In less than a minute John returned. He handed back her IDs and a slip of paper.
Then he squatted and looked over to Meghan. “I hope you feel better soon.” He might have looked at Annie then, but she was busy shoving the paperwork into her purse and restarting the ignition. She gave him a dispassionate wave, and pulled away from the shoulder, back onto Edgartown-West Tisbury Road.
Chapter 22
There was a concert on the library lawn—Johnny Hoy and the Bluefish—a special Saturday night performance to honor library supporter and island icon Herb Foster for the publication of his latest book about the cross-culture of Yiddish and jive. It looked to be a lively gathering. But the library was closed.
So Annie slammed the gearshift into reverse, turned around, and headed toward theOn Time.
She was angry. Angry at herself that the Simon Anderson /Andrew Simmons connection hadn’t dawned on her earlier; angry that she’d been stopped for speeding, which had delayed her trip too long; angry that John had been the one to stop her, that he’d been so . . . professional, and that she’d responded as if she were a block of ice.
She was also angry that she wasn’t able to focus on Meghan right then. All she said was, “Maybe some good will come of all this. Maybe closure is on the horizon for both of us.”
When she reached Main Street, she slowed down: There was no point in causing more commotion.
“We might as well get back to Chappy,” she said. “So you can . . . pack?”
Meghan smiled. “Only if I’m going to leave tomorrow.”
Annie felt a spark of hope. “If?”
Pulling the bag that held Winnie’s bowl closer to her chest, as if afraid it would fall and break, Meghan replied, “Let’s just say I’m rethinking my impending departure. You might be able to find closure, but I won’t have a chance unless I see Kevin.”
Despite that there was little reason to think he’d be coming home soon, Annie decided it was important to have hope wherever—whenever—anyone could find it.
Navigating through the people-packed one-way streets of the historic village toward the dock, she spotted a parking space on Main Street and instantly claimed it.
“If you find a parking space in Edgartown in August, you have to grab it. Otherwise, you might never have good luck again.”
“An old wives’ tale?”
“Actually, I think it’s one of Earl’s. But as long as we’re here, do you want to get a glass of wine or a bite to eat before we go back?”
“After our gourmet food at the fair, I’m not at all hungry. But I’ll go if you promise to tell me what Simon maybe having had a job as a newspaper reporter has to do with you. It must be something serious for you to have dismissed John the way you did. And honestly, you were driving like the road was the Autobahn.”
Annie ran her hands around the steering wheel, its circle perfectly harmless, unless one lost control of it and killed a twenty-nine-year-old on a dark street in Back Bay, Boston. “I think Simon was theGlobereporter who interviewed me after Brian was killed,” she finally said. “And that his sudden appearance at the Inn is not a coincidence.”
“If it’s really him.”
“I know. It’s been years, and I was so rattled then I don’t really remember what he looked like, but in the beginning he seemed determined . . . and his name is too close to be a fluke . . .” Her words stumbled out. She blah-blahed the rest, including about how she’d enlisted the reporter to help her learn Brian’s secret, but that he’d never responded. That he might have lost interest. Or moved on.
Then someone banged on the window. “Excuse me, lady.”
Annie realized that the windows were still up, the engine was still running, the air conditioner still hummed. She put her window down.
A young woman in a taffeta pink sundress and carrying a matching pink clutch smiled and said, “Are you ever going to leave this spot? My husband is trying to find a place to park. We’re supposed to be at a wedding at the Whaling Church . . .”
“Oh!” Annie said. “I am so sorry. Yes. We can leave right now.”
“Can you wait until he comes around again? He’s driving a silver Range Rover.”
Summer people, Annie thought,often didn’t drive Jeeps.“Of course,” she said, then turned to Meghan. “While I wait for the Range Rover, how about if you pick up a couple of sandwiches for us? There’s a takeout place down by the ferry in case we want something later. Once we get home I can rest and you can decide if you want to pack. We can meet on the patio after dark, eat sandwiches, and watch for fireflies.”
“Sounds great.” Meghan opened the door. “But I have to warn you, I really am getting a small headache. If I take a pill, I’ll be knocked out for a while.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Okay, we’re on. But the treat is mine. Or actually, it’s Kevin’s, as I don’t have a paltry red cent that I can honestly say is mine.”
