by Jean Stone
Shutting off the ignition, she faced the facts. The Inn was thriving, but she could not sit back while two people she loved were being run into the waterfront-property ground. Her writing life would never—could never—be more important than her island family.
So she got out of her Jeep, waved at the folks on the patio, and skipped into the back door of the Inn. Francine was in the kitchen, scooping batter that was bursting with cranberries into a loaf tin. Bella was in the corner, pretending to grill plastic burgers in her Fisher Price Food Truck, which Earl had bought, not built.
“Annie!” Bella squealed and threw open her arms.
Nothing is better than this, Annie thought and knew that Murphy—though her twin boys had often been lively and rambunctious—would have agreed. Swallowing the tickle that rose in her throat each time she thought of her old friend, she picked up Bella, gave her a quick hug, and turned to Francine. “Stop what you’re doing,” Annie said. “Right now.”
Francine slipped her hand into a potholder mitt. “Yes, ma’am,” she said with a salute. “Right after I stick this in the oven. I’m trying to get a jump on tomorrow. I’m betting we’ll be busy, what with . . . you know.”
“Yes,” Annie said. “I know. I also know I told you to stop. Right. Now.”
“Stop,” Bella repeated. “Right. Now.”
Francine frowned and brushed a runaway strand from her brow. “You look serious.”
“I am,” Annie said. “Get your things. You’re going to Jonas’s. You’re not going to wait until tonight. You are officially on vacation for an entire day and a half. I don’t want to see you until Wednesday for breakfast. As for tomorrow, it might not be brunch at the Harbor View, but I’ll serve your cranberry bread, and I’ll fix something else. Maybe something with eggs. Or yogurt and Cheerios. No matter what, I promise you, everyone will survive. I don’t want to see you until Wednesday morning.”
“But . . .”
Annie walked over and nudged her with her hip. “Out of my way, please. I have bread to bake.”
“But we need more cookies . . .”
“I’ll ask Lucy to come back and make them in the morning.”
“But in the morning the rooms will need cleaning . . .”
“I know how to do that.” Perhaps she’d give Lucy a quick training on how to run an inn beyond the kitchen. After all, maybe in years to come, Francine and Lucy would be the Inn’s proprietors. She blinked, not knowing where that last idea had come from.
“But you have to pick up Simon . . .”
“I’ll manage. And I’m giving Earl a day off, too.”
Francine looked confused. “Why, Annie? Did we do something wrong?” Her big eyes glossed over.
With one arm holding Bella, Annie folded the other around Francine. “Oh, my God, no. You are amazing. But you deserve a break. Please let me do this.”
Francine laughed, then stepped from Annie’s grasp and untied the strings of her apron. “All right, you win.” She set the apron on the counter, then held her arms out for Bella. “Come on, little one. We’re being booted out.”
But Annie held up one hand. “Not so fast. I said you’re on vacation. That includes a break our little Miss. You are going to Jonas’s, and I am going to babysit. End of discussion.”
More tears welled up. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. But because I do believe this little lady has outgrown my bottom bureau drawer, you’ll need to tell me where her travel bed is. Bella and I are going to have a sleep-over.”
“Would you like that?” Francine asked, as she touched Bella’s chin.
“Yes, please,” Bella responded, as if she understood the word “sleepover.” She was a happy little girl and, best of all, she clearly knew that she was safe with them.
* * *
When the bread was out of the oven, cooled, wrapped, and ready for breakfast, Annie put Bella in the car seat she kept in her Jeep and drove to Earl and Claire’s. He was outside, pulling weeds from the garden while Claire stood by, instructing.
With shoulders squared, chin elevated with what she hoped looked like authority, and Bella riding on her hip, Annie walked over and to Earl and announced, “I’ve decided that your services will be best utilized if you are not sleeping on the floor above the workshop.”
He stopped weeding and stared at her. He did, indeed, look a mite haggard. “I disagree. Someone has to stay there.”
“Which is what I intend to do. As long as you lend me a sleeping bag. Bella will sleep in the cottage with me tonight, but I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if she stayed here for a few days? Maybe while Simon’s at the Inn?” She knew it was a lot to ask—a few days with a two-year-old could test the most well-meaning people, let alone older ones who were accustomed to a more serene life. “I really want to give Francine a break. And you. I don’t want you to show up at the Inn unless you’re summoned.”
Claire reached over and rubbed Bella’s arm. “Oh, my, of course we’ll take her. What I wouldn’t give to have this precious one back in our house!”
Right, Annie thought. Earl and Claire were a different breed of older people. They were islanders who took care of their own and, often, everyone else’s. “She no longer needs the crib,” Annie said. “She’ll be fine in the travel bed Francine brought from Minnesota. But tonight, she’s all mine. We’ll stay in the cottage and maybe make cookies.”
“Cookies!” Bella said, and everyone laughed, and Annie knew that she’d done the right thing.
Perhaps the most important thing Annie had learned since moving to the island was that sometimes people simply had to step up for one another.
He was awakened by a sweet scent of wild orchids wafting through the window’s louvered shutters. The last two days had been unimaginable, almost dreamlike. Maybe it was due to the rum punch, or maybe it was because of her—the woman who lay beside him now, her amazing auburn mane splayed across the now-wrinkled white bedsheets like incoming waves over the soft sands of low tide.
If Kevin told anyone, no one would believe that two days earlier marked the first time he’d slept with Taylor, the first time they’d had real, honest-to-God, passionate sex that had made him crazy with desire as that thicket of auburn heaven had swept every which way over every inch of him until the wee hours.
Until then, it had been nearly four years since Kevin had made love. In all that time, he never thought he’d want to again. And he had not. Until two nights ago. When the rum punch and the scent of those wild orchids and that hair—the same hair she used to hide under knit, woolen hats—and those long legs and that lean-muscled, temptress body—that she used to conceal in jeans and quilted vests—had done all the work that he never dreamed he’d once again be capable of. Not until he’d left not only Boston, but the whole damn Northeast, including, God help him, Martha’s Vineyard.
And though he knew full well he was acting like a stupid, horny kid, he could not seem to stop himself.
So he rolled toward her again and dove, again, into her warm, welcoming space.
Chapter 8
Tuesday morning arrived, and with it came rain. Lots and lots of rain. Which meant that everyone was moving slowly and had stayed inside. Only Mary Beth had disappeared, having ventured into the torrents.
The others lingered at the table, happily picking at “one more” slice of cranberry bread and having “one more” cup of tea or coffee, all the while sharing stories of kayaking and restaurants and disagreeing with good humor over which shops up at the cliffs carried the most unique handcrafted treasures.
Annie was grateful that Earl had stopped by early and whisked Bella away, though the night before had been wonderful. Annie had made chicken and veggie meatballs with homemade marinara sauce that Bella had devoured; they’d baked chocolate chip cookies and shared a giant one while it was still warm from the oven. Then Annie read the story of the little mermaid, and Bella fell asleep in Annie’s lap. It was perfect.
Things were not perfect now. She checke
d her watch—ten thirty, only one hour until Simon’s plane landed. She willed herself not to wring her hands or drum her fingers on the artisanal wood table. Finally, she interrupted one of the Indiana sisters (Toni and Ginny Taft—Toni was a retired flight attendant, and Ginny had been a schoolteacher—though Annie had trouble remembering who was who). “I have a small request,” she said. “As everyone knows, this is the second biggest, if not the biggest week on the Vineyard. People from all over the planet will be here. Well, not here at the Inn, exactly, though we’ve been asked to squeeze in a couple of extra guests. Francine is taking today off to gear up for the rest of the week.”
She smiled in an effort to reassure everyone that they’d still be well looked after.
“So I need to ask our guests a favor,” Annie continued. “If you’d like your sheets changed today, would you mind doing it yourself? And if you need clean towels, would you please help yourself from the linen room upstairs? I hate to impose, but after I clean up the kitchen, I have to make an airport run . . .”
Her stomach tightened as she waited for someone to say something. Anything.
Then the honeymoon bride stood up. “My husband would be delighted to take part in domestic duties,” she said with a toothy grin.
Then he stood, too. “If my wife agrees to wash dishes, I’ll be honored to dry.”
“And we’ll put them away,” one of the sisters said. “Tidying up is our pastime. Besides, there’s nothing else to do today. We hate going out in the rain.”
Annie bit her lip to stop tears from rising. “Thank you . . .”
Then Greg Collins, a carpenter and one of the year-round tenants, said, “I don’t know what’s left, but I’ll help, too. Vacuuming is my specialty.”
Then the other residents—Harlin Pierce, the waiter/mariachi bandleader, and Marty and Luke Amanti, the pair of Edgartown Elementary School teachers—pitched in with offers to dust and mop, as if each was trying to outdo the other. And Annie could not help but laugh.
“Okay,” she said, “Okay. Thank you all so much. I’ll think of a way to make it up to all of you.”
“No,” the bride said, “this is our way of thanking you for having such a wonderful Inn. Jack and I already decided that we’ll come back every year.
“We only got here yesterday, but already I don’t want our visit to end,” Toni or Ginny said. “We’ll clear the table, Annie, so you can get to the airport. Come on, everyone, let’s get started. This will be fun.”
The next thing Annie knew, everyone—everyone—stood up and began to divvy up the chores. As badly as Annie would have liked to sit there and cry at the awesome group of veritable strangers, she knew she needed to get a move on. She suspected that Simon Anderson wasn’t accustomed to waiting for much of anything, let alone an innkeeper in a Jeep on a rainy Vineyard day.
* * *
The small waiting area at the entrance for private plane passengers was crowded. Several people were grouped close to the door that led out to the tarmac; they held signs with bold, felt-marker names: Mr. Reynolds; The Franklins; Waterson Wedding Party. Annie wondered if she should have made one to let Simon know she would be his chauffeur.
The rain had let up a little, but the sky was still gray and moderately foggy, the air still damp and chilly. As tempted as she’d been to toss a yellow slicker on over her regular old jeans and sweatshirt, at the last minute she’d changed into a pale blue linen shirt and sweater, white jeans, and a Stutterheim Mosebacke navy raincoat that she’d bought for her upcoming book tour. She had no idea why she’d felt compelled to make a good first impression on the journalist, whose head was probably already larger than the plane that he was flying in on.
Airport personnel assured her that, yes, a private plane from Teterboro was due in at eleven twenty-eight, but they could not say if it was Simon’s flight. Annie had no way of knowing if he owned the plane, had chartered it, or if it belonged to the TV station. The network, she corrected herself.
She glanced at her watch again: eleven twenty. She wondered if she should text John to let him know where she was and whom was she was picking up. Maybe Earl had told him. Or the island’s mysterious, high-speed grapevine. Celebrities were no big deal on the Vineyard; if anything, the police stifled their groans when they learned that another high-profile tourist was en route. To them, it tended to mean one word: disruption. Having been born and raised there, John certainly had seen more than his share of famous people and was not about to become googly-eyed. She hoped the guests and tenants at the Inn would be respectful and give Simon space. Though Annie still had no idea why he was coming, or why he’d chosen the Inn, he—like all their guests—was entitled to privacy. For sure.
The trill of a small jet engine vibrated nearby; the necks of the bystanders crooked to see who would alight. After a few minutes, several young men and women strutted down the steps and onto the asphalt. The woman with the sign that read “Waterson Wedding Party” stepped forward. Perhaps she’d seen photos of her passengers beforehand.
The rest of the greeters, Annie included, moved aside to let the wedding party through the doorway.
“Welcome to Martha’s Vineyard,” their driver said.
“Which way to the bar?” one of the young men chortled and the others snickered as they crammed together, pack-like, and followed the driver through the terminal.
Annie quietly whined.
The next thing she knew, another plane had arrived, though through the din of the wedding party, she hadn’t heard the engine. But when she looked up there was Simon Anderson, moving toward the entrance with a bit of a swagger, juggling a backpack and a duffel bag. The others in the waiting area moved apart again with nonplussed precision.
Annie stepped forward. “Hello. I’m Annie. From the Inn.”
He was more handsome than he appeared on the small screen—if that were possible—with thick black hair that was faintly brushed with silver, teal blue eyes, and a smile that could light up a starless night on Chappaquiddick.
She wondered if he realized she had gulped.
His handshake was firm, confident, warm. He introduced her to Bill something-or-other as his able-bodied assistant, who also had a backpack and a duffel. Annie shook his hand, too, saying it was nice to meet them both. She was grateful she’d changed out of her island day-to-day wear.
As they made it outside toward the Jeep, the men walked with purpose and did not mention the soggy weather. Instead, Simon explained that they’d hitched the flight with a colleague who was en route to Boston—something about an in-depth story on the big casino that had made an historic comeback after having been shut down during the pandemic.
Annie told him they’d been fortunate to weather that storm fairly well on the island. For people who always stuck together, they’d quickly learned to socially distance.
Thankfully, she’d removed Bella’s car seat, so there was enough room in the back for their gear.
Then the three of them got in, with Simon in the front. Much to Annie’s embarrassment, they hadn’t made it out of the parking lot before she said, “I watched you every night when you were in Boston. You were amazing in the aftermath of the Marathon bombing.”
He didn’t answer at first, but she noticed a thin smile cross his lips. Then he said, “Is this my cue to tell you that I’ve read your books?”
Annie steered the car down the airport access road toward Edgartown-West Tisbury Road. Her cheeks flushed, her stomach twitched.
Then Simon laughed. “In all honesty, I planned to, but I haven’t had a chance. They take place in Boston, don’t they?”
She nodded silently.
“Then I absolutely must. There’s nothing like a good old hometown mystery.”
With a mortified smile, she said, “I guess.”
And snap!—Annie Sutton became a googly-eyed girl.
* * *
All the way back to Chappy, Annie tried to not talk incessantly, but whenever she was nervous she tended to “run
off at the mouth,” as her dad used to lovingly call it. Right then, it was hard not to. Once she’d learned that Simon had only been to the Vineyard once, years ago, she felt a need to point out the sights—all the sights: the transfer station, which most folks still called “the dump”; the library, that was so much more than books; Main Street in Edgartown, the picturesque eighteenth-century whaling village that had been captured in many photographs and on many artists’ canvases. He asked a few questions about the town’s history, though they seemed to be more out of courtesy than genuine interest. For Annie, the trip was mentally and physically exhausting.
She didn’t relax until they boarded the On Time and the men were so enamored by the simplistic, harbor-worthy vessel that she finally took the time to shut up. And breathe. She wondered if Simon had that effect on all women or only on muddleheaded ones like her.
By the time they reached the Inn the sun was almost shining.
The honeymoon couple greeted them in the driveway and offered to take their bags. They were smiling and pleasant and extremely friendly: that’s when Annie realized that, like Lottie’s husband—and the others who’d stuck around the Inn that morning—odds were they’d heard that Simon Anderson was coming to Chappy. To the Inn.
The thought of which helped her right mind finally slip back into place.
