A Vineyard Morning

by Jean Stone

  And then she heard the echo of Claire’s words: “. . . sometimes it’s worth taking a risk to achieve a greater good.”

  With those thoughts in mind, Annie reached down, picked up her phone, blew off the sand. And called the number listed for Larry Hendricks.

  * * *

  Losing the trunk had been the best thing that could have happened to her. The day Donna had seen it, she’d known it had to be hers. Its image had stuck in her mind the way Kevin’s image of his dad had stuck in his.

  She’d never told Kevin his dad had divorced her in order to marry a nice Catholic girl who hadn’t been spoiled. She never told Kevin that his dad had wound up living in Burlington, Vermont, and that he and his next wife had seven children that Donna knew of, one right after the other including a set of twins. She’d wondered who in their right mind had seven children anymore, what with the cost of living and the state of the world.

  Once, Donna had driven there. Only once, after she’d tracked down the town where he lived from the postmark on one of the last meager child support checks that he sent. She’d borrowed a friend’s old Toyota Corolla, spread a map out on the passenger seat, and headed to Route 93. Somewhere in New Hampshire the road changed to Route 89. It took a total of four hours to get to Burlington; she spent another two hours at the town hall, where she found his street address and learned his family’s vital statistics. By then her mom had died; she’d told her dad she had to go out of town for work and asked if Kevin could stay overnight. He was twelve or thirteen at the time, old enough that, if he’d gone with her, he would have figured out what she was doing.

  The house was on a narrow country road; part of her feared her ex-husband would see her and try to have her arrested, though she didn’t know for what. Another part of her didn’t care. She stopped right there on the side of the road and stared at the crumbling farmhouse that needed a few windows replaced, a layer of paint, and a porch that didn’t list like the Titanic. A child’s swing set was in the yard not far from a small barn. A couple of black-and-white cows stood, staring at her. Donna supposed they didn’t often have company.

  She left without going to the door; the place gave her the heebie-jeebies, as Aunt Elizabeth would have called it. But the visit had strengthened her resolve to make something of herself, to show Kevin they were fine without his father. That was when she started saving to start her business. Two years later, when her dad was dead, too, she did. All that time, the image of the trunk had stuck in her mind; it wasn’t long before it finally was hers.

  She never told Kevin that she’d found out where his dad was, or that he had all those kids. She supposed she should have told Kevin he had a flock of half-siblings—then again, he didn’t know about the baby girl she’d given up for adoption, either. But Kevin was a nice boy—kind and sensitive—and she knew those things would upset him terribly. In any event, she was grateful that he looked like her, so she wasn’t constantly seeing the image of the man who she’d once married.

  Together, Donna and Kevin had a good enough life. She did, however, feel guilty about not telling him where his dad had gone, especially when he snuck off to Red Sox games, as if she didn’t know, as if she hadn’t figured out that he was trying to find his father. She’d found a ticket stub once, in Kevin’s jacket pocket. Another time she found a list of the lineup when the Sox were playing the Yankees. Kevin must have been convinced that his dad wouldn’t have missed that one.

  Both Donna and her son had a similar reason for their very different goals: for Donna, the trunk represented a secret to a better life; for Kevin, finding his dad meant the same thing. Donna knew they had about the same odds—none—of reaching their goals. But she refused to let that stop her. And though she was sad for Kevin that he never saw his dad again, she was elated when she found the Vuitton.

  The first thing she did the day she brought it home was tuck the ticket stub and the Sox/Yankees lineup in a pocket inside the lid, along with a handful of photos of Kevin with his dad that he did not know existed. Then Donna locked the trunk—to be opened at some time in the future. Like the tiny case for doll clothes, the Vuitton would keep her secrets safe.

  Chapter 19

  Monday morning, Annie worked for a couple of hours then walked down to her cottage from the Inn. After having left a voice mail message for Larry the night before, she’d gone back to her temporary room in the half-finished Inn, then tossed and turned all night. She hadn’t even talked to John when he’d called to say good night; she chose, instead, to have him think she was asleep.

  Mindful of the fact that it was a new day and that her birth mother no doubt was waiting for her, she forced herself to smile and think about what she could do to help. Maybe Donna would feel up to visiting two or three of the artists Annie wanted to approach about showing their paintings on the walls at the Inn. Maybe Kevin was right to act as if it was still going to open. Crossing the lawn, Annie held on to her phone; she’d put it in silent mode, but had turned vibrate on. In her message to Larry she’d said she was doing research for a book and had a legal question. “I need clarification on a state law,” she’d added with a smile as if he could see her. Right after hanging up, she’d chastised herself for not having told him it was urgent.

  As she neared the cottage, she glanced at the screen again: no activity. It was already after ten o’clock. If he bothered to call back, he might wait until his lunch break, or maybe once his workday was done, which would conflict with dinner plans that she hadn’t even yet thought about . . . Stop! she shouted silently. Stop fast-forwarding!

  It felt silly to knock on her own front door, but Annie did.

  Kevin greeted her. “Enter,” he said. And while he didn’t sound jovial, neither did he sound morose.

  Stepping inside, she was treated to an aroma of sandalwood.

  “Incense,” he said. “Mom’s in the bedroom meditating. She says it helps her gear up for the day.”

  Annie felt the tug on her heart again. She needed to remember to show Donna the kind of empathy that Claire had shown her.

  “Shall I make coffee?” she asked.

  “Done. Feel free to pour yourself a snootful.”

  As she moved toward the kitchen, she thought she felt a small vibration. Shifting her shoulder so Kevin couldn’t see what she was doing, she checked her phone: false alarm.

  “I took a few more cinnamon rolls out of the freezer,” he said.

  “Making coffee, serving brunch. Wow. You’re the best brother ever.”

  “It’s not like I had anything else to do. I wasn’t about to meditate with Mom. If I sat cross-legged, I’d never get up again.”

  She poured coffee, then went to the table, mug in one hand, phone in the other. “You’re too young for that.”

  “Too many years of manual labor.”

  “I thought that when you were in Boston you hired people to do the manual labor while you worked in the office.” She sat down and balanced the phone on her thigh.

  “Yeah, but I get more pity if people think I did the heavy lifting.”

  She gestured toward the plate of rolls. “Have one.”

  He frowned. “I’ve already had three.”

  Taking one for herself, she realized she should probably make more. Maybe she could find a recipe for something healthier, something made from whole grains and blueberries. Donna might appreciate that.

  She glanced down at the phone again: still nothing.

  “Expecting a call?” Kevin asked.

  “Oh,” she said. “No. Well, yes. Kind of. But it’s not important. Book stuff. You know?” Why had she suddenly become such a liar? Especially when she was so awful at it?

  Then the bedroom door opened, and Donna stepped into the room. She wore a pale blue silk robe; her short hair was neat, her eyes bright. She looked better—healthier—than she had the day before.

  “Good morning,” Annie said. “Kevin made coffee.”

  “I’ll pass. I’ve had your brother’s coffee before
.”

  “Mom,” he said without a smile, “since living on the Vineyard, I’ve turned over a new leaf. Earl says anyone who lives on Chappy needs to know how to use a percolator and a wood stove.”

  Donna laughed, poured herself half a cup, then joined them at the table. “So what’s on everyone’s agenda today?” she asked cheerfully.

  Annie outlined her idea about the artists. “If you feel up to it, I’d love to have you join me and give me your opinion of their work. None of them know my plan yet, so we’d be cold-calling.”

  Donna said she liked the idea, adding that it would be best not to make promises until they’d seen everyone’s work. “Otherwise you might end up with pieces that clash and too few walls to spread them out on.”

  They chatted amiably, as if they were planning an outing to a museum of masterpieces in Chicago or LA. Kevin interrupted with a few witty suggestions, including that they might want to go incognito and take magnifying glasses. Either his mood had lifted, or he was trying very hard to make her think it had.

  The conversation was easier than Annie had expected, as if a bond were growing between them. Until her phone vibrated on her thigh.

  The screen read UNKNOWN, but the area code was 617. Boston metro. She picked it up. It vibrated again. She touched the circle that read DECLINE. It wasn’t the right time for Larry Hendricks. Her palms suddenly grew sweaty, as if they agreed.

  “Take the call if you want,” Donna said.

  Annie shook her head. “It’s not important.” She put the phone into her pocket so it was out of sight. Specifically, out of her sight.

  Then Kevin cleared his throat. “Getting back to our conversation, I’ve come up with another option for you, Mom.”

  Annie wrestled her thoughts back to the moment. She wondered when the last time was that her brain had needed to sort out so much multitasking.

  “Other than going with Annie to check out a few artists?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I think you should stay here for a few days. But then I want you to go back to Boston. And I’m going with you.”

  Annie was stunned. Had his mood only improved because, like Jonas, he wanted to run away? “I thought we were going to wait to make a decision.”

  He shook his head. “I changed my mind. I’m taking Mom back to Boston. I’ll look after her there.”

  Annie wished she had a pin to drop on the wood plank floor to see how loud it would sound. She couldn’t imagine how Donna must feel.

  “See, here’s the thing,” Kevin said as he stood and began to pace the room. “It’s time to get realistic. Getting out from under this mess with the skull might take a very long time. We need to accept the fact that, more than likely, we’ll never make our deadline. And I think we need to cut our losses before we pour any more money into a losing proposition.”

  It was clear he was not going to listen, but Annie had to try. “So this is about the Inn? Not about . . . Mom?”

  “Well, partly. It’s been fun being on the Vineyard,” he went on, “but let’s face it, Annie. You have a life here; I really don’t. I’m still an interloper. In fact, both Mom and I dropped into your life so fast you probably wonder sometimes what the heck happened. You have books to write, you have soap to make, and you have a relationship that looks like it could go somewhere more than where it’s at today if you could give it a little more attention. But I’m afraid that having this Inn isn’t going to fix that. And I’d hate for you to lose John.”

  “Kevin . . .” Annie began, but he held a hand up to shush her.

  “No. I’ve made up my mind. You have the cottage now. I don’t think anyone will say you can’t live here for now. That’s why we started this in the first place, isn’t it? As it stands now, that might be the best reason for us not to try to pull strings in a lame attempt to push Boston to come to a conclusion.”

  “I don’t care about . . .”

  He shushed her again. He paced some more. “Please, Annie. I’ve thought this out. The most important thing is that Mom will probably get better faster in her own home in Boston. Not to mention that, with summer coming, there’ll be a whole lot of commotion around here. Hardly conducive to recuperating.”

  “I might not last until the summer.” Donna’s words were calm and matter-of-fact, suspended in the air as if waiting for someone to contradict them.

  Kevin blinked.

  Annie’s stomach dropped the way it had when Murphy had said her days were growing shorter, and that before she “croaked”—her word, not Annie’s—she needed to know that Annie had moved to the island and had followed her dream.

  After a moment, Kevin said, “What the hell does that mean? That you might not last until the summer?”

  “I’ve been very sick, Kevin. I came here to recuperate. I do not want to go back to Boston where I don’t have fresh air, sandy beaches, and nature all around me—things I’m told are good for recuperation. More important, in the city I don’t have my children, who aren’t exactly children, but they’re all I have. If you force me to go back, as much as you might want to disagree, I believe my recuperation will be short-lived.”

  Kevin turned his back again. Maybe he feared that if he tried to speak, he’d cry.

  “That said,” Donna continued, “to be perfectly honest, I plan to stay here until my recuperation is complete. Or until you throw me out. Whichever comes first. Now, Annie, if you’ll give me half an hour, I’ll be ready for what sounds like a fun day. I am quite alive this morning, and I intend to stay that way.” She excused herself and went back into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.

  * * *

  “I guess that’s that,” Kevin said flatly as he and Annie walked up to the Inn. “Mom says she’s staying, so trust me, that’s what will happen.”

  “It will be fine, Kevin. We’ll all be fine. Right now, I’m more concerned about you. What was that all about? Why on earth did you want to take her back to Boston?”

  He shrugged. “It was just a thought.”

  “Really? I didn’t think you could walk away so . . . easily. You’ve been working so hard. . . .”

  He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “It wouldn’t have been easy. I would have missed you. And everyone.”

  “What about Taylor? I thought you were trying to be supportive. Especially with the nonsense about her going on.”

  Shaking his head, he said, “I’ve done my best. And I know I see another—a better—side of Taylor that other people don’t. But, honestly, for all I know, she killed Jonas’s father.”

  Annie sighed. “Is that why you came up with that cockamamie plan? Because you saw a chance to use Mom as an excuse to leave?”

  “It isn’t about Taylor, Annie, and it isn’t about Mom. It’s about me. And how just hearing the name ‘Gina Fiorina’ reminds me about Meghan and how much I loved her. How much I miss her. And how I can’t make any woman fit into my heart right now.”

  “All the more reason for you to stay right here where you now belong because so many people have grown to care about you a whole lot and want you to be happy whether you know it or not.” She briefly wondered if she were talking to Kevin or to Jonas.

  “I’m no writer, sister, but I’d say that was a run-on sentence.”

  She laughed as they went inside. “You drive me crazy, brother. Now get back to work. While Mom is getting ready, I have to call someone back. And I need to do it alone.” As she climbed the stairs up to her room, Annie wondered how many times that morning she’d referred to Donna as Mom. It was, she realized, getting easier to do.

  * * *

  That time, Larry Hendricks answered.

  She might not have recognized his voice if she hadn’t known whom she was calling. She cleared her throat and wished that she could clear her mind as easily. “Larry? It’s Annie. Sutton.”

  “Okay,” he said instead of something friendly like, “Hi, Annie. How are you?”

  A long pause followed, as if they both were actors who’
d forgotten their lines. Annie looked around the room—a reminder that the Inn was important, more important than the drivel of the past. Besides, whatever anxiety she might have about Larry was nothing compared with what Kevin understandably had felt when hearing Gina’s name.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  “Fine. But I don’t expect that’s why you called.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, glad he wasn’t there to watch her body language. “No,” she said. “Not really.” She sucked in a small breath. “I live on the Vineyard now.”

  “Oh?”

  Maybe he didn’t read the best-seller list. Or maybe he was playing an attorney’s game of cat and mouse. “Yes,” she replied. “And you? Are you . . .” She almost mentioned his wife, Suzanne, whom Annie had been friendly with in a trophy-wife kind of way, but she had no idea if they were still together. “. . . Are you still in Brookline?”

  He laughed. “Yes. And my boys are both at Phillips.” He said it with arrogance, purposefully, she knew, omitting the word “Academy” because people who traveled in his lifestyle circle would know what he’d meant. “But I hardly think that’s why you called, either. What’s up?”

  His attitude reminded her of Mark, whose penchant for being haughty always escalated after he’d been with Larry. Already regretting having called him, Annie inhaled another long breath, knowing if she didn’t dive right in, she’d hang up instead. Her eyes moved to the new stone terrace that spanned the full width of the Inn and promised congenial gatherings. Then she closed her eyes.

  “I’m part of a new venture here. An Inn on Chappaquiddick.”

  “Chappaquiddick? As in Chappaquiddick Island?”

  She ignored his smugness. “Yes. We’re in the process of restoring a beautiful old waterfront property. But we’ve run into a small snag. A bone—actually, part of a human skull—was found on the beach. It was tangled in seaweed and stuck between some rocks right at the tide line. Apparently it had been there a long time.”