She sighed and forced a smile. “I have no idea.”
They finished their meals and shared a dish of ice cream. Then John had to leave for work, and Annie headed back to Chappy, the when, where, and how of their nuptials remaining unresolved.
Chapter 3
If blueberry scones could be dreamy, Francine’s surely were.
“Deliciously sinful,” the newly wedded, pink-cheeked, perky wife remarked the following morning.
“What she said,” her husband, preppy and well postured, agreed as he reached for another.
The bird-watching couple—retired UMass professors; she, tall, lanky, and loquacious; he short, boxy, and ponderous—begged for the recipe.
Francine laughed and poured more coffee. “The key ingredient is a heap of locally grown Chappaquiddick wild blueberries. I’m afraid you won’t find them in Western Mass.”
Annie doubted that she’d ever tire of the intriguing mix of guests that the Inn attracted. No matter how different they were from one another, they bonded over muffins or scones, Francine’s special egg-and-cheese casserole, or whatever she’d cooked up that drew them to breakfast table and caused them to linger. It had become one of Annie’s favorite places and often her favorite time of day, listening to the stories of their lives—from the humblest to the most outrageous.
That morning, as most mornings, the year-round tenants had taken their morning meals to go because they had to get to work: a carpenter, a restaurant server/mariachi bandleader, and a young married couple who were elementary school teachers and who were helping get the school ready for September. Ms. Mullen—whose first name Annie had yet to ask—also had wanted Francine to wrap a scone for her; she’d said she wanted to get to Vineyard Haven and start doing research, something about sea turtles.
After the newlyweds and the birders dispersed for island adventures, Annie was clearing the table when it occurred to her she hadn’t heard anything recently about turtles on Chappaquiddick, not the big ones, anyway. During the fishing derby in the fall there were occasional sightings; last winter there’d been an uptick of newborn gray seals, but not a noticeable increase in loggerheads or leatherbacks. Or maybe it hadn’t made the news feeds or VineyardInsiders.com, the island’s in-the-know online connection.
What Annie found more peculiar was that there were plenty of places where Ms. Mullen could have stayed that would be more conducive to doing research; if she worked for MBL, as her T-shirt suggested, surely they must have accommodations on the Vineyard for staff. However, like with Kevin and Taylor, Ms. Mullen’s life was none of Annie’s business.
Still, if something interesting was happening with turtles on Chappy, she’d like to know about it. Though her mysteries took place in a fictitious museum in downtown Boston, maybe a leatherback could make an unexpected visit.The turtle did it, she thought with a laugh.
Bringing the last load of dishes into the kitchen, Annie knew she had to put off the rest of her innkeeping chores, get back to her cottage, and get to work. She meandered toward the chef’s room—the wonderful concept Francine had learned about in one of her university classes and had convinced Earl and Kevin to fit into their building plans. Because it was Sunday, Francine would be in there, checking the inventory for the coming week. In the few months since they had opened, their routines had grown nicely predictable.
Standing in the doorway of what looked like a giant walk-in closet, Annie surveyed the well-organized area: shelves on the right held tightly sealed ceramic crocks filled with flour and white sugar, brown sugar, granola, and grains—enough to assemble an assortment of baked goods for twelve people or twenty; on the left, rows of smaller glass canning jars stored spices and seasonings and what Francine called “add-ons”—baker’s chocolate, pure maple syrup, an array of dried fruits and nuts. And more, so much more. Across the back wall, specialty bakeware and appliances were stationed atop deep marble counters that featured built-in electrical outlets so Francine—or whoever was prepping breakfast—could keep any mess or noise out of sight and earshot of their guests. With an oversized farm sink and a refrigerator/freezer, the chef’s room had been a brilliant addition. The main kitchen had another farm sink, the baking ovens, and an eight-burner, cast-iron cooktop so guests would be treated every morning to inviting aromas wafting into the great room where the massive dining table stood in front of floor-to-ceiling windows.
The dream they had created was, in large part, why Annie still had trouble believing all the wonderful things that had happened in the past couple of years. With enough gratitude in her heart to rein in her worries about the future—if only for a moment—she stepped into the room and asked, “Can you use my help with anything?”
“All is blissfully under control,” Francine replied as she closed a drawer and jotted something on her iPad. “Claire’s still upstairs with Bella; they’re having a tea party.”
Earl’s wife had signed up for what she called “Morning Bella Duty.” Every morning at seven o’clock, either Earl or Kevin brought Claire to the Inn so she could take charge of Bella while Francine tended to breakfast. Their small team had learned to make things work, or, if need be, improvise.
Annie suppressed a wince, aware that the balance would be radically tipped if Kevin didn’t come back. But determined to stay positive, she pushed down her apprehension and said, “You’ve turned into a wonderful mom, Francine.”
“Only because of all the help I’ve had. But thanks, Annie. I mean, who knew, huh?”
Annie snickered. “I, for one, am not the least bit surprised.”
Francine lowered her dark, soulful eyes and gave Annie a cockeyed smile, as she did whenever she was embarrassed.
“Did you have a nice dinner last night?” Annie asked. “With Jonas and the bass?”
Tilting her head, Francine said, “Yes. And before you ask, I do like him. A lot.”
“I figured that. He’s a nice young man. He’s been through a lot.”
“I know.”
“And so have you.”
“Maybe that’s why we like each other,” she said, lowering her eyes again.
Annie nodded. “Whatever makes you happy, makes me happy.” She gave Francine a hug. “Now, I’m off to my other job. I’ll be in the cottage trying to channel Agatha Christie in case anyone needs me.”
“Good luck with that.”
