“Wow,” she said matter-of-factly, “that’s the ugliest wedding dress I’ve ever seen.”
An awkward pause gave way to Claire’s resounding sigh. She dropped into the rocking chair, brushed back a lock of hair that had escaped the headband, and said, “I might be an old lady, but I’ve always thought tradition never goes out of style.” She sighed again. “Let’s go make the pies. And worry about this later.”
* * *
Claire and Lucy headed up the small hill to the Inn to begin the annual baking extravaganza. Annie stepped out of the dress, put it in the garment bag, and hung it on the back of her bedroom door. Then she changed into her jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, and sneakers, and added a light wool jacket. She mused that people on the island wouldn’t be startled if a bride showed up at the altar wearing this outfit instead of traditional wedding attire.
Stepping outside onto her porch, Annie breathed in the stillness, the soothing calm of off-season. It was one of those late-fall afternoons when the sky and the water merged into the same color—gunmetal gray. But the leaves were not yet done falling from the scrub oaks and the cedars, so splotches of autumn’s red and gold glowed in the air. In the distance, a small fishing trawler chugged into the still water of Edgartown Harbor, no doubt carrying the last of the striped bass and bluefin tuna of the season.
Earl had taught her that kind of trivia when he’d been the caretaker of the small place she’d rented long before she’d known the difference between a fishing trawler and a yacht. And before she could have imagined he would become her foremost teacher of the rhythm of the island as well as a supportive friend and, soon, a father-in-law. And now, she had no idea how to tell him that his mother Mabel’s wedding dress wasn’t going to be the catch of Annie’s wedding day. But as she watched another boat bob in the harbor, she wondered if it would be kinder if she simply wore it. Would it serve as a symbol to the family that she was accepting love from all of them?
Of course it would. That would be Murphy speaking. Although her old college friend had died several years ago, Annie occasionally still heard her friend’s voice and sage advice.
“Even though it looks like something I picked up at a flea market?” Annie asked.
John will think you’re beautiful no matter what you wear. Of course, there is one sensible alternative . . .
“Which is . . . ?”
Have it altered. A good dressmaker can work miracles.
“There isn’t time. The wedding’s a month away, and with the holidays coming, the seamstresses here must be busy. I’d be better off going over to the Cape and buying my own dress. One I actually like.”
Don’t you have soaps to pack?
Murphy was referring to the inventory Annie had amassed a month ago so it would be cured and ready for wrapping in time for the Christmas in Edgartown Holiday Fair. For the past couple of years, Annie had a booth; this year, Lucy was going to help. Annie had lost precious time in the early fall thanks to her latest book tour, so she’d need to work nonstop from the day after Thanksgiving for the two weeks until the Fair, which would be another two weeks before her wedding.
She closed her eyes and wrapped her jacket more tightly to ward off a sudden chill. “So I have to wear the dress?”
Like I said. Have it altered.
Annie shoved her hands into her pockets. “Thanks, Murph. And likeIsaid, there isn’t time.”
It’s all in whom you know.
Claire, of course, was the first person who came to Annie’s mind. In spite of the pain in her aging hands, the woman remained adept at knitting sweaters and making doll clothes. She also knew more about sewing than Annie, who could barely thread a needle. “But Claire thinks it’s great the way it is.”
I’m not talking about Claire. I’m talking about her granddaughter.
Annie flinched. She knew that Murphy didn’t mean Lucy but the other one, the older one. Abigail.
What have you got to lose? You know she’s good at fashion stuff. It’s her college major, for God’s sake. What more do you want?
“It would help if she liked me.” As hard as Annie had tried, Abigail, unlike Lucy, hadn’t been receptive to her father’s fiancée.
You’re the adult. You can do something about that. But first, get yourself up to the Inn. I don’t eat much these days, but the aromas of Thanksgiving still make me happy.
If Murphy were a real ghost and not a figment of Annie’s overactive writer’s imagination (the jury was still out on which of those things was true), she might have formed a cloud of wispy, white smoke, spun around a few times, then swirled up to the sky. As it was, Murphy’s aura merely vanished, leaving Annie with the uneasy prospect of trying to enlist self-centered, eighteen-year-old Abigail’s help. Or not.
Chapter 2
“Apple-cranberry and pumpkin,” Claire said as she stood at the long marble counter, rolling out piecrust.
“No pecan?” Lucy whined. “And no chocolate cream?” She pouted as if she were five instead of fifteen.
Claire looked at Annie. “Please explain to my granddaughter that four grown adults do not require two pies, let alone one apiece.”
Like Annie, Claire was probably a little sad that this Thanksgiving only Earl, Claire, John, and Annie would sit at the big table. The others in their world were, or would be, off island, except for Rose Atkins, their quiet and shy retired winter tenant.
