A Vineyard Crossing

by Jean Stone

  But first, if only for a minute, she wanted to savor the light breeze that drifted in the window and listen to the gentle surf lapping the beach on the western rim of their property. Their property, hers and Kevin’s, thanks to the gift from their mother. Earl would receive one-third of the Inn’s annual profit and one-third of the net if they ever sold the place. God knew he’d put in enough time, sweat equity, and worry to deserve an equal share. And now, with their first full quarter about to end, Annie was certain that, after they set aside a chunk to keep them afloat through winter, there would be a generous profit to share.

  It had been an interesting few months, with too much to do to grapple with issues that Annie would have spent too many hours grappling about, anyway. Most of the issues, like nuptial plans, could wait until the chaos slowed to a simmer.

  The thought of John’s kindness, his strength, his love for her, made Annie smile. So she reached for her phone and texted: HOME AT LAST. BOSTON SUCKS. MV IS PARADISE. DINNER? She hoped he’d invite her to his place. She was too tired to cook, and besides, he was better at it. She could have a nice cool shower before she left, maybe a short nap. Then she could put on something prettier than the denim capris and T-shirt she’d tossed on early that morning because she and Kevin had needed to make the eight-fifteen boat.

  And, she reasoned, as she got out of the Jeep and crossed the lawn toward the back of the Inn, if she went to John’s, she could find out about moving the furniture. Maybe they could set a wedding date—perhaps around the holidays. By then she should be better prepared to be someone’s wife. Again.

  She wondered if Kevin would be there to give her away.

  She was pissed; he knew it.

  But his sister had no right to try and run his life—did she?

  He sipped a Diet Coke and munched on little pretzels while he studied the screen on the seatback in front of him. The miniature outline of the plane looked to be over Chicago. Maui was a long way from there, but at least he wasn’t hyperventilating the way he used to do when Meghan was buckled up in the seat next to him.

  Meghan.

  He closed his eyes and tried to think about the woman who was waiting for him in Maui instead of thinking about her.

  Chapter 2

  “You’re back!” a familiar voice rang out.

  Annie snapped out of her daydream and into her role as innkeeper.

  Francine was on the patio, balanced on a lounge chair. Her ebony hair was pinned atop her head; her sleeveless denim minidress was protected by a canvas apron, which, though clean, was splashed with permanent badges of her delectable creations in the kitchen. A silver colander sat next to her—it was mounded with plump blueberries.

  “Guilty.” Annie spotted Bella, her little body huddled on her colorful play rug, her hands busily matching blocks of different shapes into corresponding holes that Earl had die-cut into the walls of a purple wooden castle that he’d somehow found time to build. When Bella saw Annie, she stood on wobbly, toddler legs, and cried, “Annie!” She held out her chubby arms, and Annie happily scooped up the two-year-old.

  “Hello, sweet girl. Did you pick blueberries today?”

  Bella nodded and nestled her soft cheek against Annie’s neck. And Annie’s heart glowed, if such a thing really were possible.

  “Blueberry scones tomorrow morning,” Francine said. “Our guests seem to like them.”

  “Yum,” Annie said.

  “Yummm,” Bella echoed.

  “So, you got Kevin there okay?”

  “I did. He’s well on his way to Hawaii by now.” Enough said, Annie thought. There was no need to share her displeasure. “How were things here today?”

  “Fine. The couple in room six checked out. It’s cleaned and ready, but I’m still waiting for the woman who reserved it to show up. No rush, though. She’ll be here for two weeks. She sent a cashier’s check for the whole amount, so that’s great.” That had happened before; Earl said not everybody liked paying by credit card and having all their financial information floating around in outer space. “Tomorrow the bird-watching couple from Amherst will be leaving, but that room’s reserved for Monday—two sisters from Indiana—so I have a day to get it ready. And the honeymooners will be here another week.”

  Francine had proven adept at shuffling and juggling and making sure that everyone was happy and settled and treated to special things like blueberry scones. There hadn’t been a single glitch all season—at least, not since they’d finally received the go-ahead to open. Best of all, nearly every guest had rewarded the Inn with five stars online. The most positive reviews had come from newlyweds who praised the lovely, secluded suite with king bed, sumptuous Jacuzzi, and postcard view of the Edgartown lighthouse. Kevin had labeled it “the honeymoon suite” and suggested they promote the Inn as a venue for ceremonies and receptions. As intriguing as that sounded, they agreed to get through the first year before trying to tackle special events. Meanwhile, the year-round tenants added to the Inn’s charm, and everyone “fit” into the tranquil enclave that Annie had hoped they’d create. Yes, she reminded herself, so far, everything was terrific.

  “Jonas will be here for dinner,” Francine continued. “You want to join us? He surfcasted this morning out at Wasque and landed a nice bass for the grill.”

  It pleased Annie to think that Taylor’s son, the once shy young man, the burgeoning artist, was no longer shy and was, in fact, dating Francine. She was also happy that nearly two dozen of his paintings that they’d hung in the Inn had already sold; each time one was bought, Jonas replaced it with another, though that one was soon gone, too. Earl joked that they were going to need a revolving door for the canvasses. Jonas’s work was good and, apparently, so was his fishing. Clearly, the Vineyard was a place of healing for him—as it was for so many wash-ashores, Annie and Francine included. If only Annie liked Jonas’s mother half as much as she did him, life would be easier.

  “Dinner sounds delicious, but I’m planning to see John. Thanks, anyway.”

  Then a woman rounded the Inn and stepped into the backyard. “Hello?” She was a petite brunette with flawless bronze skin and cornflower eyes—the woman from the boat.

  Francine sprang up to greet her. “You must be Ms. Mullen?”

  She nodded, then gave Annie a small wave. “Hello again.”

  “Hello,” Annie said, trying to conceal her surprise. “You should have told me you were coming here. Welcome.”

  Ms. Mullen wore jeans and a light green T-shirt that looked new—it bore the logo of the Marine Biological Laboratory in Woods Hole. She offered a soft laugh. “I got distracted when I thought I saw someone I knew. But I was mistaken.”

  “Your first trip to the island?” Francine asked.

  She nodded.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you,” Annie said. “And, again, welcome to The Vineyard Inn. I’m Annie, but I guess you already know that. And this is Francine, our assistant manager. And our mascot, Bella.” Bella diverted her big, dark eyes from the Inn’s latest guest and burrowed them below Annie’s collarbone. “She’s shy until she knows you. Then she’ll talk your ear off. In the meantime, Francine will get you settled. Do you have a car?”

  “Yes. A rental. I couldn’t get a reservation for mine on the boat.”

  “Right,” Annie replied. “It’s still August. And the island has a busy week ahead. But we’ll tell you about that later.”

  Francine stepped forward. “First, let’s get you checked in. I’ll get your bags. Annie? Would you watch Bella for a few minutes?”

  Annie nodded. “We’ll go down to the cottage.” She watched as Francine led the woman away. Annie hadn’t asked what had brought her to Chappy for two weeks, though it was rather curious that she was alone. Most single women preferred to stay in Edgartown, Oak Bluffs, or Vineyard Haven where things like shopping and restaurants were within walking distance. But two weeks would leave plenty of time for chatter, especially over breakfast. Hoisting Bella higher on her hip, Annie whispe
red, “I’m going to take a nap. How about you?”

  Then a text alert pinged.

  “Ding-dong,” Bella said, which Earl had taught her to do when anyone’s text sounded.

  Annie laughed and dug her phone out of her pocket. She smiled when she saw that the message was from John.

  DINNER AT THE NEWES AT 6? I’M ON 8 TO 8 TONIGHT.

  “Ugh,” Annie said. So much for a nap. Or a bath. A quick shower would have to do. As she and Bella headed down the slope that led to the cottage where Annie lived and worked and loved her Vineyard life, she was reminded that being in a relationship with a cop meant having to be flexible. Especially in summer, when his shifts were long and he often was worn out. Then she wondered if, over dinner, he’d want to talk about their wedding plans. And if so, was she ready to make them?

  * * *

  “Abigail is coming back,” John said. They were seated at a quiet table in Edgartown’s renowned Colonial pub—established in 1742—a plate of bangers and mash in front of him; grilled tuna and island-grown veggies in front of Annie.

  She flinched. She’d been toying with the sweet peas and mushroom slices, thinking about broaching the topic of the wedding, when he blindsided her. “What?” she managed to ask. Abigail was John’s elder daughter, who recently had turned eighteen. After her parents’ divorce several years ago, her mother had moved to Plymouth, which was nearly two hours from the Vineyard, counting the boat trip. Unlike Lucy, Abigail had preferred to stay there with John’s ex, whose name was—what? Jane? Joan? Annie knew it began with another J—John once said their friends had called them “Johnny and J____” when they’d been a couple, which had made them sound like a seventies’ singing duo. Sonny and Cher. Donnie and Marie. Peaches and Herb.

  He swigged his root beer. “Jenn has decided to move in with her boyfriend.”

  Right, Annie thought. The ex-wife’s name was Jenn. The singing duo would have been Johnny and Jennie. Yikes.

  “Abigail said she abhors him,” he went on. “She claims that though she also loathes being trapped on the island, the idea of living under the same roof with her mother’s ‘ridiculous boyfriend’ is ‘totally more abysmal.’” He pierced the bangers with his fork. “I can’t believe that teenagers talk like that in Plymouth. Besides, when was she ever ‘trapped’ here?”

  Annie tried to process what she’d heard. Would she now be expected to be actively involved as a stepmother to both Lucy and Abigail? Would the four of them live under the same, two-bedroom roof? “I thought she was going to go to college.” When Abigail had graduated from high school in June, John had gone to the ceremony with Lucy, Earl, and Claire—Earl’s wife and Lucy and Abigail’s grandmother. John hadn’t said much about his elder daughter after that. Summers on the Vineyard were so hectic that the days and nights tended to eclipse everything else.

  “She didn’t get into BU.”

  Annie had a vague memory of already being told that. “What about Rhode Island? Wasn’t that her backup?”

  He shoved a forkful of potato into his mouth, shook his head, and waited half a minute. “Turns out, she never applied. She only wanted BU because that’s where her boyfriend went. But he’s long gone now. He was a year ahead of her so, no surprise, right after he got there, he hooked up with another girl. A college girl. End of high school romance.”

  “Oh, dear,” Annie said, remembering how crushed she’d been when, at sixteen, she thought that her first boyfriend had found “someone else.” He hadn’t; they’d gotten back together, and a few years later they had married. But those days of feeling she’d been dumped had been shattering. “She must be upset.”

  “Yeah, upset enough to ask to come back here.” As usual, it was difficult to tell what John was feeling. He kept his head bowed, his eyes set on his dinner.

  “How does Lucy feel about it?”

  “Let’s say she wasn’t pleased to see her grandfather and me haul the other twin bed from the basement. She ranted about having to share a room with her sister like when they were kids. Then she stormed off to Maggie’s.”

  At least Lucy and Maggie were friends again; perhaps Maggie could serve as a buffer of sorts between the two sisters. Then Annie realized she now had the answer as to why Earl had helped John move furniture. Good dad and granddad that Earl was, he’d left it up to John to break the news.

  “We’ll see how it goes tomorrow,” John said. “She’s coming over on the two thirty. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He lifted his chin; Annie noticed that his eyes were clouded, not with tears but with a veil of distance. She’d seen that look before when he hadn’t known what else to do, as if taking a step back from a problem was the only solution, a kind of self-protective detachment. “How’s Kevin?” he asked, brightening. “I can’t believe he took off to see Taylor.”

  The conversation about his daughters had ended. If Annie weren’t so tired, she might have tried to resurrect it. Not that she could have helped. She’d only talked to Abigail a year ago over breakfast at Among the Flowers. Unlike Lucy, the older girl had been neither engaging nor engaged, perhaps because John had introduced Annie as an author, not as his “lady friend.” And though he’d told Annie earlier that Abigail liked to read, as they chatted awkwardly over English muffins and beach plum jelly, the girl had been noticeably disinterested.

  “My brother’s gone, all right,” Annie said now, forcing herself to follow John’s lead, knowing they’d talk more about the daughter situation when he was ready, and, God knew, not one second before. Especially when a twelve-hour shift was ahead of him. “I can’t control my brother’s love life, if that’s what he and Taylor have. He’d been despondent since his wife, Meghan, had that horrible construction accident, and I do think Taylor helped bring him out of that.” Meghan had been seriously injured nearly four years ago. The last time Kevin saw her, she didn’t know him; the doctors said there was little hope that her brain trauma would improve. About a year ago, Kevin had filed for divorce; Annie had vowed she wouldn’t get involved in his relationship with Taylor unless he asked for help. Some days, like today, the challenge felt impossible.

  Then another question struck her: The wedding! Would Abigail’s presence delay the wedding plans? She put her hands on her lap and twisted her napkin.

  “Taylor must be homesick,” John continued, oblivious to Annie’s agitation. “I wonder if she’s trying to win him back.”

  She sighed and forced a smile. “I have no idea.”

  They finished their meals and shared a dish of ice cream. Then John had to leave for work, and Annie headed back to Chappy, the when, where, and how of their nuptials remaining unresolved.

  Chapter 3

  If blueberry scones could be dreamy, Francine’s surely were.

  “Deliciously sinful,” the newly wedded, pink-cheeked, perky wife remarked the following morning.

  “What she said,” her husband, preppy and well postured, agreed as he reached for another.

  The bird-watching couple—retired UMass professors; she, tall, lanky, and loquacious; he short, boxy, and ponderous—begged for the recipe.

  Francine laughed and poured more coffee. “The key ingredient is a heap of locally grown Chappaquiddick wild blueberries. I’m afraid you won’t find them in Western Mass.”

  Annie doubted that she’d ever tire of the intriguing mix of guests that the Inn attracted. No matter how different they were from one another, they bonded over muffins or scones, Francine’s special egg-and-cheese casserole, or whatever she’d cooked up that drew them to breakfast table and caused them to linger. It had become one of Annie’s favorite places and often her favorite time of day, listening to the stories of their lives—from the humblest to the most outrageous.

  That morning, as most mornings, the year-round tenants had taken their morning meals to go because they had to get to work: a carpenter, a restaurant server/mariachi bandleader, and a young married couple who were elementary school teachers and who were helping get the school rea
dy for September. Ms. Mullen—whose first name Annie had yet to ask—also had wanted Francine to wrap a scone for her; she’d said she wanted to get to Vineyard Haven and start doing research, something about sea turtles.

  After the newlyweds and the birders dispersed for island adventures, Annie was clearing the table when it occurred to her she hadn’t heard anything recently about turtles on Chappaquiddick, not the big ones, anyway. During the fishing derby in the fall there were occasional sightings; last winter there’d been an uptick of newborn gray seals, but not a noticeable increase in loggerheads or leatherbacks. Or maybe it hadn’t made the news feeds or VineyardInsiders.com, the island’s in-the-know online connection.

  What Annie found more peculiar was that there were plenty of places where Ms. Mullen could have stayed that would be more conducive to doing research; if she worked for MBL, as her T-shirt suggested, surely they must have accommodations on the Vineyard for staff. However, like with Kevin and Taylor, Ms. Mullen’s life was none of Annie’s business.

  Still, if something interesting was happening with turtles on Chappy, she’d like to know about it. Though her mysteries took place in a fictitious museum in downtown Boston, maybe a leatherback could make an unexpected visit. The turtle did it, she thought with a laugh.

  Bringing the last load of dishes into the kitchen, Annie knew she had to put off the rest of her innkeeping chores, get back to her cottage, and get to work. She meandered toward the chef’s room—the wonderful concept Francine had learned about in one of her university classes and had convinced Earl and Kevin to fit into their building plans. Because it was Sunday, Francine would be in there, checking the inventory for the coming week. In the few months since they had opened, their routines had grown nicely predictable.

  Standing in the doorway of what looked like a giant walk-in closet, Annie surveyed the well-organized area: shelves on the right held tightly sealed ceramic crocks filled with flour and white sugar, brown sugar, granola, and grains—enough to assemble an assortment of baked goods for twelve people or twenty; on the left, rows of smaller glass canning jars stored spices and seasonings and what Francine called “add-ons”—baker’s chocolate, pure maple syrup, an array of dried fruits and nuts. And more, so much more. Across the back wall, specialty bakeware and appliances were stationed atop deep marble counters that featured built-in electrical outlets so Francine—or whoever was prepping breakfast—could keep any mess or noise out of sight and earshot of their guests. With an oversized farm sink and a refrigerator/freezer, the chef’s room had been a brilliant addition. The main kitchen had another farm sink, the baking ovens, and an eight-burner, cast-iron cooktop so guests would be treated every morning to inviting aromas wafting into the great room where the massive dining table stood in front of floor-to-ceiling windows.