“Seriously? You don’t read theTimesonline?”
Annie laughed. “It’s summer on Martha’s Vineyard. I barely have time to check my email, let alone read theMV Times.” Then it occurred to her that Trish had meant theTimesas inThe New York Times.
“You’re on the front page of the Entertainment section,” Trish replied, ignoring the bit about the Vineyard newspaper. The headline says it all: ‘Simon Anderson Must Love a Mystery. ’ The subhead reads: ‘Martha’s Vineyard rendezvous with mystery author Annie Sutton.’ Below that is a terrific picture of the two of you. It looks like you’re in a nighttime embrace, surrounded by all kinds of glowing things.”
The vehicles in front of Annie inched toward the dock; she was too shocked to start her car and move it forward. Behind her a horn blew, then two.
“Are you kidding?” she asked, finally turning on the ignition and inching ahead. “It isn’t true!” A veil of moisture surfaced on her brow.
“Oh, hush, don’t be foolish. Pictures don’t lie. Besides, it’s wonderful news. Nobody cares if it’s true. The fact is, Simon’s name is contagious. He’s highly visible and so damn good-looking he makes hearts throb and juices flow. And now he’s on fabulous Martha’s Vineyard, clearly smitten with an equally fabulous women.”
“He’s a married man, Trish. And, believe me, I’m not that fabulous.” She knew that in addition to being a topnotch editor, Trish had a great sense of building an author’s image and audience. Which might translate into high numbers of book sales, but right then, it felt smothering. And personal. Too personal. Maybe she’d been wrong to think that city life was anonymous.
“The fact that he’s ‘married with children’ only makes the story more titillating.”
“For the last time, thereisno story.”
“Don’t you understand, Annie? Women around the world are going to be jealous. If they’re not already your readers they will be, because, my dear, you’ve beennoticed. So, I repeat, this is wonderful news. And right in time forMurder on Exhibit. No matter what you think, it’s a spectacular stunt. Our publicity department could not have done better.”
A publicity stunt? That was what Winnie had suggested. But if it had been one for Simon . . . why with her? Annie thought about the picture on VineyardInsiders . . . obviously the one in theTimeswas the same. How did it make it to the Entertainment front page so fast? Sometimes she hated how information—especially the hostile kind—now spread faster than the speed of anything, and not just around the island. “I doubt that Simon is desperate for a ratings bump, Trish. Even if he is, he wouldn’t get one from me.”
“Never underestimate yourself,” Trish reprimanded.
Then a cold, dull ache nagged at Annie’s gut, as reality finally comprehended. She knew that all the talking in the world, all the speculating over whodunit and why, was not going to unravel the answer. She needed to get to the bottom of this, and she needed to do it alone. Because no one else had as much to lose.
As she watched the sunlight glimmer on the rippling water, Annie calmly said, “I’m sorry, Trish. I have to go. I’ll call you later.”
Quickly disconnecting, she stared out at the wharf and the water, at small groups of ice-cream-cone-licking children and adults who were not at the beach or the fair or in a sailboat circumnavigating the island. They were summer people, on vacation. Perhaps they thought, the way Annie once had, that one day, if they were lucky, they, too, could move to “fabulous” Martha’s Vineyard and leave all their troubles behind.
* * *
Once back on Chappy, Annie didn’t go home. Instead, she drove to the Indian Burial Ground, her favorite place to go for what she called “a good think.” The first time she’d been there had been on Christmas Eve, not long after she’d moved to the Vineyard.
There was nothing fancy about the graveyard. It was a small plot of land atop a short hill that overlooked Cape Poge Bay. Not many summer people knew about it; hardly anyone ventured there, though sometimes they stumbled upon it when hiking the island. It was quiet and modest, with only sixteen gravestones indicating the graves of members of the long-ago Chappaquiddick Wampanoag Tribe; fewer than a dozen other markers were unreadable, though it was thought that they, too, were Wampanoags, and several unadorned fieldstones were thought to honor their earlier ancestors.
A narrow path separated a couple of dozen other stones from the Wampanoags; they were from later years—several were Earl’s ancestors, and, of course, John’s. And Lucy and Abigail’s. A few were unmarked; two only had initials—G. P. and D. B.—but Annie hadn’t been able to see those in late December, as they’d been covered by a thick cloak of snow.
She’d gone to the burial ground that first time with Earl. Curiously, a path had been plowed, allowing them to trek to the Lyonses’ stones. Earl had brought a miniature, potted fir that was decorated with a string of popcorn and small red birds fashioned out of birdseed and was topped with a star that was shaped out of suet; he set it on the ground in front of the memorials to his ancestors: Orrin, Patience, Silas, and others. Earl had removed his knit hat, knelt in the snow, and bowed his head.
It turned out that John had been there earlier that day and had plowed the path for Earl’s visit. It was their family tradition. At the time, Annie hadn’t yet met John, but she’d been touched by his caring and his respect for his father and for those who had come before them. Perhaps more than that, she’d been moved by the act that was between father and son, done in private in such a remote place, with no need to impress anyone.
As Annie stood in the burial ground now, she looked out at the vista of clear blue water that was not accented by a skin of wintery ice as it had been on that Christmas Eve, but by colorful, luminous kayaks. She thought about how she’d admired John before having met him, and how only a few weeks later, she’d fallen in love.
John Lyons was an amazing man. She didn’t doubt that he cared for her. But they were not teenagers; they were not each other’s first love. His ex-wife might have been his first, or maybe not. He might be planning to go back to her, or maybe not. No matter what the future might or might not hold, the road to commitment felt more treacherous now, paved as it was with past mistakes, lessons learned, and hesitations to take a chance again.
Or maybe it was just her.
Still, he should have listened to her explanation. It was the first time she’d been the subject of his anger, his jealousy, his doubt about her feelings for him. The timing might have driven his behavior; Abigail’s return and trying to keep peace between his daughters must be stressful for him. Especially since he also needed to keep peace, day and night, throughout the crowded streets of the much-heralded town that had somehow gained a reputation for glamor, glitz, and, incorrectly, anything-goes.
In short, if Annie was going to be his wife, how much slack should she cut him? Was being a fiancé supposed to raise the level of the bar of tolerance? And if so, why hadn’t he done that with her? Were his stressors so much worse than hers? They might be, she supposed, if one included a desire to move to Plymouth to reunite with his former wife.
Despite her questions, as she strolled through the graveyard, Annie felt the calming presence of the souls at rest. As she walked, her priorities came into focus. She knew it was time to gather the facts.
Fact one was that she could not pretend she hadn’t been a teensy bit smitten by Simon, thanks to his attention—and perhaps his damn sexy charisma. But no one would know that, except Murphy, who probably was listening to her thoughts right then.
Fact two was that Simon was married. And had kids. Three of them. And though Trish had said it made the story more titillating, the comment had made Annie shudder.
But fact three might be the most important: Annie must figure out who had taken the picture, who had posted it on VineyardInsiders, who had leaked it to theTimes—as inNew York Times, not theMVone. It had to be the same person. And though it would be convenient to believe that Abigail was behind it, Annie doubted that the eighteen-year-old had connections to national or international media, or a way to coerce theTimesinto including it on their site.
