Annie wished he hadn’t referred to Simon’s loins as if she had—or wished she had—any kind of relationship with them. “Well, good for him. Did anyone at the breakfast table say if they knew or heard who’d taken the shot and posted it?”
Bill shook his head, but his mouth had twitched up into a slight smile that made her feel that he was mocking her. “Not that anyone admitted.”
She was seething now.
“It could have been one of Simon’s fans,” the mocker continued. “They’re everywhere. They suck up whatever gossip about him they can find. If you ask me, it’s pretty lame, but it’s part of the game. He knows that.”
“It’s hardly a ‘game’ if it involves innocent people.” She wanted to add so much more. But she’d already said too much to someone who could diss the Inn with “one or none” TripAdvisor stars. Tossing him another fake smile, she started to leave again when he said:
“Wait.”
She stopped but did not turn around.
“Maybe whoever did it was hoping to give a shout-out for the Vineyard Inn. Like maybe they thought they would help you. Free publicity, you know?”
Free, indeed. Except for the cost to Annie’s relationship. And to Simon’s family, not that she needed to care about them. Gritting her teeth, she replied, “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.” Then she flashed him the best innkeeper’s hospitable wave she could muster and trotted toward the path that led down to the beach.
* * *
The Adirondack chair was burrowed in sand up to the pitch of its fifteen-degree-angled seat. Annie wondered if another inn would tack the cost of refurbishment onto a guest’s bill.
“Simon,” Annie said.
He looked up from the tablet he’d been reading and shielded his eyes against the sun. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite mystery author.”
Based on what he’d said when they’d first met—and until Meghan had seen him in the library—he hadn’t read anything she’d ever written, nor was she one of his “favorite” authors.
“I’d offer you a seat, but as you can see, I only dragged one chair down here. Care for a spot on the sand?”
She could have told him they had plenty of real beach chairs available to guests up at the Inn. Instead, she ignored his remark and simply said, “What happened last night? And what did you have to do with it? Did you post it on the island website or get it to theTimes—or both?”
He grinned. “It never ceases to amaze me how quickly word travels these days. You can have a good time one night and then—boom!—just like that, the whole world knows about it.” He snapped his fingers when he said “boom.”
“I’m serious, Simon. While my editor is delighted at the publicity of the two of us supposedly being linked, it’s causing a boatload of trouble in my personal life. And I can’t believe it hasn’t damaged yours.”
“It’s a well-known fact that John Wanamaker, who, in 1876, founded what became one of the world’s largest retailers, once said, ‘I know that fifty percent of my advertising dollars are wasted, but I don’t know which fifty percent.’ I remind my wife of that often.”
Annie had no idea what any of that had to do with this. It was, however, becoming obvious that he was behind the photo. Though she still could not imagine why.
Simon turned off his device and donned sunglasses. “Neither you nor I have to ‘advertise’ in the old-fashioned way, but our ongoing visibility is as critical as if we needed to sell a line of fall women’s wear. We are our own brands, Annie. You’re the brand for your books; I’m the brand for my journalism. Like it or not, our brands need constant selling. In order to sell, we must advertise.”
“You’re a jerk,” she wanted to say. Oh, how she wanted to. She tried to recall the young man she’d seen every night on the local Boston news, the rising star who once had presented himself as humble and truthful, not someone with an agenda. Perhaps he’d had one all along and had been good at pretending. “I let my books speak for my so-called ‘brand,’” she said. “As for advertising, I leave that up to my publisher.”
“Today’s world is too competitive to leave your brand up to anyone but you. For example, don’t you have another book coming out soon? You must know that this kind of PR, this widespread exposure, is going to help sales.”
The sun was burning the back of her neck. The angrier she became, the worse it tingled. Without further invitation, she dropped onto the sand and draped the hem of her sundress discreetly between her knees. “We aren’t in the same business, Simon. Yes, our audience is important to each of us. But all I try to do is give my readers a good story they can enjoy for a few hours. I write one, sometimes two, books a year. I am not on the evening news. Every night. Night after night.”
He fell silent for a moment, as if letting her words sink in. “You’re originally from Boston,” he said.
She hadn’t expected that. And yet, she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised if he had Googled her in order to learn all he could about her, brand-to-brand. Or maybe he’d just read it on the book jacket in the library. She was beginning to wonder if his ratings, indeed, had been falling, and if he were frantically trying to invent a promotional pot wherever, whenever possible. Maybe she wasn’t his first “hit.”
“I am from Boston,” she replied. “Born and raised there.”
“As was I.”
“I used to watch you on the local news. But I didn’t know you’re a native.”
“It took lots of coaching to get rid of ‘chow-dah’ and ‘pahk the cah.‘”
