“Right. Well, she did say he reminded her of someone. Maybe it’s as simple as that.” Finishing her tea, she decided it was time to take Rose at her word. Because Annie really needed to pay attention to her own life and everything she had to do.
Which was, of course, a ridiculous thought. Most writers she knew had a tough time focusing on their responsibilities when something curious was looming. Even if it turned out to be nothing.
But she did know of another possible way to learn more about Rex, and it didn’t involve grilling anyone else. On the drive back from Aquinnah, she could stop at theVineyard Gazette. Hilary, the newspaper’s librarian, had helped Annie with other research—maybe she could point her in the right direction again.
With her thoughts spinning like an eddy in a tidal pool during stormy, high-tide waves, Annie collected Bella and her things and hugged Winnie good-bye.
Then she drove with extra caution and made it to Edgartown with her precious passenger intact.
* * *
Having been established in 1846—“Around the time newsprint was invented,” Earl had explained when he’d acquainted her with the historic publication—theGazettehoused both the editorial and production departments on School Street in a gray-shingled house that had been built in 1760. “Even before my time,” he’d said. “And the word on the street is that a ghost still roams the halls dressed as a Revolutionary soldier.” Earl did not, however, specify if the soldier was a Brit or part of the militia.
Thanks to the fact that it wasn’t summer and it was a weekday between the holidays, Annie easily found a parking spot and unbuckled her seat belt and Bella, Mr. Bear, and the lump of clay Winnie had given her. Then they went inside.
Hilary was upstairs in the archives, right off the busy newsroom. It was a small, quiet room, a welcoming respite. Annie wondered how many people over the years had stepped inside for furtive investigations.
Not that Annie’s intention could be considered furtive. Unless the definition offurtivewas spying on one’s neighbors.
“How long ago?” Hilary asked after Annie said she wanted to research an old islander.
“Eighties? Seventies?”
The young woman smiled. “Great! You’ll get to look through the envelopes. Before digitizing was available, our librarian cut out every article, sorted them by topic or a name—sometimes both—and filed them in manila envelopes. The clippings are yellowed and pretty brittle, but I know you’ll be careful.”
A tingle of excitement fluttered through Annie, as she supposed it would in any writer, historian, or person who loved all things Martha’s Vineyard. To literally touch the past and be able to weave it into the present was extraordinary.
That day, however, her task wasn’t about weaving her efforts into anything, but no one would know that, because doors were often open to writers to learn all kinds of things under the pretext of research.
Spreading her jacket on the floor, she set Bella down on it; Hilary provided a fistful of crayons and a few sheets of blank newsprint.
Then Annie plunged into the journalistic gems from the weekly—twice-weekly in summers—editions, starting with the name Winsted.
She found one envelope. Only a few clippings were inside it. As Hilary had cautioned, they were yellowed and brittle, but clearly had been handled with care.
The largest article was dated 1949—the year the elder Winsted won the fishing derby. His prize was a building lot in Gay Head (now Aquinnah), which at that time, Annie knew, must have seemed like the other side of the ocean for someone who lived on Chappaquiddick.
A smaller, more recent article from 1978 included a grainy photo reproduction of a woman named Bertha Blaine Winsted, who apparently was Rex and Taylor’s mother. The picture showed her on a small stage holding a flute; the caption noted she had performed for the island nursing home’s holiday party. Annie remembered being told that the woman—whom Annie had only heard called “Mother” Winsted—had once played at the Metropolitan Opera in New York City. Why she’d left all that for a fisherman on the Vineyard was a mystery to Annie.
But that wasn’t the mystery she’d come to the archives to unravel.
After scanning the obituaries for the elder Winsteds, Annie turned to a voluminous batch of envelopes markedCourt Appearances, hoping to find Rex mentioned in one. She worked slowly and thoroughly. But, after more than an hour, Annie had found nothing. She groaned.
Bella, who seemed absorbed in drawing something that might have been balloons, mimicked Annie’s sound with a guttural one of her own.
Across the room, Hilary grinned. “As much as we sometimes romanticize the old ways of doing things, sometimes it’s easier to ask Google to search for you. Then all you need to do is click.”
“No kidding,” Annie said.
She moved on to high school graduations. And there was Rex, class of 1982. He wasn’t listed among those who’d attained honors, nor was there mention that he was headed for college.
Overall, her mission seemed to have proved pointless.
Before leaving, however, she thought about Rose. Was she connected to Rex? Or to the island? Had she kept such a low profile that no one remembered her? Fumbling through the packets of graduations, Annie turned to the sixties. But Rose Atkins’s name was not among the students or underclassmen. Then Annie checked the seventies in case Rose looked older than she was. But if she’d grown up on the Vineyard, it didn’t seem she’d attended local schools.
As long as Annie was perusing, she decided to simply look up the surname Atkins; maybe she’d stumble on a clue. Within a few minutes, she’d found three envelopes.
Atkins, Warren, warranted several clippings, all from the 1940s, when he’d served on a few Edgartown committees until his death in 1953. There was no mention of a family.
