A Vineyard Crossing

by Jean Stone

  “I can’t imagine that anyone hates you,” Francine said.

  “One of John’s old girlfriends?”

  “From what Claire told me, after his divorce he was a hermit until he met you. He didn’t have a single date. He was that upset—not about losing his wife, but about losing his family unit.”

  He’d used the same words when he’d explained his breakup to Annie, right after they’d started dating. She pushed away the thought that his “family unit” might be a strong enough incentive to shove him back to Jenn. She sighed. “Am I overreacting?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe none of this was about you. Maybe it was about Simon. Like it could be someone who knows his wife, or knows he’s married, and wanted to start trouble. You do know he’s married, don’t you?”

  Annie planted her hands on either side of her head. “Oh, my God. Not you, too! Yes, I know he’s married. And no, I have no interest in him. Nor would I if I weren’t engaged to John—if, in fact, I still am. Simon Anderson is too slick for me.” She was grateful she’d figured that out not long after they’d met.

  “Look,” Francine said quietly, “you might never know who did it. We both know the Vineyard is teeming with all kinds of people in summer. Maybe it was an arbitrary person with an iPhone who spotted you and thought it would be a hoot to post a photo on VineyardInsiders. Who knows how it got to the Times from there. There are plenty of people wandering around here who are connected with media from all over the world. Especially in August.” Her words were wise, far wiser than her years. But as much as Annie appreciated them, she still felt a hole of uncertainty.

  Dropping the wampum back into the dish, she stood up and stretched. “I’d much rather help with housekeeping duties than think about this another minute. What needs doing? Is anyone waiting for anything?”

  “I think they’ve all gone out. I cleaned the rooms, which is pretty easy. Bill said he isn’t fussy, so there was no need to do his. I gave Simon fresh towels yesterday, but he said the cottage was fine, and that he knows how to make his own bed. Who knows? Maybe he’s a little miffed about the gossip, too. Maybe both he and his wife didn’t appreciate it. Anyway, I haven’t gone down there this morning. Maybe you want to try again to clear the air with him?”

  “Thanks, but I already tried. He was pretty clear that he had nothing to do with it. I’ll bring the towels, though. Save you a trip.”

  “While you’re at it, are you going to ask him to leave?”

  Annie touched her throat. “Why? Did someone suggest that?”

  “Well,” Francine began as she exchanged the orange-haired doll for the brunette that Bella handed her, “after Bill left the table, one of the Indiana sisters—Toni, I think—suggested that Simon should go elsewhere. She said, ‘Whether or not this is true, why would anyone put such drivel online?’ Did I tell you I found your books in their room?”

  In spite of her all-consuming drama, Annie offered half a grin. “So the sisters are fans. How nice.”

  “They haven’t asked for your autograph yet?”

  “No. They’re probably being respectful. Which doesn’t mean they won’t ask when they’re checking out.” She blew Bella a kiss. “Thanks for the talk, Francine. I’ll bring towels to the cottage and see if Simon wants anything else. Other than to bake in the sun while wrecking the legs of my Adirondack chair.”

  “What?” Francine asked.

  Annie waved it off. “Nothing. I’m being petty. Go back to Jonas’s. I’ll stay here and mind the palace. I’ve realized I like to work in the reading room.”

  “Jonas is painting out at Wasque today. He says those are the landscapes most people have bought. Maybe I’ll bring a blanket, and Bella and I will go watch.” Lately, whenever she mentioned Jonas, she smiled sweetly. “You’ll be okay here?”

  “Of course. Whoever is behind this might simply be vying for attention. I doubt if anyone is trying to blackmail me. Or kill me. So go. Enjoy. And please persuade Jonas to come to the fireworks tomorrow night. It’s always a good time.”

  Francine smiled again, shyly that time, and lowered her head.

  For the first time that day, Annie felt a little better—especially because the fact that she’d remembered about the fireworks must be a sign that at least a small part of her brain remained intact.

  Chapter 17

  Though she missed her writing space in the cottage, Annie did enjoy working in the reading room, where she was connected to the real world while immersed in her imaginary one. It was a nice combination, especially for putting together blog posts and “listicles”—a term she’d never heard of until recently; it meant that Annie had to come up with lists of items that in some way were tied to her novels and would be fun for her readers. Creating them entailed hunting for information on topics like:

  —10 Museums with Unsolved Mysteries

  —6 Must-See Museums in America

  —12 Quirky Museums around the Globe

  The research was easy and helped take her mind off everything else. Including the fact that by four o’clock, when John would be clocking in at the station, he still hadn’t called. It was a silent, yet audible, message.

  A few minutes later, Annie heard a light tap on the doorway.

  “Knock, knock?”

  It was Meghan, alias Mary Beth. Or Mary Beth Mullen, alias Meghan MacNeish.

  “Hey,” Annie said. “Come on in.”

  “Sorry to interrupt.”

  “It’s fine. I’ve been getting cross-eyed. Come in. Sit.”

  She came in. She sat. She looked woeful.

  “What’s up?” Annie asked.

  “I looked for you this morning, but the Jeep wasn’t here. I was wondering how you’re doing since that absurd picture was posted.”

  “Ah, yes. That. I believe the term is I’m doing ‘as well as can be expected.’ In other words, I don’t have a clue how I’m doing. John is angry. I’m angry that he’s angry. I can’t figure out who did it or why. So, yeah, I guess ‘as well as can be expected’ pretty much sums it up.”

  “Oh, Annie, I’m so sorry.”

  “Me, too. I heard you defended my honor during breakfast. Thanks for that.”

  “It’s all so ridiculous.”

  “That it is.” She shut down her laptop, closed the lid, and rested her arms on top. She leaned closer to Meghan. “But much in life is ridiculous, isn’t it? Like how you happened to arrive here the very day that Kevin left.”

  Meghan studied her fingernails—clipped short, and nicely manicured with clear polish. “I haven’t wanted to ask, but have you heard from him about the picture?”

  “No.” She did not want to tell her that she wouldn’t be surprised if Kevin was not monitoring VineyardInsiders because he was otherwise occupied. “But I don’t want to talk about it anymore. What I would love would be for you to come to the fireworks tomorrow night. They’re really magnificent. They take place in Oak Bluffs, but I like to go to Fuller Street Beach in Edgartown. I went there last year with Earl and Claire. It isn’t as crowded, and the view is terrific. In fact, maybe I’ll invite the honeymooners and the Indiana sisters, too. Not sure about Simon and Bill, though. Not after our last public outing.” She’d added the last part in an attempt at a joke, hoping to elicit a laugh out of Meghan. It didn’t work.

  “That’s the other reason I was looking for you,” Meghan said. “Thanks for the invite, but I’ll have to decline. I spent most of the day walking and thinking and thinking some more, and I’ve decided to leave the Vineyard. I’ll check out in the morning.”

  It felt as if someone had sucked the air out of the room. Annie’s whole body went limp. “No-o-o-o,” she whimpered. “Please. Don’t go, Meghan. You only just got here . . . I’ve only just met you . . .”

  But Meghan shook her head. “I can’t. That picture of you and Simon . . . I’m standing right there in the background. Thank God it was dark, and the lights pretty much blurred me, so I’m not recognizable. Which is good, because my bet is tha
t if Kevin hasn’t yet seen it, he will. But who knows what will happen next? Will somebody take another photo—that time with me in it, front and center? I can’t risk it, Annie. If Kevin comes back it should be because he wants to. Not because he finds out I’m here. It wouldn’t be fair. Not to him and not to that woman . . .”

  Annie tried to listen patiently, to not interrupt. But the reference to Taylor made her stifle a grimace. “What really isn’t fair is that he doesn’t know.”

  Weaving her fingers together, Meghan said, “At some point, I’ll get in touch with him—I agree, it’s the right thing to do. But if I stay here he might find out by mistake. And I don’t want to shock him. I’ve put him through too much as it is.” She stood up, tears now coating her cornflower eyes. “I’m really sorry, Annie. You’re so special, and I’m so glad Kevin has you. Under other circumstances, I think we’d be good friends.”

  “Not only friends, Meghan. Family. We are family, after all.”

  As Meghan pressed her lips together, a single tear trickled down her cheek.

  Annie stood up and gave her a hug. “Think about it some more, okay? And let me know if there’s any way on this planet I can get you to change your mind.”

  But Meghan slipped from her hug and from the room without responding.

  * * *

  Annie could not let Meghan leave, so she knew she had to act. It took all of five seconds to come up with what she hoped was the right strategy. But she couldn’t execute it there.

  Gathering her things, she left a note on the front desk saying she’d return in half an hour. Then she left the Inn and headed toward the meadow, where she quickly climbed the stairs to her temporary digs over the workshop and thanked God for the decent cell service up there. But before she could make the call, someone connected to her line.

  “Annie?” an unfamiliar voice asked.

  Instantly fearing it was a prank call—a woman calling to spout off about the picture of her with Simon, like maybe his wife who could have tracked Annie down, or one of Simon’s enamored fans who thought she was entitled to have him for herself—Annie paused. And waited.

  “Annie?” the voice repeated. “It’s Lottie Nelson.”

  Annie sighed. “Oh. Lottie. Thanks for calling me back.”

  The woman paused, as if she’d heard the distress in Annie’s voice. “Did you decide to use the space at the fire station after all?”

  “No,” she replied, shaking her head as if Lottie could see her. “I was wondering about something else. I didn’t get to see you at Illumination Night.”

  “We were there. Along with Georgia, who I’m sure would have loved to see you.”

  The mention of Lottie’s sister, a kind hospice nurse, an “angel of mercy,” as she’d been called, triggered a tug of emotion. Annie cleared her throat. “I’m sorry I missed her. But I did hear that you picked up a couple of passengers at the ferry. A couple of guys who might have entertained you?”

  Lottie laughed. “They sure did. Joe spotted them. Well, he spotted Simon. He watches him every night from eight to nine. Georgia was delighted when the men squeezed into the back seat. Simon sat next to her.”

  “That’s nice,” Annie said, as if she thought it was. Simon, on the other hand, would have been pleased to know that his brand had had a positive impact on Chappaquiddick, at least with Lottie’s trio. “This is going to sound absurd, but do you remember if Simon’s assistant had any camera gear with him?”

  “You mean like a Nikon hanging around his neck and a tripod under his arm?”

  “Something like that.” She paced the plywood floor in the unfinished room, stopping at the window, where she looked out at the view that was so serene it seemed to ridicule her situation.

  “Are you trying to figure out who took the picture that wound up on the internet?”

  A tiny thud thudded in Annie’s stomach. God, she was getting sick of this. “I am.”

  “I bet John wasn’t too pleased when he saw it.”

  “Never mind John. I wasn’t too pleased.” Her words snapped out. “Sorry, Lottie. I didn’t mean to bark.”

  “No problem. I’m sure I’d feel the same way if somebody posted something like that about me. And Joe sure wouldn’t be pleased.”

  “Right. But what about a camera? Did you notice one?”

  Lottie sighed. “Sorry, but I didn’t. I know that Bill—that’s his name, right?—had a bottle of beer in one hand, but I don’t think there was anything in the other. And no strap hanging around his neck.”

  “Oh.” Though she was disappointed, Annie wasn’t surprised. She turned from the window, walked to the chair by the sleeping bag, and sat. “And Simon?”

  “He had a green map. You know, the kind with the illustrations of tourist attractions all over the island and how to get there? The ones you get free at the boat terminals and the airport and in lots of places?”

  Yes, Annie knew the map. They kept a stack at the Inn’s front desk in the reception area, and Francine put one in each guest room. “When you got to OB, did you drop Simon and Bill off or did you stay with them?”

  “Oh, we wouldn’t have stayed with them—that would have been pushy. Joe booted all of us out of the car at the foot of Circuit Avenue, then he went somewhere and parked. I told Simon to meet us at the carousel at ten if they needed a ride back to Chappy.”

  “Did they?”

  “They did.”

  “But I take it you didn’t see who took the picture?”

  “Sorry, Annie. I wish I had.”

  “Me, too, Lottie. Me, too.”

  * * *

  With all the things throughout her life that would go down in history as totally not worth repeating, Annie rarely felt sorry for herself. So she had no idea why, compared with the real struggles, losses, and challenges that she’d endured, something as relatively inconsequential as a stupid photo felt so monumental. Maybe because on the island she couldn’t escape it; she felt marked as a topic of scorn.

  Releasing a growl that was only as loud as Annie dared so no one except maybe Murphy would hear, she let her whole body shudder as if that could shake off any demons that came with needing to have a “brand.” After all, Annie Sutton was not, did not want to be, a celebrity. She was just a writer who struggled with her work like many people struggled with theirs: good days, bad days, days of enthusiasm, days when she wondered why the heck anyone would care about what she did. Sometimes she still felt like a fake, that the notoriety she’d received in her genre was a fluke. She’d heard that other writers sometimes felt that way, too.

  “Well,” she said out loud once her shudder was done shuddering, “I do believe I’m feeling sorry for myself after all. I am such a brat.” Why couldn’t she be more like Meghan—stoic in spite of adversity? Understanding that the man she loved might no longer love her? After everything Meghan had triumphed over, it was both pathetic and embarrassing for Annie to think that she was the one with the corner on misery.

  “My stupid brother,” she muttered as she peeled her thoughts off herself because it felt safer to turn them back to him. “My foolish, stupid brother.” She wondered what Kevin actually would do if he knew Meghan was well and was on Chappaquiddick, waiting for him to return. At least Annie had a plan. All she needed was the courage to pick up the phone.

  * * *

  He answered on the first ring. “If it isn’t my celebrity sister,” Kevin said with a playful cackle. “How does John feel now that you’ve dumped him for a journalist?”

  So. He had seen the post.

  Annie brushed off his glibness as an attempt to amuse her. At least he sounded goofy and cheerful. So he must not have spotted Meghan.

  “Not funny,” she said. “I can’t figure out if I was set up or if someone was in the right place at the right time, so to speak, and thought it would be funny.” Changing the subject was the best thing to do. She did not want to share John’s caustic reaction—or suggest anything that might make Kevin look at the photo aga
in, when further scrutiny might make him question if the blur in the background could possibly be his wife. His former wife, she corrected herself.

  She tried to concentrate on her mission to communicate with her brother as if she weren’t hiding the biggest imaginable secret from him. “How are things there?”

  “Um . . . no different from when we talked yesterday.”

  “Sorry if I cut you off. I was with one of our guests when you called.”

  “Well, okay, as long as you’re being nice now, I can tell you I’m making progress about Taylor’s house. Excuse me, Jonas’s house, seeing as how he’s the one who legally owns it. I keep forgetting he inherited it from his father’s family. Anyway, I’m at city hall right now, trying to nail down the protocol for scoring building permits.”

  So Kevin was dug in, which was not good news. She squeezed her eyes shut. “Is the place worth it?”

  “It’s run-down, for sure, but not so far gone that it can’t be repaired. And forget about making it better to live in—if down the road they want to sell it, it needs to be in better shape. The location’s good, and it could be worth a whole lot more than it would be now. Some carpentry here and there, maybe a new porch, a coat or two of fresh paint . . .”

  Annie was trying hard to let him talk. But she only had so much patience, and she didn’t want to waste what little she had listening to things related to Taylor. She opened her eyes. “Kevin,” she interrupted, no longer able to hold back. “I really don’t care. I need you to come home. Now.”

  The delay before his response could have been due to the miles and oceans and landmasses between them. Or it could have been because he wasn’t accustomed to having Annie tell him what to do. He might have thought she’d already learned not to hassle him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.