by Jean Stone
“I was. One of the good citizens of Chappaquiddick decided to be our guest in a cell for the night. I told the chief I’d bring him home. I thought I’d stop by and let you know I’ll be picking you up instead of my dad. But, hey, why not come with me now? I’ll return the cruiser, get my truck, then come back for dinner. The baby will have a nice long ride to keep her quiet.”
“Oh,” Annie quickly replied. “Thanks, but no. I’m not quite ready.” She knew her answer was absurd: by the way she was dressed, it was probably obvious that she wasn’t cooking or cleaning or making soap.
“You look fine to me.”
“I haven’t got Bella’s things packed yet.”
“I can help. I have experience, you know.”
“No. But thanks. I’m not organized . . .” It was a lame excuse, and she knew it. By the smile on his face, she suspected he knew it, too.
“Just because I’m a cop, doesn’t mean I bite. Come on. The ride on the water was always guaranteed to calm down my kids.”
It occurred to Annie then that Christmas might be a hard day for him. Perhaps he was sad. And lonely. She hated that she was letting her silly, self-centered emotions get in the way of maybe helping someone else feel a little better.
“Okay,” she said, returning the smile. “Give me a minute to get Bella’s things.”
“Don’t forget her,” he said, with a wide grin. “Is she in the car?”
Annie lowered her eyes. “Yes.”
He bounded out of the SUV. “I’ll excuse the lack of a car seat for today only. In fact, I’ll get her while you’re in the house.”
Heading back to the cottage, Annie wondered if she’d lost her mind. Now was definitely not the time to share Bella’s story with John. Not when she knew that the young mother was absolutely, positively, still on the island. And no doubt close by. But she knew that the more time she spent with John—especially alone—the more inclined she’d be to spill out the story. She reminded herself that, as nice as he was, he was not an ally. He was a police officer whose job was to uphold the law. Which might include placing her under arrest, then bringing her to Edgartown as a “guest” in a cell for the night. Or longer.
Still, she thought as she went into her kitchen, it would be nice to be with him. After all, it was Christmas. And maybe she was a little lonely, too.
* * *
“Should I say I told you so?” John teased once they were on the On Time, halfway across the channel, and Bella was sleeping soundly.
“Not fair. I’d already gotten her to stop crying.”
They were the first vehicle on the ferry: the only thing between the cruiser and the water was a single, heavy chain wrapped in a three-inch strip of canvas that was strung from one side of the boat (the “motorized raft”) to the other. It didn’t seem like much of a barrier if the emergency brake let go or the tide suddenly surged. Annie closed her eyes and remembered that the dependable On Times had sluiced back and forth across Edgartown Harbor for decades with a near-perfect record—except for a few incidents caused by passengers themselves. Earl had entertained her with stories about those one morning over coffee and cinnamon rolls.
John looked at her sideways. “So. What about you?”
She blinked. “What about me?”
“I don’t know. All you’ve told me is that you’re a writer, and that you’re not in hiding or starting a new life, although it sure looks like you are. Starting a new life, that is.”
She smiled, but said nothing.
“Look, Annie. I’m not trying to be nosy, but my dad has probably told you all about me. That I went to college on the mainland. Got married. Came back to be a cop. Had two kids. My girls. Then my wife decided she hated living here.” He shrugged, the way Earl often did. “End of story. So what about you? Do I get to hear a few juicy details about the famous writer who’s moved onto the island and my father has befriended?”
“Me?” she asked again. She told herself he wasn’t hitting on her, that this wasn’t a date, because, for starters, she was too old for him. Maybe he was interested merely for law enforcement reasons. Or maybe—just maybe—he was simply being nice. Neighborly. “Well,” she said. “I could say you’d learn all about me if you friended me on Facebook or followed me on Twitter. But I’m afraid I’m a little lax in the social media department.” She had no idea why she’d led with that. She would have thought it was the last thing on her mind, the low rung on her ladder of importance.
But John was shaking his head. “I don’t do that stuff.”
“Good,” she replied. “Me, neither. Or, my editor says, not often enough.” She smoothed her skirt and smiled. “Before I became what you called a famous writer, my details aren’t terribly juicy. I was an elementary school teacher. Third grade. In Boston. I’ve been married twice. My first husband was killed in a car accident. My second . . . well, it just didn’t work out. So now I write books. End of story.”
“Family?”
“Not really.” Then she thought about Taylor’s announcement that Bella’s birth mother was Annie’s niece. “No one I’m very close to.” It was not a lie. Technically, the only remaining “family” she knew of was Donna MacNeish, if she was still alive. And Annie certainly wasn’t close to her. Still, Annie hoped and prayed for John’s interrogation to stop.
By then they’d reached the other side of the channel. John put down his window, said a few words to the ferry captain, saluted, and waited for him to remove the restraint strap. Then he steered the cruiser off the ramp and onto Dock Street.
They arrived at the police station in less than two minutes; in the mile-and-a-quarter it took them to get there, Annie saw only three other cars. She knew that the streets would look different by summer.
John ran inside to drop off the keys while Annie got out and carried Bella to his truck. He emerged with another officer; they chatted and ambled toward her. Her shoulders tensed; maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to be so close to the police station. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
“Got an infant car seat in that thing?” the other officer said as he pointed at John’s truck.
“One’s coming tomorrow, right, Annie? Unless your niece gets back first?”
Though the sun was shining, it was cold outside. And the wind had picked up. Annie hoped that the flush in her cheeks would be mistaken as being from Mother Nature, not nerves. “Tomorrow for sure,” she replied.
John tapped the other officer on the shoulder. “Merry Christmas, man. Hope the day is quiet and uneventful.”
“Right. Yours, too.”
They got into the truck and said nothing more until John pulled out onto Peases Point Way and headed back toward the ferry. “Will she be here tomorrow?” he asked.
Annie knew she couldn’t pretend not to know whom he meant. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know. There’s been a bit of an upheaval lately.” At least she wasn’t lying about that.
“Been there,” John said. “Done that.”
They went back to Chappy in silence, except for Bella’s occasional gurgles.
* * *
Over dinner, Claire was more chatty and pleasant than she’d been the night before. She engaged Annie in conversation about the third-graders she’d taught, and even asked her if it was hard to write a novel. Annie asked Claire about her volunteer work at the Anchors, the senior center in Edgartown, a few steps from the On Time, and about the garden club, which Earl had once told Annie his wife was dedicated to because it was a terrific fund-raiser for the island. While they talked, Earl and John discussed several town ordinances and contracts they’d like to see get underway before the season began, which was still months away. Annie had begun to realize that winter was the best time for islanders to get things done.
Between the turkey and the baked Alaska, Annie finally had a chance to speak to Earl alone.
“Didn’t you hear my message?” she asked. She’d gone with him into his study, ostensibly to look at old photos of Chappy: pictures of
a magnificent inn that had been there in the 1930s, and of a renowned shop once owned by a Spanish contessa that had customers from New York City, Paris, and London.
“You called?” Earl asked. “I must have forgotten to turn my phone on this morning. I was busy peeling potatoes.” He rolled his eyes, then gestured for her to sit on the small sofa in his study. His “man cave,” he called it, because he admitted he’d grown too lazy to study much about anything anymore.
“She’s still here. On Chappy.” She told him about the night sounds, the face print, and the label that she’d found that morning.
“Holy shit,” he said. “Pardon my French.”
“I have a feeling she’s next door to me, Earl. In the house where the driveway wasn’t plowed. I think she was already in there, then the blizzard began, and that’s how she got to me so easily when she brought Bella over.”
“She was at the Littlefields’? Wouldn’t you have seen footprints?”
“Not if she went back inside. The snow kept falling after that, remember? For another whole day. It must have covered them up. If she had supplies, she might have felt safe there. At the Littlefields’, if that’s their name.”
“Yup, that’s the place. The one that’s been neglected by the kids. It would be a great hiding place. But you think that our little mother risked coming out?”
“I think so.”
“But why now?”
“Maybe she wanted to be sure Bella is okay?”
“Do you think she wanted to take her back?”
“I have no idea. Maybe she’s just scared, Earl.”
“Maybe she is. I’ll be damned.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
He scratched at his whiskers, then smoothed his big eyebrows. “So now what?”
“I don’t want John to know yet. I would love to talk to her first. Try and get her to change her mind. Maybe I can help her. Somehow.”
Letting out a low whistle, Earl said, “That’s a pretty high expectation. You don’t even know the young lady. It sounds like she has—and I’m going to be politically incorrect here—a few screws loose.”
“We don’t know that, Earl. What we do know is that a child’s life is at stake. Okay, maybe it’s not life or death now, but, believe me, whatever direction the rest of Bella’s life takes depends on how she’ll feel if she’s abandoned.” Her voice cracked when she said those last words.
Silence draped over the room, across the books on the overstuffed shelves, the newspapers stacked in the corner, and the replicas of old whaling ships—some carved out of wood, some sculpted from metal—that had sailed in the late nineteenth century, when Edgartown was a bustling seaport.
Then Earl said, “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
Annie nodded. “I was adopted, Earl. But I was one of the lucky ones. My adoptive parents were wonderful, and I had a good life. They were both too young when they died, and I miss them terribly. But the truth is, I always felt a tug on my heart . . . a little hole in there, as if something was always missing.”
He stared at her for a few seconds. “Sounds to me like something was. But good for your parents for raising you right.”
“They did. And I loved them. I still do. But . . .” She didn’t know what else to add. She could have told him about Donna MacNeish, about her chance to meet her birth mother, about how she let it go. About how she still wasn’t sure that had been the right thing to do.
Then the door opened. “Baked Alaska,” Claire said. “Come and get it before the glacial cap melts.”
* * *
After dinner, John served coffee, then started to clean up the kitchen. With an afternoon spent entertaining the Lyons family, Bella had fallen asleep again. It was nearly dark, and Annie said they must really get home. But Earl suggested they retreat to the living room.
He put another log in the fireplace, and Claire retrieved a lone, plump package from under the tree. It was wrapped in green foil paper and tied with white ribbon. She handed it to Annie. “This is for Bella. In honor of her first Christmas.”
Annie scowled, but took the gift. “But you gave her that wonderful book. I read it to her last night until she fell asleep.” Neither Earl nor Claire said anything. Both of them simply smiled.
Sliding off the ribbon, Annie unwrapped the paper and took out the softest, tiniest white crocheted sweater that she’d ever seen. It had a matching white hat with tiny earflaps. They looked as if they’d fit Bella perfectly. “My gosh,” Annie said. “These are beautiful. But how on earth . . .”
“Claire stayed up all night,” Earl said, proudly pointing to his wife.
“You made these?” Annie asked. She’d never seen garments so perfectly stitched.
“I had leftover yarn from a sweater I made for John’s Lucy. It was taking up space in the closet. I figured the baby might like something pretty.”
Once in a while, if she was lucky, Annie was able to drop her guard, lower the wall she kept securely around her, and let out her emotions. One of those moments rushed at her then, and she knew she needed to act. She stood up, went to Claire, and hugged her. “This is beautiful, Claire. Thank you so much.”
“Well, I didn’t want your niece to think the folks here on Chappy don’t take care of each other.”
Annie bit her lip and went back to her chair. She picked up the sweater again. “Well, this certainly shows that they do.” She blinked back a small pool of tears that had formed in her eyes.
“I miss having babies around,” Claire said. “Do you think Bella will be with you for a while?”
So there it was. The big question. Annie couldn’t very well say no, that Bella wouldn’t be there after tomorrow, that this would no doubt be the last time Claire would see her.
“Who knows?” she said, after a moment’s hesitation. “Life has a way of changing, doesn’t it?” She got up again. “And now, I can’t thank you both enough for such a nice day, but I really need to get Bella home. And me, too. I’m afraid I’ve eaten too much wonderful food, and I’m really, really tired.” She laughed, but she knew it sounded like the kind of canned laughter used in sitcoms to make viewers think the actors were performing before a live audience.
Earl stood up. “I’ll take you home.”
“Here we go again,” John said. “I heard what Annie said and was about to come in and offer.”
“Sorry,” Earl said. “But I have to drive by a couple of properties. I didn’t get out this morning to check on them. I want to make sure they’re locked up tight.”
“Afraid of squatters? On Christmas Day?” John’s sarcasm was not well hidden.
“Something like that,” Earl said, then went down the hall to get their coats.
* * *
Francine was back in bed, wrapped up in the comforter, the warmest place in the house. All she could think about was how had she been so naive to think that a rich celebrity lady would have wanted to take care of Bella. Just because Annie Sutton had been adopted, just because she’d been raised by strangers and had obviously turned out just fine, was no reason for Francine to have thought she’d want to be bothered with Bella.
She should have known better.
Her stomach ached now. Last night, after sneaking next door, she’d eaten the cheese and the brownies. She couldn’t get any water from the kitchen faucet, so she’d gone outside, packed some snow in the plastic baggie the cheese had been in, and sucked on it until it was gone. She’d meant to save the cinnamon roll until she got real hungry again, but she ate it.
She slept for a while, but then it was morning and Francine was afraid to go outside again. Afraid she’d be seen.
So she stayed upstairs, under the covers, wondering if she’d freeze to death. Which might be the best way to make everything go away.
Pretty much through it all—since she’d seen the basket that Annie had trashed in the back seat of her car—Francine had been crying. She’d bought the basket in a shop in Provincetown; she’d spent more
than she should have. But she’d thought it was so pretty that it would help make someone want Bella.
But now Bella was gone. And Francine had no idea where. She only knew that it was her fault.
And, as if being alone on Martha’s Vineyard at Christmas was not bad enough, she’d taken that little ferry across the freezing cold channel and now she was trapped on Chappaquiddick.
And she just didn’t know what to do.
Closing her eyes, she felt tears run down her face again. Then, another idea slowly, finally formed.
And Francine knew it was her only way out.
Chapter 16
“Okay,” Earl said, once they were finally out of the house and heading toward Annie’s cottage, “here’s the plan. You and the baby will stay with us tonight.”
Annie toyed with the old onesie Bella had worn before she’d changed her into a clean one and the new sweater Claire had made. The woman was pleased to see how beautiful the baby looked—which was why Annie had done it. The sweater had been a thoughtful gesture, and the woman deserved to know it was appreciated. But then Claire spent so much time cooing over Bella that Earl got annoyed and told her to please shut the hell up and let Annie get home. He’d said it in a pleasant way, though. With a smile. And an exaggerated eye roll.
“What do you mean?” Annie asked now. “I can’t stay with you and Claire.”
“If you think I’m going to let you sleep in that cottage with the little one’s mother snooping about, sneaking up on your porch in the middle of the night, you’re wrong. No. I’ll take you home now, and you can pack whatever you’ll need for yourself and the baby. Then you’ll come back to our house. I’ll make up a story. I’ll say the wiring blew out and the cottage has no power. Claire will be only too glad to have you; you and the little one can sleep in John’s old room. Skippy’s room,” he added with a chuckle.
She wanted to say no, but the truth was, Annie was grateful. She hadn’t been looking forward to trying to sleep; she knew she’d be waiting and listening, and that every creak in the house or swish of the wind would send her into panic mode. However, her intellectual brain told her she was a grown woman and should not be afraid of a young girl who probably only wanted to see that her baby was being well cared for. So, in spite of her misgivings, Annie said, “No, Earl. I can’t let you do that. It’s bad enough I’ve been lying to everyone. Claire will never forgive you if she finds out you’ve been in on this practically from the beginning.”
