That was not Annie.
My eyebrows knitted further together at the Polaroid’s setting. In the background was a clear sky and trees that looked perpetually windblown, along with a sandy road, but in the foreground was a tractor. A classic green John Deere tractor, one that looked like an antique—even back then. Annie posed in front of it.
What the…?I flipped the photo over to see Annie’s handwriting. It gave me a millimeter of clarity.Summer camp, she’d written.Year 3.
She hadn’t dated the picture, but she didn’t look much olderthan her high school formal photo, so my guess was sometime back in the 1960s.
Huh, I thought.Summer camp?
Where?
I glanced away from the Polaroid, enough for one of the watercolors to catch my eye. It had been painted on a small piece of thick paper, and while it had aged, its subject was still vibrant. Whitewashed cliffs embraced by vegetation and streaked with shades of gray, burnt orange, and red that rolled into the blue ocean. A pink-tinged sky suggested a beautiful sunset, and I could make out a coastline in the hazy distance—another coastline.
Something sparked in my chest, powerful enough that I leaped to my feet and hurried to my desk. A photo of Swede and the twins dancing in the rain greeted me when I opened my laptop, and I couldn’t open a Chrome browser fast enough.Cliffs, I typed into Google.Martha’s Vineyard.
Enter.
Aquinnah Cliffswas the headlining search result.
And its accompanying photo?
It was identical to the painting I still held in my hand.
Five
My suddenly chiming phone made my heart lurch. It was a gorgeous afternoon in mid-June, so Inkwood Books had hit a lull—most people in town either soaking up the sun at the pool or down the shore—which meant I was allowed to read at the register. I’d happily lost myself in another fantastical world, but I blinked to see thatGwen Carlisle, Queen of My Heartwanted to FaceTime. Answering went against all proper bookseller etiquette, but the store truly was a snooze and I’d been missing my friends lately.
“Thanks a lot,” I said once Gwen and her signature smile-smirk appeared onscreen. “You just yanked me away from the man of my dreams.”
“Listen, if that High Lord is really the love of your life, he’ll wait a hot minute for you to return,” my friend said. She was on the subway, a banner ad for the latest iPhone above her head.
I laughed. “How’s life with the bunheads?”
A lifelong ballet fan, Gwen was interning in the American Ballet Theatre’s donor relations department this summer. It wasn’t shaping up to be as glamorous a role as she’d thought.
“Mmm, fine.” She shrugged. “More spreadsheets than I thought imaginable. What’s up with you?”
“Not much,” I said. “Just counting down the days to Erica’s family reunion next month.”
“Ah, I see we’re still thrilled about that,” Gwen noted drily, and when I didn’t respond, she laughed. “But come on, it’ll be cool to explore a new place, right?”
I conceded with a slight nod, because she wasn’t wrong. The night I’d discovered Annie’s stash of Polaroids and paintings, something had come over me. I became, as Lindsay Lohan so delicately phrased it inMean Girls, “a woman possessed.” I’d fallen down an internet rabbit hole, learning everything I could about Martha’s Vineyard. Reading its Wikipedia page (fun fact: there wasn’t a single vineyard on the island), scrolling through Google Images, and even skimming a Reddit thread on Martha’s Vineyard restaurant recommendations. Apparently, the Atlantic was overrated.
“Annie has been there,” I told Gwen. “She didn’t say anything after I first told her about the reunion, but then she randomly brought up Martha’s Vineyard when I was…” I hesitated. “A friend.”
Gwen was quiet. Her grandfather had died of Alzheimer’s, so she knew what I was going through and was supportive, but at the same time, she wasn’t. She always waited for me to bring up Annie, and she never wanted to hear anything beyond an adjective.Today’s visit with Annie was good/fine/difficult.Details were too much for her.
Which hurt, but I understood.
“I never knew she went there,” I eventually said. “She never told me, and there’s no pin on her globe-trotter map.”
“Have you asked her more about it?” Gwen asked.
“Yes, but…”
I trailed off when the bell above the entrance cheerfully dinged. It was Erica’s friend Hilary. “I’mfinallyhere to pick up that book!” she said as I quickly paused FaceTime and put down my phone. “I’m embarrassed that it’s beenweeks, but things have been all go, go, go with the kids.” Her eyebrows knit together when I handed her my recommendation, a romance set in Buenos Aires. “This doesn’t take place in London.”
“Hilary, it’s time for you to read about a new city,” I said lightly.
