s perpetual optimism that the couple would reunite had kept her going through her own illness, had kept her “staying positive,” as had been her mantra. And maybe that optimism had contributed to Meghan’s recovery, too.
Annie thought back to a rainy afternoon when she’d sat in the Black Dog with Donna, looking out at the big white ferry as it pulled from the pier, embarking on another crossing, another journey, another passage of time and people coming and going, weaving in and out of one another’s lives. Between sips of hot tea and spoonfuls of steamy chowder, Donna had abruptly said, “I’ve had a bout with cancer.” She admitted that her treatments had “not been pleasant.”
“I wonder what other secrets our mother is hiding,” Kevin had commented after Donna finally told him, too.
“Oh my wonderful brother,” Annie said now into the night, “you are in for a giant surprise about that—if you ever unhinge yourself from Taylor and get your butt back here where you belong.”
Entranced by the stars, Annie knew that as sad as she could get about the people she had lost, she liked to believe that those souls—including Donna—watched over her now. And that, yes, of course, Donna watched over Kevin, too.
Just then a silver comet streaked across the sky.
He could get used to eating fresh pineapple for breakfast. And mango. And papaya. Not the kind that had taken who knew how many days to be shipped to the mainland, then to the Vineyard, then onto the market shelves. Now that he’d tasted the real deal right from the source, he did not want to go back to the other junk.
“One day, you’ll be happy again,” his mother had said after Meghan hadn’t recognized him. “It will be different than before, but you will be happy. I promise.”
His mother, however, hadn’t known the whole story. That in addition to struggling with his own guilt, he’d also been struggling to forgive Meghan. He’d spared Donna the details, simply because he could not bear to tell her the rest. He had not wanted his mother to have to try and forgive Meghan, too.
Chapter 13
As with their vehicles, there were few reasons for anyone to lock the doors of their homes on Martha’s Vineyard, even in the twenty-first century. Oh, sure, there was an occasional break-in that typically involved a rambunctious band of summer kids who were testing the limits. And sometimes off season, island kids would sneak into empty seasonal houses and have a party or two. But overall, the Vineyard remained safe from marauders, petty thieves, or worse.
Which was why, as dawn began to break, Annie’s heart leaped into her throat when she was awakened by the sound of someone clomping up the stairs to her sleeping bag haven over the workshop. She clutched the bag up to her chin as if that might ward off the intruder by making her invisible.
She wondered if it was Simon, in search of payment for the glow necklace.
Holding her breath, she dared to open her eyes as the upstairs door opened.
Instead of Simon, she saw John. She smiled and rubbed her eyes.
“You awake?” he growled.
Hegrowled? Was she dreaming? “I am now,” she said.
He stomped across the room and stood over her, hovering, staring down. It didn’t look as if he’d come to Chappy for romance—his eyes had narrowed, his jaw was rigid. “Where’s your laptop?”
Her laptop? Had he barged into what was, for the time being, her room, because he wanted to Google something? Annie pulled herself halfway out of the bedding. “It’s downstairs. Charging. There’s no electricity up here yet.”
He turned and thumped back down the stairs. She wasn’t sure if he expected her to get out of bed and follow him.
She was, however, damned if she would. Not with the way he’d blasted in without an explanation. They hadn’t talked since . . . when? Monday morning? Three days ago?
