A Vineyard Crossing

by Jean Stone

  At least he didn’t act as if he thought she hated him. “I’m fine. Everyone’s fine.” She swallowed the words Including Meghan. Instead she said, “But there are things here that need your attention. It’s too complicated to get into over the phone. Please trust me, I need you here.”

  He laughed.

  Seriously? He laughed?

  “You’re kidding, right?” he asked. “I just got here.”

  “Technically, you’ve been there more than five days. Five of the busiest days at the busiest time of year.” She prayed she could stick to her intention to be straightforward and firm, yet not hostile. Unless he provoked her. “I can’t believe I agreed that you could go right now. It should have waited, Kevin. I’m sorry, but if we’re going to be partners in the Inn going forward, I need to feel that we’re on the same page and taking equal responsibility. Which I guess means you can’t take off whenever you feel like it.” Her voice had begun quivering, which she hoped he would think was because she was upset, not because she was riddled with anxiety for trying to trick him. “I didn’t press you at first, because I didn’t think you’d actually go. I thought you knew better.” Her monologue tumbled out before she could reel it back in. She wished she could write a scene in one of her books so adeptly and as fast.

  The lag time kicked in again. Then Kevin said, “Jesus, Annie. I knew you were pissed, but I thought you had everything under control. You always do, don’t you?”

  She really wished he wouldn’t try to be rational. “That was before Francine and Bella relinquished their room for Simon Anderson’s assistant, and before I turned over my place to Simon. I know I said I wouldn’t do that, but there you have it. I felt backed into a corner. Your idea of a tent was asinine, though it might have been smarter as Mr. Anderson has already trashed one of my Adirondack chairs and God only knows what else. I’m sleeping on the plywood floor over the freaking workshop, where I don’t have as much as a single electrical outlet to keep my phone charged.” She had started to pace, her steps matching the escalation of her diction. She’d apparently forgotten her vow not to sound hostile.

  “Are you more pissed about all that or about me being with Taylor? I know she’s not your favorite person, Annie, but . . .”

  “Stop!” she snarled. “This has nothing to do with her.” For once, Annie didn’t have a hard time lying. Meghan was at stake. And maybe Kevin’s happiness. And the last thing she wanted was to hear him say anything related to his feelings for Taylor. “It’s about your commitment here. To Earl and me. To our business. You knew before you left that I have a book tour coming up. Well, it turns out I’ll be gone for six weeks. Francine will be back in Minnesota. So who’s going to mind the store? We can’t dump all this on Earl. I’m afraid we’re already wearing him out. And probably Claire, too.” When he didn’t reply right away, she kept spitting words of bogus anger. “I’ll say it again, Kevin: You need to come home now. You can go back later if that’s what you want. When we don’t have an Inn full of people. Let me know when someone can meet you at Logan.”

  With that, she abruptly ended the call, her scene spoken as she might have written it after all, if she’d ever created a character as heartbroken as Annie was about deceiving her brother, when all she’d been trying was to do the right thing.

  Hopefully, when—if—he returned and saw Meghan, he’d forgive Annie for having stuck her nose into their business, where it clearly did not belong.

  Depleted and depressed, all she could think of was that she wanted a drink.

  Chapter 18

  “It didn’t occur to you that your brother would call me?” Earl stood at the top of the stairs over the workshop, his head cocked to one side, his stocky, solid frame silhouetted in the early morning light.

  After her argument with Kevin, Annie hadn’t gone in search of wine. Instead, she’d huddled inside the sleeping bag and stayed there, barely moving, through the night. John hadn’t showed up unannounced. Or called. Or texted. At some point, either her mind had finally quieted or she’d given up trying to convince herself that it was okay that she’d called Kevin and misled him. She only wanted Meghan and him to be happy; not that Annie knew squat about mending relationships. Which was becoming clearer every day.

  “Kevin thinks you’re losing your mind,” Earl added.

  “Maybe I am,” she muttered.

  Earl guffawed as only Earl could do. Then he sauntered toward her, tugged his pant legs up at his knees and sat on the floor, which was a surprise, because he often said that one benefit of being over seventy was being entitled to sit on a chair. He wore a new T-shirt, that one turquoise and white, touting the MV Film Center. “You nervous about going on that book tour?” he asked.

  “No. I’ve done them before.”

  “Not since we’ve had the Inn up and running.”

  While Annie’s intention to put Kevin on a guilt trip had been without malice, she now wondered if she should, instead, have told him the truth. Or if she should at least tell Earl the truth, so he, too, didn’t think she was losing what few marbles she had left. “We have a lot going on.”

  “We already knew that at some point you’d have to do your book stuff. When do you go?”

  “Next month.” Because she wouldn’t be leaving until later in September, there was plenty of time to make arrangements at the Inn. But Annie didn’t want to get specific. She already felt foolish enough for having bungled her mission to get her brother to come back.

  “August will be over,” Earl said.

  “Francine will be gone.”

  “Did you expect Kevin should take her place and make breakfast for our guests? I ate his fried eggs once. ‘Sunny-side up’ was more like ‘broken-side down.’”

  One corner of Annie’s mouth curved up. Earl knew how to humor her.

  “Did you forget that Claire offered to babysit the Inn while you’re away? And cook every morning?”

  “Sorry. I guess I did.” She was so tempted to tell him what was really going on. He might have a better idea about how to handle this. But Annie could imagine the forlorn look on Meghan’s beautiful face if she learned Annie had broken her promise. Her trust. So Annie couldn’t do it.

  “Have you thought about not being so hard on Kevin?” Earl asked. “And let whatever he’s got going with Taylor run its course?”

  She smoothed the edges of the sleeping bag. Since Annie had moved to the island, Earl had been a wonderful friend. She hated that she was deceiving him, too; she hoped that once this was out in the open, everyone she loved would understand why she hadn’t told them the truth about Meghan.

  “For a summer that started out with so much uncertainty,” she said quietly, “it’s been amazing in so many ways.” Cocooned in the zippered bed, she almost felt safe. “It’s as if once we were under way, everything fell into place. But all of a sudden I’m sensing a shift: Kevin has abandoned us for God knows how long; I have to stop playing and get back to my other responsibilities; Francine will be off to finish her two-year college program. And John has both of his daughters now, and though they’re teenagers, he’s still responsible for them.” She paused, needing, yet not wanting, to tell Earl how John’s dismissive attitude was contributing to her unrest. “It’s almost as if we’ve been like seasonal people—all summer, we’ve been surrounded by them, watching them have fun while loving life on the Vineyard. We’ve bought into the dream. But now our time is up, too, and we need to go back to reality. I guess I’m afraid of how that will turn out.”

  “Well . . .” Earl began, “‘It ain’t over ’til it’s over,’ said Yogi Berra—a smart and a decent catcher, despite that he played for the enemy. Anyway, we still have an Inn. We are a community; hell, we’re a family. In other words, we figure things out. Together. I thought you knew that by now.”

  Annie sighed. Her eyes became teary; she could no longer hold back. “Even with all this ludicrous business with Simon? John won’t give me a chance to explain.”

  Shaking his he
ad, Earl said, “So you lashed out at Kevin because of John?” He scratched his chin. “Well, that would make more sense. John’s my son, but he can be ornery. Takes after his mother—don’t tell Claire I said that. Give him time to cool down, Annie. You know he’s under a bucket load of stress this time of year; as much as he loves the gusto our tourists bring, he’s counting the hours ’til August is over. It’s the double-edged sword of living here.” He rolled onto one side, pushed himself up, and brushed plywood particles from the backside of his jeans. “I expect you’ll join us for the fireworks tonight? Fuller Street? Claire’s making snacks.”

  “I was thinking about inviting our guests . . .”

  “You know my motto: the more the merrier.” He pondered a second, then added, “That’s my motto, I think. Or maybe it was Shakespeare’s. I don’t think it was Yogi Berra’s.” He chuckled and turned and trundled back down the stairs.

  Annie rubbed her eyes. She knew she had to get moving and go help Francine. She had to invite everyone to the fireworks and pretend she was in a glorious mood. It was, after all, time to start celebrating that, after this weekend, with the Vineyard summer “officially” finished, the Vineyard Inn would have closed the book on a highly successful first season. She knew she needed to focus on that. And not on Kevin or Meghan. Or John.

  * * *

  Everyone wanted to go, including Simon, who Annie could have done nicely without, but she figured there would be safety in numbers. She also felt fairly sure that no one in their group would dare reenact the incident of Illumination Night.

  After breakfast was finished, the kitchen was cleaned up, and everyone went off in different directions, she got on the phone with Claire and coordinated what they’d make for what Claire decided should be not simply snacks but a “sunset supper”: cold chicken and ham; lentils simmered in spices then tossed with sweet potato cubes, cilantro, and kale; red bliss potato salad; fresh green beans with red onion, feta cheese, and cherry tomatoes; roasted squash, zucchini, red pepper, and onions. And fresh rolls that Francine would make that afternoon and serve with sweet, creamy butter.

  Next, Annie called Lucy and asked if she could come to the Inn and bake cookies—lots of cookies.

  “And come with us tonight. Your grandparents will be there and Jonas and Francine and Bella. We’d love to have you.” She quickly added, “And Abigail, too. If she wants.” She stopped short of saying that of course John was also invited, and simply commented, “It’s too bad your dad will be working.”

  “What kind of cookies? Chocolate chip? How about ginger? I saw a recipe for those online . . .”

  “Either,” Annie laughed. “Both if you want. Counting all of us, there should be around eighteen.”

  “Too bad Restless shouldn’t come. Dogs are allowed on the beach after dark in the summer, but I think the fireworks might freak him out. Can I bring a substitute for him? Like a person?”

  “Sure. If it’s okay with your dad. And Maggie’s mom.”

  “It’s not Maggie. It’s my friend Kyle. From school. He lives right in town.”

  Annie hesitated, glad that Lucy couldn’t see her grin and be mortified. “Boyfriend?”

  “Friend-friend. Maybe more. Not yet.”

  “Very nice.”

  “Yeah. What time should I tell him?”

  “Seven-ish?”

  “Great. And I’ll come over in an hour or so to start baking. And Annie?”

  Annie paused, bracing for the teenager’s next words.

  “I’m sorry my dad can be so lame.”

  So was Annie, but coming from his favorite daughter, who was also John’s best cheerleader, it meant a lot. “He’ll be fine, honey,” she said. “This time of year must be wearing on him. But we’ll have fun tonight. I’m glad you’ll be with us.” Somehow, that small bit of conversation calmed much of Annie’s malaise. She hoped the feeling wasn’t fleeting.

  * * *

  Aromas of warm ginger and chocolate wafted through the Inn. Annie had decided to make it a mental health day, which, for her, meant absolutely no work. No writing work, anyway. Bella left with Claire; Francine went off to see Jonas; and Lucy arrived—without Restless, as they’d be in the kitchen where dogs weren’t allowed because, as Earl had explained, “They might muck up the works.”

  So Annie and Lucy were left to measure and mix together, to talk a little, laugh a little, and make sure that “the works” turned out successful. Lucy dubbed them “the dynamic cookie duo.”

  Annie loved being with her; she loved the girl’s smarts, her energy, her flair for creativity. After more than an hour, with four sheets of oversized cookies (“Ginormous,” Lucy called them) ready to go into the oven once the two sheets that were in there were done, Annie calculated that six dozen should be more than enough sweet things for their fireworks party.

  Sitting on a high stool, watching Lucy survey the perfectly shaped creations through the glass oven door, Annie realized how comforting it felt to have someone else in the kitchen—which had no connection to any fond memories of baking with her mother. Ellen Sutton had always been nervous that Annie would make a mess, ruin the outcome of whatever recipe she attempted, and wind up crying, all of which would result in giving her mother a “sick stomach.” As badly as Ellen had presumably wanted to be a mother, she’d rarely been able to relax. Except when they were on the Vineyard for summer vacations. Annie was grateful she at least had those memories.

  Then the back door banged open, suspending her nostalgia, as Simon sprinted into the kitchen. His white polo shirt and crisp pleated shorts made him look more prepared for competitive tennis than for hanging out on casual Chappy.

  “Where’s Mary Beth?” he shouted as if there were a fire that only she could extinguish. He halted in front of the stove.

  Mary Beth. Annie gulped. “I have no idea.” What did Simon want with her?

  “I passed her on North Neck when I was riding here on my bike,” Lucy said. “She was walking, and she had a water bottle, so maybe she went hiking.”

  He frowned. “Damn. I heard that a leatherback was spotted off East Beach. They think it’s tangled in fishing net—or plastic. I figured she’d want to know.”

  Right, Annie thought as her jaw tightened. “Thanks, Simon. We’ll be sure to tell her if we see her.”

  “If I had a vehicle, I’d try to find her,” he said. If he was hinting that he’d like a ride, Annie was not going to bite. The fewer times she was seen in his company, the happier she’d be.

  “Sorry,” she said, then gathered the mixing bowls and the measuring cups, brought them to the sink and, with her back to their guest, started to wash them.

  “Do you have her cell number?”

  Annie shook her head and said, “Sorry,” again.

  “Her room’s next to Bill’s, right?” Simon asked. “I’ll leave a note on her door. She won’t want to miss this.”

  Before Annie could stop him, Simon was in motion again, hurrying past her toward the great room and up the stairs.

  Once he was out of sight, Lucy said, “He’s kind of a weird dude, isn’t he?”

  Annie laughed, then the timer dinged, diverting her need to invent an answer.

  Lucy pulled out the cookie sheets while Annie said, “As soon as we’re done here, how about if we drive around Chappy? I’d love to find Mary Beth before Simon does.” It felt strange to call her Mary Beth again, but she congratulated herself for remembering to.

  “Sorry, but I have to get home. Kyle’s coming over; we’re going to the beach before the fireworks.”

  A small tic of sorrow dinged in Annie’s heart the way the timer had dinged on the oven. She knew it was a reminder that Lucy was, indeed, getting older and soon would be gone from John’s nest . . . which might happen long before Annie had settled there. If she settled there.

  “But you can take off,” Lucy said. “I’ll finish up here and pack the cookies. All you’ll need to do is bring them tonight with the rest of the feast.”


  Annie thanked her, probably too profusely, then grabbed her purse and her phone and headed outside to the Jeep. She had no idea what direction Meghan had walked in, but she wanted to find her before Simon did. The man made Meghan nervous; being “outed” by a journalist—even if unintentionally—was not what Kevin’s wife had had mind. Annie understood: her flailing relationship was proof of the damage that could cause.

  He had no idea why Annie was so wigged out about a picture that Taylor said other women might be flattered to have. In fact, her exact words had been, “Simon Anderson isn’t exactly chopped liver.” Which was okay, until she’d added, “Then again, maybe your sister set the whole thing up and is embarrassed to admit it.” Taylor was not always tolerant of others—she probably had the right, after the way folks had treated her—but he liked being with her. A lot. She was testament to that fact that Kevin MacNeish was alive, after all.

  But it hurt to think that Annie might have lied to him.

  He ordered a bottle of wine and tried not to dwell on Annie. He’d much rather think about how pretty Taylor looked that evening in one of the long, flowing skirts that she liked to wear now even when, unlike tonight, they had nowhere special to go. She also had a white orchid in her hair—the same one he’d picked earlier in the backyard—and had rested it between her breasts while she’d been napping. Naked. They’d made love again—the hundredth time in five days, or so it felt. Like him, she’d gone without someone to love far too long. But now the long drought was over for both of them. And life was pretty much perfect.

  Was it wrong for him to be happy when his sister was miserable?

  Chapter 19

  Meghan was standing on the west side of Dike Bridge, the small footbridge that stretched across a channel that separated the lagoon from Poucha Pond. She lingered on the periphery, well behind a few dozen people.

  Quickly parking the Jeep, Annie vaulted out and power-walked toward the gathering. “Mary Beth!” she called out.

  Meghan turned. “Annie? You heard about the turtle?”