“I hate that I can’t be here,” Lucy said. This year, John’s daughters had “switched parental schedules,” as Lucy expressed it, and would be performing “mother duty” in Plymouth over the long weekend. That way, they could be on the Vineyard for Christmas Eve and attend their father’s wedding to the woman who did not want to wear their great-grandmother’s dress.
“I wish you could be here, too,” Annie said, then perused the kitchen. “But we’ll have fun making pies. How can I help?” She was about as adept at baking as she was at sewing, but Claire and Lucy never seemed to mind.
“The pumpkin’s in the oven, starting to roast, and Gramma’s working on the crust for the apple-cranberry,” Lucy said. “Do you want to peel and slice apples?”
“Don’t use the machine,” Claire interjected. “They come out nicer when we do them by hand, don’t you think?” From oven roasting sugar pumpkins for pies to preparing apples by hand, Claire, like her husband, usually preferred to stick with the old ways. Annie could not disagree, especially since pumpkins and apples had been grown and harvested right there on Chappy without pesticides, organic before organic had become a household word.
As for the cranberries, they, too, were local, having been harvested from the bog in Vineyard Haven. Annie had learned that the bogs in Massachusetts yielded the best berries because, eons ago, glaciers had formed them; they were not man-made. The island was lucky to have one. It was one of those facts that Annie-the-writer loved learning.
“I’ll help you pick out the best apples in the root cellar,” Lucy said, as if the amount of apples needed for a single pie required a two-person team.
Once they were outside, however, Lucy whispered, “That wedding dress really is gross.”
Annie tried not to smile. She opened the bulkhead and went down the half flight of wooden stairs. The root cellar was well stocked; it emitted a scent of autumn’s sweetness, though the chill felt more like winter.
“What are you going to do?” Lucy asked, carefully selecting a combination of McIntosh, Cortland, and Granny Smith apples and setting them in a canvas bag that Annie held open.
“I don’t know, honey. But I love that it was your great-grandmother’s—and don’t tell your father that. It’s supposed to be a surprise.” She examined a McIntosh. “So I do want to wear it. I might ask your sister if she’ll help . . . uh,renovateit.”
Lucy made a face. “Knowing Abigail, she’ll probably tie-dye it or turn it orange.”
“But if we can convince her to keep its original color, it will look nice with your powder blue.” Instead of traditional holiday red and green, Annie wanted the wedding décor in shades of winter white, silver, and powder blue—with Lucy’s dress accented by an overlay of tiny glittering stars. The colors would blend with the sea-glass shades of the great room at the Inn where the wedding was going to take place. Claire had noted that she could remove the wintry sparkles from Lucy’s dress afterward so she’d be all set for the spring prom.
Lucy stared into the canvas bag. “My sister has a new boyfriend. She’s bringing him to Mom’s for Thanksgiving. And the weekend.”
“Oh. But at least Abigail will be out of your hair, right?”
“It’s not fair. Kyle’s been my boyfriend since last summer, but I’m not allowed to bring him even for dinner. Abigail meets some guy on the boat a couple of months ago and suddenly he’s moving in, like he’s part of the family.”
“Is he an island boy?”
“He’s in college in New Hampshire. I guess he lives there, too.”
“But you’ll bring Kyle to the wedding, right?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, I think that’s more important.” Annie smiled. “Now, do we have enough apples?”
“More than.”
As they headed out of the cellar, Annie’s phone rang: it was her brother, Kevin, who’d gone to Minnesota to spend the holiday with part of their mismatched island family—“the troops,” Kevin liked to call them. She handed the bag of apples to Lucy, then stepped outside and answered.
“Whatcha doin’?” Kevin asked nonchalantly.
“Lucy and I were foraging for apples.”
“If they’re for Thanksgiving pies, you’d better forage a few more. Taylor and I will be home tomorrow. And we might have a few tagalong troops if we can get enough plane reservations.”
* * *
“They’re coming back?” Claire asked after Lucy scampered into the kitchen ahead of Annie, dumped the bag of apples on the counter, and blurted out the news about the pending arrivals from the Midwest. “And more importantly, why?”
“Kevin and Taylor will be home tomorrow,” Annie said. “He’s trying to find more seats on a plane, so I don’t know who all will be with them. As for why they’re coming, I have no idea. Maybe they’re afraid of missing out on your cooking.” Her smile widened; she was pleased that her brother would be there, even though his sometimes-crabby wife, Taylor, would be with him.
“So Francine and Jonas are going to come?” Claire asked, wiping her hands on her bib apron. “Will Bella be with them?” Once a stranger, Francine had become much beloved; Jonas, her boyfriend, was Taylor’s son; and Bella was Francine’s adorable little sister. None of which mattered, because they all now felt like blood relations.
Lucy looked at Annie. “Gramma wants answers.”
