Like a young girl with a proclivity to listening at doorways (she’d done that many times when her parents had spoken in voices low and muffled), instead of being the adult Annie Sutton, she tiptoed to the chef’s room door. Then, forgoing a polite knock, she quickly turned the handle and pushed the door open.
And there stood—or rather, there crouched—Rose. She jumped as if she’d been shot by a BB gun, like the one Earl kept on hand to scare off skunks and raccoons when new guests were en route to the Inn.
“Annie!” Rose exclaimed, as if shocked to see Annie in her own kitchen.
“Rose,” Annie replied calmly. “May I help you with something?”
The older woman twittered; she stood up and smoothed her long woolen skirt. That’s when Annie realized that Rose had been rifling through the cupboard where they stored Bella’s toys. “I thought I saw a mouse run in here,” Rose gibbered some more. Then she added, “Guess not. Sorry.”
Annie didn’t know why Rose had added the “Sorry.” As the woman began to leave, Annie remarked that she’d have Kevin take care of any critter that might have sneaked inside.
But Rose paid no attention; she brushed past Annie, then darted from the chef’s room into the kitchen, skittered into the great room, and headed toward the staircase almost as quickly as a mouse would, if a mouse had been there at all.
One of the many wonderful things about living on the Vineyard was its notorious hodgepodge of personalities—from the highest-profile celebrities (the list was lengthy) to introverts like Rose Atkins (there was a healthy roster of them, too). Each person was seen as a thread in the giant tapestry that, when woven together, became the fabric of the island.
Annie filed an unwritten “ask Kevin to check for mice” memo in her brain and continued with her mission to concoct a decent lunch for Taylor. Maybe another time she’d have a chance to talk with Rose and ask if she had a history on the island without sounding as if she were prying.
Luckily, she located a frozen salmon filet, fresh greens, and couscous; she mused at how much better the food choices were when Francine was home. Yes, Annie thought, this was Francine’s home. Chappaquiddick, not Minneapolis. The Vineyard, not Minnesota. Not wanting to dwell on Francine’s dilemma (or, for that matter, on Rose), Annie loaded the goods into her arms, left the Inn, and went back to her cottage.
After stashing the food for tomorrow’s lunch, she grabbed a protein bar and made her way back to the workshop, determined not to let anything else sidetrack her intentions to get her soap ready for market.
Of course, even Annie’s most ardent plans could be thwarted by her brother. Especially when she stepped into the workshop and he was standing in the middle of the room, glaring at the cartons of cabinets and the new bathtub as if they were mortal enemies.
“What’s up?” Annie asked. “Are you praying for the installation gods to show up and get it done?”
He scratched his chin, one of Earl’s traits that Kevin had adopted. “I’m trying to decide when I’m going to get these in with Francine and Jonas here.”
Annie recognized it as a lame reply. “The Fair is a little more than a week away. You’re not going to touch this mess until then, remember?” She’d had enough of her brother’s addictive penchant for hammering—loudly—when the Inn was being built.
“Right,” he said.
“After that, you can build to your heart’s content. You can tell Francine you’re finally going to finish the interior. I doubt she’ll guess you’re converting it into a house, let alone into one for them.” Now wasn’t the time to tell him that Francine might never live there, anyway. Life, Annie thought, was exactly like the tides, coming and going, ebbing and flowing. Someone who was a far better writer than she was surely must have said that more beautifully.
Kevin pulled off his knit cap and rubbed one side of his head.
She recognized the gesture as one of bewilderment.
Zigzagging through the clutter, Annie made it to her workbench, where bars of soap sat patiently, waiting to be made ready for packing into the remaining totes that were messing up the workshop as badly as Kevin’s cabinets. She sat on the high stool and looked around. “We’re a couple of slobs,” she said with a laugh. “It’s clear that neither one of us inherited Mom’s genes for organization.”
“I used to be organized. When I had my construction business.” Apparently he had not recognized her comment as humorous.
“Then blame it on the island,” Annie added. “Maybe it’s something in the water.” She was trying to get him to loosen up; she knew he was troubled because, most of all, Annie had learned that when her brother was upset, he wanted—needed—to hammer. “Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”
He jockeyed his shoulders back and forth, as if trying to get them to relax. “I have a lot on my mind.”
Because they were half siblings from the same birth mother whom Annie had found the courage to contact only a few years ago, she was still learning how Kevin ticked. But it did not take a lifetime of experience to recognize that he wasn’t the same jovial guy who’d come back from Minneapolis only a week ago. If Annie were a betting woman, she’d say it was due to Rex. And she was pretty sure she’d win.
Rather than ask him outright, which he might misinterpret as her trying to control his life, she said, “I invited Taylor to lunch tomorrow.”
He squinted. “My wife?”
She dropped her gaze to the workbench, plucked a bar from the curing rack, and studied it for imperfections, unattractive little glitches that she hadn’t been able to smooth out. Unfixable bars went into the scrap pile either to be reworked at another time or set aside as “seconds” for a later fair.
“Um, yes,” she said. “That Taylor.” As if there were more than one Taylor they both knew. “I’d like to get her input on my wedding plans.”
Kevin looked at her blankly—yes, Annie thought, blankly was the perfect word. Then he zipped up his parka, pulled on his gloves, and said, “I’ve got to hit the hardware store and pick up some stuff.”
He turned and left the workshop, forgetting to say good-bye or even wave.
