Dream on, she thought.
She passed a booth of gorgeous handwoven shawls, passed the lavender lady who showed pouches and silk pillows filled with her homegrown buds, and passed rows of artful cloth handbags made by a young woman who did not look much older than Lucy.
Then she spotted a girl with blond-highlighted hair pinned on top of her head. She was standing in a booth across the aisle, thumbing through what Annie recognized as Sue Freshette’s array of hand-painted long skirts and shawls—Annie knew Sue from artisan festival meetings. But Sue’s work wasn’t the only thing Annie recognized: though she hadn’t seen the girl in over a year, she was sure that it was Abigail.
For a few seconds, it seemed that someone had hit the pause button in the Ag Hall, giving Annie the chance to study her not-yet-stepdaughter. She was a pretty girl, softer-looking than Lucy, perhaps because she was older. From this vantage point, she didn’t resemble her sister, though maybe her grandmother Claire. Mixed in with Jenn.
Annie wondered if she had the courage to approach her. Perhaps there, on neutral ground, she could come straight out and ask if Abigail had taken the photo, and if she had, what on earth had been her intention? Annie would do her best not to be menacing . . . to try and act as if she were interested for no special reason—no big deal. Maybe she could make a joke about it.
“Thanks for helping to boost my book sales!” she could say while flashing a big smile. “Some people might think I put you up to it!” Ha ha.
She could then suggest that they do lunch one of these days.
The muffled laughter that came from the high-pitched ceiling could only have been Murphy’s.
Then Annie saw Abigail hold up a shawl that was woven with thin abstract ribbons in soft shades of green that made it look like beach grass. It was a lovely item; it appeared that Abigail made good choices in clothing if not always in actions. But as she reached to hand the shawl to the artist, Abigail’s body shifted; if she raised her head, they would come eye to eye. Annie ducked behind a row of handbags as if she were a private detective who’d nearly been caught stalking her prey. Or more like a preschooler with her hand in that elusive cookie jar. And, Annie realized, about as mature. So she gingerly peered round the corner and saw that Abigail was examining a skirt that was painted in shades of gold like fields of hay waiting to be reaped in West Tisbury or Chilmark.
“May I help you?”
Annie jumped. She turned and looked—dumbfounded, she knew—at the young woman in the booth where Annie stood, the one who did not look much older than Lucy.
“Are you interested in a particular bag?”
Glancing around, Annie regained her bearings.Right, she thought. She was standing amid a sea of handbags.
“Yes,” she said, grabbing the first one she spotted. It was made of linen-colored canvas and was adorned with a number of felt flip-flops, most of which had seashells and rhinestones glued onto them. Annie supposed that the third-grade girls she’d once taught would have loved it, especially with the glittery magenta words “Martha’s Vineyard” that danced across the top and stood out like tourists up at the cliffs, binoculars and cameras dangling from iridescent cords around their necks.Like glow necklaces, she thought. She quickly plucked the bag from the peg. “This is lovely. How much?”
“Sixty-five.”
Annie nodded as if she were considering it.
Then the girl said, “I know you, don’t I? Aren’t you Lucy Lyons’s friend? Lucy and I are in the same grade. You came to school last year and talked to us about writing, didn’t you?”
So, of course, Annie melted. “I did,” she said, trying to keep her voice low. “It was a lot of fun.”
The girl nodded. “Artists like us have to stick together, right?”
Annie wasn’t sure what the girl meant, but in any event she fished into her purse and handed over her debit card.
But as the girl rang up the sale, Annie felt an eerie shadow brush past her, leaving a slight chill in its wake. She shivered; she glanced over to Sue Freshette’s booth but did not see Abigail. If the shadow had been her, and if she’d seen Annie, she hadn’t bothered to stop and say hello.
* * *
Annie walked away from the handbag booth, toting a paper bag that held her purchase.
“Annie!” Thank goodness, the voice that called her name was cheerful and familiar.
Whirling around, Annie stepped right into Winnie’s hug. Oh. Yes. She had really, really needed that. By the time she pulled away, tears welled in her eyes.
Winnie frowned. “Let’s go outside. Barbara’s person-ing my booth, and I need fresh air.” Barbara was Winnie’s sister-in-law, part of the “tribe” who lived under Winnie’s roof. She was also a nurse who worked at the hospital, but when it came to the fair, it was all hands on deck to manage Winnie’s popular creations.
They went outside; Winnie led her to a quiet picnic table in the shade.
“So here we are at the fair. Again,” Winnie said.
“How are you?” Annie asked. “It’s hard to believe that summer’s almost gone. How was yours?”
“Busy. The usual. Things going well at the Inn?”
