A Vineyard Christmas

by Jean Stone

  “No problem,” Earl replied. “I’m over this way at least that much.” It wasn’t true, of course, but Francine did not need to know that.

  Annie watched the two of them. She was filled with hope for them; filled with hope for Bella. Bella’s birth mother might be gone, but she still had her half sister. And new people in her life who would love her very much.

  Then she thought about Donna MacNeish. She wondered if her birth mother was still alive, and if she’d thought Annie hadn’t answered her letter because she had new people who loved her very much.

  Then the text bell dinged on Annie’s phone. She glanced into her purse; the message was from Winnie. Annie excused herself and skipped out into the corridor.

  TONIGHT IS NEW YEAR’S EVE, the note read. WANT TO COME UP ISLAND FOR FIREWORKS ON THE CLIFFS? THEY START AT NINE.

  Annie thought for a moment, then texted back: MAY I BRING A FRIEND?

  * * *

  John’s shift ended at eight o’clock. After bringing Bella back to Earl and Claire’s for the night, Annie met him at the police station, because it took a long time to get up island to the Gay Head Cliffs. He jumped into the passenger side of the Lexus. Then he closed the door and gave her a lovely kiss, which wasn’t easy, because they were both wearing heavy, winter-weather parkas.

  “You’re going to let me drive?” she asked with a wide grin.

  “Of course. That way I can get drunk.”

  She blinked.

  “Kidding,” he said. “The truth is, I’m exhausted.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said. “I keep forgetting about your advanced years.”

  He laughed and told her to start the car. He opened his jacket in order to put on his seat belt: she didn’t ask if he’d gone home on his dinner break to change into the navy sweater and jeans he now wore. He did, indeed, look handsome. Murphy would be pleased at Annie’s choice for helping open up her life.

  The ride to Aquinnah passed quickly. John kept his arm on top of her seat back; they talked and laughed while she maneuvered around all the hills and curves in the deep, secluded darkness.

  When they reached the lighthouse, cars lined the circle all around the point of land. Annie parked and they got out, walking hand in hand, up past the Wampanoag gift shops that were closed until spring, and out to the lookout point. Winnie spotted Annie right away.

  “Well, hello, you,” she said to Annie.

  “Hi, Winnie. Thanks so much for inviting us. I think you know John Lyons?”

  “I do,” Winnie replied with an inquisitive smile.

  “We have a lot to tell you,” John said as he shook her hand.

  “So it seems.Well, when the fireworks are done, we’re having a clambake down on the beach. I hope you brought blankets.” She smiled, waved, and walked back toward her family.

  Annie and John stood side by side, his arm around her waist. They looked up at silver stars, millions of shining specks of hope and wishes for the new year. Then the fireworks began, splaying their vibrant colors across the black velvet sky, then floating down into the water, reflecting in the surf.

  “Happy New Year,” John said, and kissed her, even though it wasn’t yet midnight.

  Annie laughed. “Jumping the gun a bit?”

  “Trying to make a good impression so you’ll think we’ve waited long enough.”

  She hugged him and rested her cheek against his chest. “Too bad it isn’t summer. There are lots of dunes around us.”

  “Where we could sneak away from the crowd?”

  “And do whatever we liked.”

  “Yup. It’s too bad it isn’t summer.”

  She leaned closer against him.

  “Of course,” he said, “the advertisement for this jacket said it was good down to fifty below zero.”

  Annie laughed. “It’s not that cold tonight.”

  “And I bet we can find a perfect place . . .” He took her hand and led her from the cliffs, past the rocks and the sea grass, through an ancient pathway that cut through clusters of low-growing sassafras trees, away from the noise and the people and the fireworks, until finally they found a small sheltered dune, where John lay his jacket on the windswept sand and, at last, they made slow, perfect love.

  * * *

  It was after two a.m. when Annie sat in her living room, in front of the woodstove in her flannel jammies, wool robe, and fuzzy slippers, grateful that John had pulled some strings to get them back late on the On Time.

  They’d made love again, that time in her big, warm bed, where he was sleeping now. She’d sneaked away once she’d heard his steady breathing.

  As she sipped tea now, watching the tiny white lights on the tree and the magical way they glinted off the colorful ornaments, Annie realized she was not dwelling on Christmases past or Christmases future, but only on the present. This had been such an unexpected roller coaster of a year: now a new one was beginning, and she felt filled with contentment. She was missing her dad, and, yes, her mother, too, but she was filled with gratitude for having been so lucky to have had them. Most of all, Annie knew she was finally ready to accept the cycles of life that came and went in their time, not hers.

  She missed Murphy, too, but something had changed.

  The cottage was quiet, except for John’s gentle breathing. Looking up to the ceiling, Annie knew that Murphy was no longer hiding up there. She was where she belonged now; perhaps she, too, knew that their cycle was complete.

  “I will miss you, old friend,” Annie said, raising her mug in a toast.

  Then, whether it came from her heart or was a last message from Murphy, who no doubt knew everything now, Annie knew there was one thing left to do. And she knew that a handwritten note would be better than one typed on her laptop.

  Spotting her purse slung over a kitchen chair, Annie retrieved it, sat back down, and dug out her notebook and a pen. After twenty years of not knowing what to say, it seemed odd that the words came so quickly.

  Dear Donna, her letter began.

  It’s taken me a long time to answer the letter you sent years ago. I am so sorry for that. I wasn’t ready. Tonight, however, I realized I finally am. I’m ready, really ready, to open up my life. And I hope you are still open to wanting to know me.

  She continued writing, page after page, thought after thought. She had no idea if her birth mother would receive the letter, if she were still at the same address, if she were even still alive. But Annie knew the time had come. After John left in the morning, she would go to Edgartown and put it in the box at the post office. It didn’t matter that it would be New Year’s Day and no mail would leave the island until the following day. In Annie’s mind, it would be en route.

  Then she’d stop at the hospital and see if Francine was ready to leave. She’d bring her home to Chappy, to Earl and Claire’s, where she’d start her new life—a real life—with Bella, the sweet little one. Annie would suggest that they keep Bella’s things—her lamb, the book, the wiggle biggle—in the original basket, that was so much like the one her aunt had used to hold skeins of yarn. Her aunt had been Ellen Sutton’s sister, and Annie had treasured both of them. Because she knew that families—both the originals and those that had been gifted—had plenty of love to go around.

  * * *

  Francine had waited until the clock read midnight. Then she’d closed her eyes. It was New Year’s Day. Her brand-new life was about to start.

  Maybe Mommy had been listening, after all.

  Epilogue

  The weekend after New Year’s, Annie got around to taking down her Christmas tree. It had been a busy time: she’d helped Earl and Claire get Francine and Bella settled into their new home; she’d helped John get ready for his girls, who’d finally arrived the day before. She’d answered some e-mails and sent a HAPPY NEW YEAR post to her fans. She’d even called her editor to tell her that she was progressing.

  Best of all, she’d gotten back to work. She named her main characters Emma and Maggie. They were trans
parent clones of Annie and Murphy, even more than they’d been when she’d started. She channeled Murphy’s wit and wisdom throughout the pages—it was her way of sharing her friend with her readers, who surely had best friends that they loved, too. Best of all, it helped Annie feel that Murphy was still with her after all.

  Amazingly, Saturday was sunny and warm, almost sixty degrees. It was a perfect day to transport what remained of the blue spruce that had been decked out for Christmas up island to the beach. Winnie had told her that several beaches, like Lucy Vincent, had suffered loss and erosion during the blizzard; the used trees would help capture blowing sand and create new dunes. Pleased to learn that the infernal winds were at least good for something, Annie decided to contribute to the effort.

  She’d dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt that she’d picked up at Trader Fred’s—FAMOUS NAME-BRAND CLOTHING AND EVERYTHING ELSE!—in Edgartown last fall. She was wedging the tree into the trunk of the Lexus when the sound of tires on clamshells diverted her attention.

  She doubted it was Earl, because he rarely stopped by for coffee and cinnamon rolls on Saturdays now: his weekends were busy with Francine and Bella. Besides, the crunch-crunch sounded too light for a truck.

  With the last branch jammed into the car, Annie closed the lid—and saw that another Lexus had parked behind hers. That one, however, was a sports model.

  The sun flashed off the windshield so she wasn’t able to see who was behind the wheel. The license plate was from Massachusetts, but was without a special designation like the MARTHA’S VINEYARD ones that so many people, even Annie, had now.

  She started to walk toward the car when the driver’s door opened and a silver-haired woman got out. She was tall and slender, dressed in jeans, a cropped wool jacket, and boots. She slid her sunglasses up onto her head. And Annie knew right away who it was.

  “Donna?” she whispered.

  “Annie?”

  A long time ago, Annie had read that it was rare for individuals to truly see themselves in another person. The article had noted that a person hardly ever looked into a mirror and said, “Wow, I look just like Aunt Shirley,” or “Man, I look like Cousin Cindy.” But Annie didn’t need a mirror to know that, despite the hair color, she was the image of her birth mother.

  “God,” Donna said, “it’s really you.”

  “I look like you,” Annie said.

  Donna bit her lower lip. “Very much.”

  Annie laughed. “You drive a Lexus.”

  Donna laughed. “So do you.”

  Then they looked into each other’s eyes, the same hazel—not blue—eyes. One of them reached out first to hug the other: later they would not remember which one it had been. It didn’t matter. Mother and daughter were reunited—another circle connected, like the willow hoop of a Wampanoag dream catcher.

  Be sure to look for Jean Stone’s new novel

  A VINEYARD SUMMER

  On sale in July 2019

  in bookstores and online

  Read on for a special preview....

  “You have to leave.”

  Annie Sutton stood in the doorway of the cottage on Chappaquiddick. Her jaw went slack; her thoughts tumbled into one another.

  Her landlord, Roger Flanagan, pressed his thin lips together as if attempting an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Annie. You’ve been a wonderful tenant. But my grandson, Jonas, is moving to the Vineyard.” He averted his eyes and stared off toward a cluster of scrub oaks in the side yard. “He recently completed the master’s program at the Art Institute of Chicago; he’s an exceptional artist, so it makes sense for him to live here, what with the growth in tourism and an uptick in disposable income among the seasonal residents who are also discerning collectors . . .”

  Blah, blah, blah.

  She barely heard a word he said after his opening line. It was already the end of June. The entire island of Martha’s Vine–yard was about to launch into its high season—July and August—which meant it would be nearly impossible for Annie to find a year-round rental. She’d heard that the feat was tough enough off season.

  “When?” her voice quaked. If he’d already said when she’d need to go, her brain hadn’t processed it yet.

  His smile morphed into a sheepish look. For a seventy-plus-year-old man that Forbes Magazine had proclaimed a hedge fund piranha, he looked oddly embarrassed. “Technically, your lease was a winter rental. It expired June first. After that, we’d agreed you’d be here month-to-month, with a thirty-day notice required by either party. So shall we say mid-August? That will give you a couple of extra weeks to find something else. Jonas can live in the main house until then.”

  A couple of weeks of “extra time” would hardly make a difference. As much as Annie wanted to say, “No! This is my home!” Roger Flanagan was right: technically, she had no choice. She’d known from the beginning that renting the cottage might not be long-term. She had not, however, chosen to believe it.

  “Thank you,” she said, without meaning it. “The extra time will help.” Before she could add something polite about wishing Jonas success, Roger folded his arms.

  “Big wedding here on the Fourth. Hope we won’t disturb you.”

  She leaned against the doorjamb. With the Flanagans in New York most of the year, she’d lived alone on the property for such a long time—nearly ten months and counting—she’d almost forgotten the place wasn’t hers. “Weddings are nice. It’s for our daughter.”

  “Dana. She’s all we have. Dana and, of course, Jonas.”

  Of course, Annie’s mind echoed with a twinge of disdain. Then she realized it must mean that Jonas was Dana’s son. Annie had seen the woman flit by the cottage once or twice, but was surprised she was old enough to have a child out of college. The master’s program at the Art Institute of Chicago, she corrected herself. “Well, don’t worry about disturbing me. I grew up in Boston. I’m accustomed to living with noise.” Besides, she sensed that any sign of protest would be pointless.

  He tipped his Tilley hat and shuffled away in his Tevas.

  Closing the door, she slumped against it and said, “Damn.” She loved the little cottage. She loved Chappy, where she’d landed when she’d traded city life for the peaceful island. She’d made friends, connections with people she now cared about and who cared about her. She did not want to be forced to leave.

  “Damn,” she said again.

  At age fifty-one, Annie had lived long enough not to envy anyone with a life of privilege. As a writer, she knew that every individual, every family, had a story (often a dark one, an underbelly, her old friend Murphy used to call it), and that having beaucoup bucks (Murphy again) was no guarantee of happiness.

  “But money helps when you need a place to live,” she said out loud now. Then she did what she did best in times of stress: she put the kettle on for tea.

  While waiting for the water to boil, she plunked down in the rocking chair and stared at the wall.

  Correction: she stared at the bookcases that stood against the wall, the ones she’d bought when she’d moved in, then packed with her favorite volumes. Along with the corner desk, the bookcases fit perfectly into the snug space and created an inspiring nook where she’d finally been able to settle in and conquer her writer’s block.

  Where would her things fit now?

  She was almost finished with her latest novel—Renaissance Heist: A Museum Girls Mystery—but with less than a month until her publisher’s deadline, she needed time to focus. How the heck could she do that if she had to hunt for a place to live and then actually move? Should she simply shove everything but her laptop, her thesaurus, and a suitcase of clothes into storage? She’d have to blow her budget by renting even a quiet, single room (shared bath, kitchen privileges) at an exorbitant summer rate, but at least she could get the book done. Then, come September, she could begin a realistic housing search.

  It was a lousy plan, but the only one she could come up with at the moment. Her priority, after all, had to be Ren
aissance Heist, as her editor, Trish, often reminded her. Aside from the deadline stipulated in her contract, Annie had been counting on book sales to replenish her savings now that she’d finally paid off the huge debt her former husband had bequeathed her when he’d disappeared. But how could she be creative with this new crisis disrupting her thoughts?

  “Damn,” she said for the third, self-pitying time. She hated that at her age she needed to worry about how and where she would live. Mostly, she hated that her idyllic, dream-come-true world was about to come crashing down.

  She gazed out the window. The view from the cottage was of the scrub oaks, not the water. Ocean views were reserved for the Flanagans of the world, the “haves” in a world of “have–nots” like Annie. Unless she got really lucky. Really fast.

  The kettle whistled.

  * * *

  “You can move in with me,” John Lyons said over dinner that evening, a concoction she’d created from fresh bass and the last of winter’s root vegetables from Slip Away Farm. He was handsome—tall, dark-haired, and well-muscled, Murphy would have said—with soft gray eyes and one of those magnetic smiles that made people instantly trust he was on their side, although Annie wasn’t sure if anyone he arrested would agree. Even better than his good looks, John was kind. Caring. Sensitive. And Annie adored him. They’d been dating since New Year’s Eve: things between them were still wonderful, sexy, fun. Yet she’d wanted to linger a while longer in the lovely beginning of their relationship—that magical time when all things were new and exciting—before making any kind of commitment. And she certainly didn’t want to feel forced into one because of the island housing crisis.

  She toyed with a carrot slice. “I think it’s too soon for that, don’t you?”

  He cocked his head and grinned the half grin that made Annie feel like a fifteen-year-old girl with a crush on the best-looking boy in the school. “Maybe. But I can’t pretend I haven’t thought about it.”