The sound of her brother’s name threatened to sap Annie’s energy again. She couldn’t let that happen; she had too much to figure out. “If you’re not out of the shop by the time I have to cross, just hop on the ferry and sit on one of the benches. I’ll wait for you on the Chappy side.”
* * *
The grounds of the Inn were quiet: Saturday evenings were usually like that, with the guests meandering around town and the tenants often working their second or third summer jobs, trying to make enough money to eke it out over the winter. If they were lucky, they were done working and were enjoying some pre-sunset time out at South Beach, where by then the beach chairs of the summer folks had been folded up, loud music had abated, and children had stopped jumping in the waves.
After checking to be sure Claire had left, Annie walked along the still-vibrant meadow on her way to the workshop where, indeed, she would rest. And “chill,” as Kevin might have called it. Whatever strength had propelled her across the Autobahn had nearly been sucked out of her when John had stopped her. At least it had been him and not an officer who didn’t know her and was as weary of summer as she was.
Now, in her peripheral vision, she saw her cottage standing in silence, almost as if it were waiting. For something. For someone. For . . . her?
Maybe it was time. Maybe if Simon was alone . . . maybe he wouldn’t be offended if she asked him outright if he was Andrew Simmons, and if so, whether or not he’d ever learned Brian’s secret.
Or maybe this all was a dream from which she’d wake up any minute.
In the meantime, Annie stepped, one hesitant sandal at a time, toward breaking her unwritten rule about never disturbing a guest unless there was an emergency.
Maybe this was one. For her.
As she went up onto the porch, opened the screen door, and raised her hand to knock on the main one, another thought zoomed into her brain cells: Had Simon come to the Vineyard to finally tell her what he knew?
Before Annie totally unraveled, she knocked.
But Simon did not come to the door.
He did not say, “Hello?”
He did not ask, “Who is it?”
She waited a moment, then knocked again. Still, no response. So she did what she reasoned any man or woman who perceived they had been wronged might do: she turned the handle. The door opened.
* * *
She left her sandals on the porch—a signal that she was inside and had nothing to hide, that she was merely checking on something in her own home, or making sure her guest had enough towels in the bath and treats in the refrigerator. She could come up with a thousand excuses that would sound plausible. But the bottom line was, she was technically, and maybe—who knew—illegally trespassing.
The next thing Annie knew she was in the living room, her bare feet set firmly on her grandmother’s braided rug. She moved into the bedroom, went straight to her nightstand, and retrieved a tiny key: other than her, only Kevin knew where to find it. Then she went to the Louis Vuitton where she might find the corroboration she needed.
She remembered the initial article in theGlobe—the who, what, where, when, and how of the accident. She didn’t recall if it had a reporter’s byline; still, it was doubtful she had saved it because she’d wanted only happy mementos of Brian in her scrapbooks.
But maybe Donna had clipped it out and tucked it away as she’d done with so many other things.
It still amazed Annie that her birth mother had followed Annie’s life, had documented records and photos of her since she’d been born, a legacy of a mother’s unconditional love that had never wavered, never died. When Annie first saw the trove of things concealed in the Vuitton, she unearthed the ones that she’d needed to know right then. But the Inn had been about to open, and there had been so much to do every hour, every day since then, she hadn’t had time to finish exploring the contents of the trunk. Instead, Annie had kept everything intact, knowing the treasures would be there, waiting, if she ever felt sad. Or alone.
Right now, she’d be happy if she found anything written by Andrew Simmons, even the one with the who, what, where, etc. Maybe something between the lines would trigger a memory or two that could point Annie toward learning Brian’s secret—the missing piece of her past.
Crouched on the floor, she spent the next couple of hours investigating every photo album, every scrapbook, every small cardboard box and 10” x 13” envelope that had been neatly clasped. Her jaw remained clenched, her pace was robotic; she did not allow tender emotions to surface; she could do that later. Off season, perhaps, when the luxury of time often permitted reflection.
But in spite of her diligence, Annie didn’t find a shred of detail about the accident, just a lone copy of Brian’s obituary that sent a lightning bolt straight from her head to her toes. Other than that, the only significant thing that happened was that both of her legs became cramped from crouching.
Closing the lid and locking it tightly, she wobbled to the nightstand to return the key to its place.
With a sigh of disappointment, she turned to leave the bedroom. Which was when she spotted Simon’s messenger bag on the floor next to the bed. It looked like fine leather, soft and expensive. And old. A well-worn, well-used case.
Stepping closer, Annie wondered if it was a classic, the kind of item Donna would have loved to have had in her antiques shop. A small brass nameplate was fastened between two brass buckles; she bent to see if it might be the name of the designer—perhaps it was a Vuitton, like her trunk.
Instead of a name, she saw three initials.
AJS.
As in Andrew (whatever-his-middle-name-was) Simmons.
