John had to get to the station for his eight-to-four shift, which was nicer than the double shifts that greeted him in season. Annie was glad he’d stayed; it was still hard to believe that soon they’d be sleeping side by side every night, night after night. Except, of course, when he worked midnight to eight. Or eight to eight. Or when Annie was off island on book business—which reminded her she had another novel to finish. Her manuscript had been derailed by the lengthy book tour earlier that fall, and now by the holiday and the wedding planning. She hoped her editor would give her an extension.
Trish!
Annie suddenly remembered she hadn’t called Trish back, hadn’t even listened to her message. She’d sent a wedding e-vite, but Trish hadn’t yet replied; maybe that’s what the voice mail was about. Annie didn’t expect her editor to journey from Manhattan, especially at Christmas. But they hadn’t seen each other in a long time, and she missed their lively banter, which often sparked the concept for her next mystery.
“You’re an idiot,” she admonished herself and vowed to call Trish as soon as her current mission was complete.
With John off to work and breakfast set out for the tenants, Annie was driving to the boat—the big boat, not the little Chappy Ferry. Before they’d fallen asleep the night before, she’d offered to pick up his daughters on their trip back from Plymouth.
“Sure,” he’d said. “If you can make it to the eight fifteen.”
Which would be easy, thanks to the abbreviated breakfast. And worth it if Annie could begin her concerted effort to befriend Abigail.
The eight fifteen was pretty much guaranteed to arrive in Vineyard Haven at nine o’clock. The trip across the sound took exactly forty-five minutes: encounters with rogue waves, runaway jet skis, or great white sharks were merely the stuff of movies. If the schedule went awry, it most likely was because the boat hadn’t left the Cape due to high winds, nor’easters, or mechanical issues.
Annie had no idea why she was thinking about that when she should have been strategizing a “let’s be friends” approach for Abigail, whose ego sometimes seemed as big as the rocklike tower at Lucy Vincent Beach before it had collapsed. Abigail was a polar opposite of Lucy, so Annie knew she faced a major challenge.
With the long weekend’s holiday traffic mostly gone, she arrived at the boat in record time. But because she’d spent too much time daydreaming, she was mentally unprepared.
She sat in the drop-off, pickup lot and stared at the empty berth, waiting for inspiration. She could start the conversation by asking the girls if they’d had a good time. She could say they’d been missed at dinner at the Inn. Lucy would likely do most of the talking, so Annie would need to find a way around that. Maybe she should jump right in and mention that their great-grandmother’s wedding dress was still hanging on her bedroom door. Then Lucy would laugh and tell Abigail it was ugly, and Abigail would remain mute until Annie could smile and say, “Abigail? Do you think you could help? I don’t want to ruin the surprise for your dad. Or disappoint your grandmother.”
Yes, she thought now, Abigail might be more receptive to doing something for Claire than for her father, whom she hated living with because, though she was eighteen, he still had rules.
As Annie was congratulating herself on her brilliant idea, the big white boat inched between the pilings. In the several minutes it would take for the docking and winching and whatever else was needed to secure the vessel, Annie speculated how she’d respond if Abigail snapped questions at her—or if the girl didn’t speak to her at all.
At last, passengers and vehicles began to disembark. Soon Annie spotted Lucy’s prancing gait and her hair, which was not plaited that morning, but flowing in grown-up waves over her shoulders. Maneuvering her suitcase with the ease most islanders had with the ferry routine, Lucy quickly spotted the Jeep and offered a big wave. Annie got out and returned the greeting, her gaze flitting across the crowd.
But, unlike Lucy, Abigail was not in sight.
* * *
“She stayed on the Cape,” Lucy said once their seat belts were buckled up, and Annie asked where her sister was. “She has classes today.”
Annie had forgotten that Abigail would be in school. She must have picked up the car John had bought and left at the Steamship Authority lot on the “other side,” driven it to Plymouth, then back to Woods Hole and dropped Lucy off. Annie had to admit that having a vehicle on the Cape made sense: Abigail could easily commute to the college in West Barnstable from the boat, and go back and forth to the island as a walk-on passenger. It saved the need for reservations and money on ferry rates.
“Well,” Annie said, hiding her disappointment, “how did everything go? Starting with your Thanksgiving meal?”
“I can start before that. Like on the boat, when I realized I didn’t have my phone. That was fun. And then when we got to Plymouth, Abigail’s boyfriend was already there and my mother had been feeding him beer and he was drunk. That was fun, too.” Her ridicule was obvious from her signature eye roll. “But things got better the next day, because he was hungover, and Abigail walked around pouting, so at least nobody was yelling. My mom has always liked yelling.”
Annie hadn’t known that and wished she didn’t know it now. “And dinner?”
Lucy shrugged. “It was okay. Mom’s latest guy is okay. I don’t know why Abigail hates him.”
“And did your sister pout the whole time?”
“Once Cal—her boyfriend, whose real name must be Calvin, ’cuz he’s cute, but sometimes acts ludicrous, like that old cartoon—anyway, once Cal recuperated, Abigail was, like, glued to him and paid no attention to the rest of us, so that was good. And the food was okay. Not like Grandma’s, though. The rest of the weekend, I was wicked bored.” Her voice dropped. “I’m glad I don’t have to go back for Christmas.”
Pausing a few seconds, Annie said, “Me, too. I’m going to need my maid of honor.”
The girl brightened again. “I can’t wait. What’s even better is that my stupid sister will hardly be on the island between now and then.”
Annie navigated through the five corners while trying to decide what to say next. Should she ask Lucy why her sister was going to be absent? Or should she just ask John? But if he already knew, wouldn’t he have told her?
Not necessarily, either Murphy or Annie’s smarter self commented in her ear.
Wishing she had the ability to slow down her brain, she glanced over at Lucy. “What do you mean she’ll ‘hardly be on the island’?”
“Dad didn’t tell you? Abigail met a girl who lives with her parents, not far from the college. She’s going to sleep in their garage apartment when she’s there during the week.”
