A Vineyard Crossing

by Jean Stone

  Meghan smiled a radiant smile that accentuated the high cheekbones under her lustrous skin. “My mother was Egyptian, my father is Irish. Quite a combination, isn’t it?”

  “Wow. How did they meet?”

  “Their families wound up being neighbors in Boston. My mother had emigrated with her parents from Cairo in the mid-seventies, not long before the famous bread riots when the government took food subsidies away from the poor. I remember my grandfather saying, ‘They took the food from the people who needed it the most.’ He was a carpenter; he worked on the last stage of the John Hancock Tower. They weren’t poor, but many of their friends were.”

  “He was a carpenter. Do you think . . . ?”

  “That my trade came from him? Absolutely. My mother recognized it early on. But neither she, nor my grandfather, lived long enough to see me get my degree in construction engineering.”

  “Your mother died when you were young.”

  “I was thirteen.”

  The somber moments that followed were then sparked by music from a guitar being strummed by an elderly man nearby.

  Annie pulled her knees up and looped her arms around them. “How did you meet my brother?”

  “That’s easy. I needed a job. I answered an ad. I married the boss.” Her laughter was relaxed and infectious.

  “You’re a lot younger than he is.”

  “Only four years. I turned thirty-nine in April.”

  “Oh, my gosh. You look much younger.”

  Meghan laughed. “Lack of stress. It’s hard to be stressed when you’re in a coma for a long time. Maybe it’s the secret to stopping the aging process.”

  “But I doubt you’d recommend it.”

  “Not for a second.”

  “Okay,” Annie said, “enough of my prying. The sun’s almost down. Let’s head up to the action.”

  They packed their picnic things, toted them back to the Jeep, then meandered past small children racing with pinwheels, smiling grandparents pushing strollers, and couples of all ages making their way toward the sounds of the Vineyard Haven Band. Over the festive clamoring, Annie raised her voice to explain that the Tabernacle was a nineteenth-century, wrought-iron structure and was listed in the National Register of Historic Places. She told Meghan that under its striking, octagonal cupola and dozens of clerestories, the open-air church boasted seating for up to four thousand. “Today it’s used for high school graduations as well as concerts, church services, and all kinds of cultural events in the summer.”

  “You’d make a great tour guide,” Meghan said, also increasing her voice several decibels.

  “I’ll keep that in mind if the book thing doesn’t work out,” Annie shouted back with a happy laugh.

  Then the music shifted to lively antics of dual pianos, and the hundreds of people joined together, singing lively renditions of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” followed by “In the Good Old Summertime.” Annie stepped back and listened, unable to stop smiling. This was the Vineyard at its best.

  At eight thirty (or thereabouts), the Tabernacle fell into darkness; the crowd turned customarily silent; the ceremonial first lantern was lit. What followed were ethereal rainbows of light, one after another after another and another, encircling the grounds as each gingerbread house lit its lanterns—some paper, some fabric, some painted with flowers, some with clever, custom artwork. The effect was enchanting. Then Annie felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “Would you ladies care to glow?” It was Simon Anderson, holding up two glowing, plastic necklaces.

  “How nice,” Annie said quickly as she took them from him and handed one to Meghan, who looked somewhat stricken. “Mary Beth, I don’t think you’ve met Simon Anderson. Simon, this is my friend, Mary Beth, who’s staying at the Inn, too.”

  Meghan fidgeted with the necklace, then slipped it on while muttering a small “Thank you.”

  “Here,” Simon said to Annie, “allow me.” He retrieved the necklace, wrapped it around Annie’s neck, then lifted her hair as he clasped it. He then rested his hands on her shoulders, leaned closer, and whispered in her ear. “The glow enhances your loveliness.” Then he straightened up and said, “Enjoy the rest of the evening, ladies.” He bowed slightly and walked away, vanishing into the crowd.

  * * *

  “What was that about?” Meghan asked once Annie had hustled her out of there and they headed back to Chappy.

  “I have no idea.”

  Meghan sighed. “I guess the good news is that he was so busy hitting on you, he barely noticed me.”

  Following the line of vehicles that inched along as slowly as the great leathernecks as they trailed their way back into the ocean after laying their eggs on Florida beaches, Annie was reminded that no matter how congested the traffic became on the Beach Road or at other bottlenecks, like her, few people cared. At least, not with the kind of horn-blowing, road-raging antics often seen on the mainland. Summer traffic was part of the Vineyard experience, and though islanders occasionally grumbled about it, they rarely moved away.

  If Annie was trying to focus on the traffic in order to distract her from the discomfort of Simon’s attention, it wasn’t working. “I’m sure he wouldn’t have done that if John had been standing there.”

  “Will I get to meet your fiancé soon?”

  “I wish. But it’s August. He’s always working. Or sleeping. Or, now, tending to his two daughters. I won’t see much of him until after Labor Day.”

  “That stinks.”

  “Agreed.”

  They grew quiet for a moment, then Meghan said, “Annie? Do you think Kevin will come back?”

  “I wish I knew. I really do.”

  “I don’t know how long I should wait. Or if I should wait. Or if I should go and let him have his life. Donna gave me hope that he still loved me, but time changes things, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose it can.” To stop from telling Meghan that she’d often wanted to hold Kevin captive until she succeeded in planting some sense into his gray matter over his bizarre attraction to Taylor, Annie told her about Brian, about how his death had left her unhinged, how it was years before she’d been able to delete the last message he’d left when he’d said he had a secret to tell her. “I’d become obsessed with trying to find out what the ‘secret’ was. It felt like something I could hold on to. And it felt safer than to keep thinking he was . . . gone.” She stopped speaking a moment, until she regained some equilibrium—speaking about Brian had a way of decentering her. “The truth is,” she added, “I never thought I’d recover. At some point I went on with my life, but I it was a long time before I healed.”

  “Did you ever find out what he wanted to tell you?”

  She shook her head. “No. At some point, I accepted that it didn’t matter; he wasn’t coming back.” In the early weeks, months, after his death, she’d had to remind herself of that often.

  “Are you trying to prepare me that Kevin might not come back . . . or that he might not come back to me? And that I might never know the whole story?”

  “Oh, Meghan, no. All I know is that every time Kevin talks about you, he can barely get the words out. But change is part of life, and no matter what happens, we learn from it, and God knows we grow. But I don’t mean to sound . . . pessimistic. Unlike with Brian and me, you still have a chance.”

  A wistful look crossed Meghan’s face again. “Our marriage wasn’t perfect, Annie. I’m not sure any marriages are. But it was good. So I’ll wait. If nothing else, I owe it to him to let him see that I’m okay. And because I’ve never been sure if I did the right thing by not letting him know I was recovering.”

  Annie nodded. “Where would the fun be if life was perfect?” She tried to be upbeat, for Meghan’s sake. But all she could think of was Brian’s beautiful face, and the four words he whispered to her each night before they fell asleep: “My Annie; my love.”

  If she’d been able to go back to her cottage that night, she might have opened the Louis Vuitton trunk and take
n out the album that held the memories of Brian and her. She would have sat for hours, lightly touching the photos of him. She still did that sometimes. She knew she should stop once she married John because it would upset him and why would she want to do that? But she’d never forget how much Brian had loved her. That was how she’d finally found the courage to move on.

  But of course, Annie couldn’t go home that night, couldn’t wallow in the past, because the cottage was now occupied by Simon Anderson, who might or might not think that Annie was fair game for his lair. If he had a lair. Which, if he did, would surely be sizable.

  When they arrived back at the Inn, Annie said, “I’d love to suggest coffee or tea but I’m bushed. So I’ll see you at breakfast?”

  “Absolutely,” Meghan said. “And I’m going to try not to be afraid of what’s going to come next.”

  * * *

  Zipped in the sleeping bag, not ready for sleep, Annie’s thoughts drifted to Meghan—how much she had been through, how many years she had lost from her young life. Kevin once said that he’d wanted children . . . if they did reunite, was it too late for that?

  From where she was lying, Annie could see stars outside the window; she hoped Donna was up there in the heavens.

  It must have been difficult for Donna to have kept Meghan’s secret, to not have told Kevin that his wife was healing. Maybe Donna’s perpetual optimism that the couple would reunite had kept her going through her own illness, had kept her “staying positive,” as had been her mantra. And maybe that optimism had contributed to Meghan’s recovery, too.

  Annie thought back to a rainy afternoon when she’d sat in the Black Dog with Donna, looking out at the big white ferry as it pulled from the pier, embarking on another crossing, another journey, another passage of time and people coming and going, weaving in and out of one another’s lives. Between sips of hot tea and spoonfuls of steamy chowder, Donna had abruptly said, “I’ve had a bout with cancer.” She admitted that her treatments had “not been pleasant.”

  “I wonder what other secrets our mother is hiding,” Kevin had commented after Donna finally told him, too.

  “Oh my wonderful brother,” Annie said now into the night, “you are in for a giant surprise about that—if you ever unhinge yourself from Taylor and get your butt back here where you belong.”

  Entranced by the stars, Annie knew that as sad as she could get about the people she had lost, she liked to believe that those souls—including Donna—watched over her now. And that, yes, of course, Donna watched over Kevin, too.

  Just then a silver comet streaked across the sky.

  He could get used to eating fresh pineapple for breakfast. And mango. And papaya. Not the kind that had taken who knew how many days to be shipped to the mainland, then to the Vineyard, then onto the market shelves. Now that he’d tasted the real deal right from the source, he did not want to go back to the other junk.

  “One day, you’ll be happy again,” his mother had said after Meghan hadn’t recognized him. “It will be different than before, but you will be happy. I promise.”

  His mother, however, hadn’t known the whole story. That in addition to struggling with his own guilt, he’d also been struggling to forgive Meghan. He’d spared Donna the details, simply because he could not bear to tell her the rest. He had not wanted his mother to have to try and forgive Meghan, too.

  Chapter 13

  As with their vehicles, there were few reasons for anyone to lock the doors of their homes on Martha’s Vineyard, even in the twenty-first century. Oh, sure, there was an occasional break-in that typically involved a rambunctious band of summer kids who were testing the limits. And sometimes off season, island kids would sneak into empty seasonal houses and have a party or two. But overall, the Vineyard remained safe from marauders, petty thieves, or worse.

  Which was why, as dawn began to break, Annie’s heart leaped into her throat when she was awakened by the sound of someone clomping up the stairs to her sleeping bag haven over the workshop. She clutched the bag up to her chin as if that might ward off the intruder by making her invisible.

  She wondered if it was Simon, in search of payment for the glow necklace.

  Holding her breath, she dared to open her eyes as the upstairs door opened.

  Instead of Simon, she saw John. She smiled and rubbed her eyes.

  “You awake?” he growled.

  He growled? Was she dreaming? “I am now,” she said.

  He stomped across the room and stood over her, hovering, staring down. It didn’t look as if he’d come to Chappy for romance—his eyes had narrowed, his jaw was rigid. “Where’s your laptop?”

  Her laptop? Had he barged into what was, for the time being, her room, because he wanted to Google something? Annie pulled herself halfway out of the bedding. “It’s downstairs. Charging. There’s no electricity up here yet.”

  He turned and thumped back down the stairs. She wasn’t sure if he expected her to get out of bed and follow him.

  She was, however, damned if she would. Not with the way he’d blasted in without an explanation. They hadn’t talked since . . . when? Monday morning? Three days ago?

  Unpacking herself from the bag, she decided she could think more clearly if she were sitting up. Or standing. She reached for her cardigan that was draped across a lone straight-back chair next to her quasi-bed. Pulling it over her cotton pajamas, she raked her hands through her hair in a halfhearted attempt to comb it, then stuck her feet into her Crocs with a single thought: What the heck was his problem?

  Then he was back, laptop in hand. “Open it, please. Boot it up. To the internet.”

  At least he’d said “please.” So Annie turned it on and waited for the screen to light. She plugged in her password, half-hoping that the fickle Chappy connection would not cooperate. However, that morning it decided to play nice, so she handed the computer back to the man who did not in any way appear to be the kind and loving person she’d agreed to marry.

  She wondered if he’d gone bonkers like her brother had.

  He futzed with the keyboard for several seconds then handed it back to her. “It’s a Mac, not a PC. I have no idea how it works.”

  She wondered if that gave her an edge, though she had no idea why she’d need one.

  “John,” she sighed, “will you please tell me what’s going on?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” he replied, arms crossed on his chest. At least he wasn’t in uniform. At least he wasn’t wearing his holster and his .38, or whatever caliber the Edgartown police used for guns. “Find VineyardInsiders.”

  VineyardInsiders was a private website for islanders, about islanders. It was a place of perpetual information that everyone who lived there should or might want to know. On occasion, it served as a kind of gossip column, publishing things that neither island newspaper regarded as newsworthy. Some anecdotes were funny; some were not.

  Though Annie rarely looked at it, she had a sickening suspicion of what she would see.

  She typed VineyardInsiders.com and awaited her fate.

  The first (or more accurately, the latest) morsel in the newsfeed was about a pig that had been found wandering on the airport runway. “This is the kind of stuff that happened back in the fifties,” an old-timer had commented and added a smiley face.

  Annie scrolled to the next story: a photo of a silver pickup, complete with visible license plate; the author proclaimed that the driver had cut her off at the five corners, causing her to slam on her brakes and her shopping bag to propel to the floor, thus shattering nearly all two dozen eggs she’d bought at Ghost Island Farm. A thread of comments offered sympathies and agreed that the truck must belong to a tourist. One writer suggested that the woman “bring the pic to the police station and have them run a make on the vehicle,” as if that wouldn’t waste law enforcement’s time.

  And then there it was. A photo of Illumination Night. With the shimmering rainbow of lanterns in the background. And Annie in the foreground. With Simon Ande
rson leaned in closely, whispering in her ear after he’d clasped the glow necklace at the nape of her neck. From the angle of the shot, it looked as if he’d been brushing his lips on her.

  If, in Annie’s previous life, she’d been a longshoreman or perhaps a lumberjack instead of a third grade teacher, she might have spewed a string of expletives that would have embarrassed the most heartless villain in her murder mysteries. In her mind, she hoped Murphy was spewing them for her.

  “Did you read it?” John hissed. “Did you read the comments?”

  She had not. She did not want to.

  “Go to the one that says, ‘Hey, Sgt. Lyons, see what your lady’s been doing while you’re on the night shift.’ That’s one of the good ones. Or, ‘What’s going on at The Vineyard Inn, John?’ And be sure to read, ‘A crack in the wedding bells?’ Yeah. I really love that one.”

  Annie couldn’t speak; she could hardly breathe. “No . . .” she moaned, “It isn’t . . . it wasn’t . . .”

  “The worst part . . .” John stepped on her words, his tone methodical, as if he was working hard not to sound threatening, “. . . the worst part is that my daughter showed it to me.” His voice cracked when he said, “daughter.” “She greeted me with it when I got home from work.”

  His daughter? Of course Abigail would do something like that. It was no secret that she didn’t like having to live on the Vineyard, that moving back had only been what she’d perceived as the lesser of two evils. For all Annie knew, Abigail had taken the picture to humiliate her father. Or her father’s girlfriend. Or both of them. “No . . .” Annie insisted again, then said, “Abigail . . .”

  John scowled. “Not Abigail. Lucy. Lucy is upset.”

  Annie was stunned. That the image conveyed a romantic encounter was beyond a doubt. Of course Lucy would have been upset. But why hadn’t she texted Annie and asked her about it first? Then Annie knew that as close as they’d become, Lucy would always put her father first. As Annie would have done.

  “So what was he really doing?” John continued. “Other than sucking on your neck?” He’d unfolded his arms and hooked his thumbs into belt loops, a stance that Annie recognized as him trying to tamp down anger.