Annie took a long, hot shower because she didn’t know what else to do. But standing under the steamy water didn’t stop the questions from swirling. She dried her hair and dressed in a pale green T-shirt and white capris, but didn’t want to go anywhere. Though Francine would arrive soon to start breakfast, Annie did not want to see anyone, talk to anyone, be on stage. So she changed back into her pajamas, went back upstairs to the plywood floor, and crawled back into the sleeping bag, doubting that she’d fall sleep.
Staring at her laptop that rested on the chair where she’d draped her clothes from yesterday, she couldn’t bring herself to look at VineyardInsiders again. Her only hope was that by eight or nine o’clock, other gossip would have flooded the site so the image of her in the supposed intimate moment would be emasculated by time. And hopefully lack of interest. But she knew enough to know that there would be comments followed by comments about the comments and so on and so on, bumping it back to the top. Annie had never been sure how the “thread” of online conversation technically worked; that was her publicist’s job. She wondered if anyone could make it go away.
Could Lucy?
John’s daughter had proved her expertise at dispensing with previous social media entanglements. But was she angry with Annie, too—so angry that she wouldn’t try? Then again, maybe Annie should leave her alone and not put her in the position of having her emotions pulled between loyalty to her dad and friendship with Annie. Especially when Annie knew who would win.
Trying to ease the sensation that a fish bone was stuck in her gullet, she closed her eyes. But all she saw was a vision of John standing in her doorway, angry and accusing, not waiting for an explanation, as if it were too late for one.
It reminded her of her friend Lauren DelNardi, when they’d been in the fourth grade. The day before Valentine’s Day, Annie’s mother had made her stay home with a cold. Lauren had stopped by after school; Annie showed her the sugar cookies with dollops of strawberry jam—Annie’s favorites—that her mother made for the class party the next day. But Lauren said that their teacher, Mrs. Landry, had announced that no one was to in bring cookies or cakes because everyone in school was getting fat. And there would be no valentine cards, either, because they were too old for that immature tradition.
When Annie arrived at school in the morning, Mrs. Landry greeted each student at the door and accepted sweet treats that mothers had made, and she displayed them on a long table that the kids had decorated with red heart-shaped doilies. Annie shook her head and murmured that she hadn’t brought anything. Even worse, when she got to her desk, it was piled with valentines from the other kids.
Annie felt sick. “Did you lie to me?” she asked Lauren.
But Lauren giggled and said Annie should have known it was a joke—after all, Annie was the smartest one in the class, wasn’t she? A boy who Annie liked overheard the conversation; he and Lauren exchanged smirks.
Back home, Annie and her mom and dad ate the valentine cookies every night for dessert until they were stale. Her mother threw the rest out.
And though Annie stopped being friends with Lauren, she was left feeling hollow and alone.
She felt that way now. The man who was going to be her husband—unless he’d changed his mind—had been more pissed over the gossip about him and the fact that his daughter had showed him, than he was interested in learning the truth. Or in trusting her. It was as if he, too, had betrayed her—not the way Lauren had, but it left Annie with the same kind of desolate feeling.
Then another question started to simmer: If John was this upset about a frivolous photo that had been neither her doing nor her fault, what would happen when she wrote more books and gained more visibility? How would he react about whatever inaccurate gossip might blossom from that?
She sat up as a lone question formed: Was this marriage meant to be? Would it prevent Annie from being her own person, having her own career, at the risk of John becoming jealous when it was unfounded? And why hadn’t it occurred to her earlier that living on the Vineyard wouldn’t protect her from that kind of nonsense?
She hung her head. She felt deflated and defeated, all because she’d wanted to have fun while getting to know Meghan better. She couldn’t, of course, explain that to John because of her promise. Right then, however, she didn’t think he’d listen, anyway.
Then Annie thought about Earl. He would no doubt be at the Inn early that morning. But Earl was patient; he was fair. He would want to know how the photo came to be. He would listen to Annie’s side of the story and maybe later try to talk some sense into his son.
But right then Annie didn’t feel like talking to him, either.
Claire would take John’s side because, first and foremost, she was his mother. She might confront him in private, but she’d defend him in public, because that was what mothers did.
If Kevin were there, Annie could have talked to him, asked for his advice. But even if he came home tomorrow, he’d be too busy with his own predicament: Meghan.
Annie knew she had to think this through, talk this through, with someone. It was her mess and hers alone, no matter that she hadn’t asked for it. As with what Lauren had done to her, whoever had snapped the photo and posted it likely had wanted to be vindictive toward Annie. Or maybe Simon. Or John. But the “why” was as elusive as the “who.”
Murphy might have chimed in with a plausible guess, but she’d always been a late sleeper.
Annie knew that though this was a totally crazy week all over the island, there was only one person she could speak to. So she climbed out of the sleeping bag again, put her clothes back on, skimmed a brush through her hair, and headed down the stairs for the long drive up island to Winnie’s.
Chapter 14
It was opening day of the annual Ag Fair, now in its 159th gathering, having been shuttered only once during World War II and again in the COVID-19 pandemic. The traffic on West Tisbury Road was bumper-to-bumper; many of the vehicles towed horse trailers or were small open trucks that were carrying pigs or alpacas. Annie supposed that the Ferris wheel, the Scrambler, and other amusement rides had already arrived along with a raft of food trucks, as had the crafts and produce displays, the 4-H exhibits, and much more.
The first year Annie had gone she’d had a booth in the hall where she’d offered her wonderful soaps that Winnie taught her to make. Since then, Annie loved participating in the fair and lots of festivals, but though she’d had high hopes, she hadn’t been able to participate in any events since the Inn had opened; there had been little time to devote to her hobby. After the book tour she’d have to finish her manuscript-in-progress, but maybe there would be time to make enough soap for the Christmas Fair. It’s not as if she might be busy doing other things, like making wedding plans.
As the vehicles inched toward State Road, Annie suddenly slammed on her brakes.Winnie!she thought. Winnie wouldn’t be up island—she’d be at the fair. She’d be showing and selling her lovely pottery that she made from the clay of the Gay Head Cliffs and her special wampum jewelry that she buffed and carved out of purple-and-white quahog shells that were indigenous to the Vineyard. Though wampum was still found exclusively on its shores, a few renegade pieces sometimes washed in with the tide on Cape Cod or Rhode Island.
Luckily, the car behind Annie had been paying attention and Annie’s Jeep wasn’t rear-ended.
When she finally reached State Road, she turned right toward the fairgrounds instead of left toward Aquinnah. Winnie might be too busy to talk, but at least Annie would be assured of a big hug, which she needed more than anything.
By the time she parked in the dirt-packed lot and walked toward the Ag Hall, the fair was in full swing, the air was filled with the sounds of music and people and life, mixed with the country scents of farm animals that somehow pleasantly mingled with those of fried dough and clam fritters. All of which served to remind Annie that no matter what, time would pass, as would this latest crisis, and that being on the island remained far preferable to living in Boston.
Inside the cavernous building, a large crowd milled in unison like the sheep outside that were patiently waiting to show off their bounty in a shearing demonstration. Weaving around the browsers and shoppers, waving at familiar faces, Annie couldn’t help but wonder how many of them had seen VineyardInsiders. Was there a chance they had but didn’t care?
