Annie waved and turned toward the back door as Francine called out, “Oh! Before you leave, can you please check our calendar and messages? I was in a hurry this morning and forgot.”
“Will do, boss,” Annie replied, which was a joke because the team had collectively decided that at The Vineyard Inn, no one would be the boss. Instead, though they each had certain chores—Annie’s were to socialize with the guests when she wasn’t writing, to help out with the vacuuming, dusting, and reservations when needed, and take care of anything else that no one either wanted to do or did not have the time for—they all had a say in the overall operation. After all, they were more than a team; they were a family, most of them not bound by blood but love.
* * *
Retracing her steps through the great room, Annie circled toward the staircase in the commodious, two-story foyer. She stopped at the front desk—an antique that had belonged to Earl’s grandfather and, like his ancestors, had been on Chappaquiddick as long as anyone remembered. It was crafted of vintage, gleaming walnut, with nooks, crannies, pigeon holes, and, most important, a center drawer that now concealed a laptop so the old-world charm wouldn’t be blighted by a visual of technology. The laptop was essential; when anyone wanted to book a room online, they were automatically linked to the Inn’s calendar where they could see up-to-the-minute room availabilities and instantly make reservations.
Kevin had researched the perfect software. He was much better at understanding it than Annie, and light-years ahead of Earl, who took pride in his Luddite leanings. Kevin did not, however, get involved with the actual schedule; he jokingly referred to administrative “stuff” as women’s work. He also said he’d had enough of book work when he’d had his construction business.
It now appeared that a pair of four-night reservations had been added to September’s calendar. Annie checked the grid; the month was nearly full.
Then she listened to voice mail: “You have three messages.”
The first was a hang-up.
The second caller wondered if they were taking reservations for Christmas. “Not a chance,” Annie whispered, but would return the call because hospitality wasn’t always about making money. She would explain that islanders rented the summer rooms off season in winter. It was another vow the “family” had made in order to provide housing opportunities to Vineyarders as well as to summer visitors. Technically, Francine’s room would be available once she went back to college after Labor Day, but they’d decided to leave it open in case someone showed up on their doorstep in dire straits. More than anyone, Francine understood that. Kevin, Earl, and Annie also had made sure that Francine knew The Vineyard Inn was her home. Hers and Bella’s. For as long as they wanted. And that their room would never be up for grabs for the sake of added revenue.
“Yes, hello,” the third caller, a man, said. “I need two rooms starting this Tuesday for ten days. I just found out I can’t get a rental car until the following Saturday. I didn’t realize I’d need to reserve one this late in the season.” He had an authoritative, almost familiar voice. A nice voice. Still, Annie would need to find an equally nice way to say, “Sorry, we’re booked.”
But the caller kept talking so she kept listening.
“I’ll need someone to pick up my assistant and me. I’m not sure how the taxi service works out there. I’ve been told if we can get to the Inn, we can easily get back and forth from Chappaquiddick into Edgartown until I can rent the car. My flight arrives on Tuesday morning around eleven thirty.” He paused, then said, “It’s a private jet out of Teterboro. Thanks. Oh, and this is Simon Anderson.”
For a second, Annie froze. Simon Anderson? She waited to hear more, but the message had ended. She stood motionless, holding the handset. Could it possibly betheSimon Anderson, the internationally recognized and respected journalist from CBN? She considered his voice. Authoritative. Strong. Yes. It could be him. Years ago, she’d watched him every evening on a local Boston news channel, most memorably during his edge-of-your-seat, “shelter-in-place” coverage of the Boston marathon bombing and the subsequent hunt for the suspects, which he’d delivered with calming, steady composure. Back then, Annie had given up teaching and was working at home; thanks to writing mysteries, her mind tended to wander toward the perilous, so she’d been terrified. But she’d heeded Simon’s advice on how to be vigilant without being afraid, despite that the city was locked down for days. It wasn’t long after that was resolved when his voice—steady and resonating—and his face—chiseled, Viking-like jawline, penetrating, teal blue eyes—were catapulted to a larger stage, a highly rated cable network. From New York he then brought news of everything from political unrest and racial tensions to the pandemonium of the pandemic into far-reaching homes, his delivery as credible and reassuring as she’d witnessed in Boston.
She supposed she shouldn’t be shocked ifthatSimon Anderson wanted to visit the Vineyard. Though any accent he might have had was erased long ago (no doubt thanks to an expert voice coach), she remembered hearing that he’d grown up in Beantown. Besides, the Vineyard was a well-known respite for all types of celebrities. No, his presence wouldn’t startle anyone. But why—considering the number of more luxurious, better-established places from Edgartown to Aquinnah and every town in between—had Simon Anderson pickedthem?
Of course, his request wasn’t possible. They were full until after Labor Day weekend. Someone as in-the-know as he was should have guessed that.
Standing in the foyer, staring at the phone, she contemplated her next step. Should she return his call and say, “Thanks for thinking of us. I’ve been an admirer since you started out. However . . .”?
Suddenly, Francine was at her side. “Why are you standing here like a statue? And why are your cheeks so pink?”
Annie managed a tight grin. “Simon Anderson called.” She related the details.
And Francine joined her in staring at the phone.
Which was when Murphy whispered,Batten down the hatches, my friend. And she said nothing more.
* * *
“He’s hugely awesome,” Francine said after they’d stood there, staring, for more than a minute. “We have to figure out a way.”
“We can’t,” Annie replied. “We’re booked.”
“Give him my room.”
“No. It’s your home. And Bella’s.”
“We can go to Earl and Claire’s. Kevin’s not there now, remember?”
Yes, Annie remembered. “But you only have one room. Simon needs two. We can’t ask one of our guests to leave early.”
“But I could call the sisters from Indiana and tell them we have a gas leak or something.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, never mind. It would probably go viral.”
