A Vineyard Summer

Annie Sutton stood in the doorway of the cottage on Chappaquiddick. Her jaw went slack; her thoughts tumbled into one another.

Her landlord, Roger Flanagan, pressed his thin lips together as if attempting an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Annie. You’ve been a wonderful tenant. But my grandson, Jonas, is moving to the Vineyard.” He averted his eyes and stared off toward a cluster of scrub oaks in the side yard. “He recently completed the master’s program at the Art Institute of Chicago; he’s an exceptional artist—his medium is acrylics—so it makes sense for him to live here, what with the growth in tourism and an uptick in disposable income among the seasonal residents who are also discerning collectors. . . .”

Blah, blah, blah.

She barely heard a word he said after his opening line. It was already July first—the day that the entire island of Martha’s Vineyard launched into high season, which meant it would be nearly impossible for Annie to find a year-round rental. She’d heard that the feat was tough enough off season even on Chappy, which depended on a tiny ferry to connect with civilization or at least with the Vineyard—the stores, the gas stations, the medical facilities. Chappy was the nickname for Chappaquiddick Island, which technically wasn’t an island at all except on the occasion when the surf broke through a narrow strip of land on the South side. Chappy also was technically (and legally) part of Edgartown, the easternmost town of the six that were scattered around the Vineyard. Annie had learned that, when it came to geography and a few other things, the Vineyard sometimes made up its own rules.

Drawing in a slow breath, she asked, “When do I have to go?” Her voice quaked. If he’d already mentioned a move-out date, her brain hadn’t processed it yet.

Roger’s smile morphed into a sheepish look. For a seventy-plus-year-old man that Forbes magazine had proclaimed a hedgefund piranha, he looked oddly embarrassed. “As you know, your lease was a winter rental. It expired June first. After that, we’d agreed you’d be here month to month, with a thirty-day notice required by either party. So shall we say mid-August? That will give you a couple of extra weeks to find something else. Jonas can live in the main house until then.”

A couple of weeks of “extra time” would hardly make a difference. As much as Annie wanted to say, “No! This is my home!” Roger Flanagan was right: She had no choice. She’d known from the beginning that renting the cottage might not be long-term. She had not, however, chosen to believe it.

“Thank you,” she said, without meaning it. “The extra time will help.” Before she could add something polite about wishing Jonas success, Roger folded his arms.

“Big wedding here on the Fourth. Hope we won’t disturb you.”

She leaned against the doorjamb. With the Flanagans in New York most of the year, she’d lived alone on the property for such a long time—nearly ten months and counting—that she’d almost forgotten the place wasn’t hers. “Weddings are nice.”

“It’s for our daughter, Dana. She’s all we have. Dana and, of course, Jonas.”

Of course, Annie’s mind echoed with a twinge of disdain. Then she realized that Roger’s remark must mean that Jonas was Dana’s son. Annie had seen the woman flit by the cottage once or twice, but was surprised she was old enough to have a child out of college. The master’s program at the Art Institute of Chicago, she corrected herself. “Well, don’t worry about disturbing me. I grew up in Boston. I’m accustomed to living with noise.” Besides, she expected that any sign of protest would be pointless.

He tipped his Tilley hat and shuffled away in his Tevas.

Closing the door, she slumped against it and said, “Damn.” She loved the little cottage. She loved Chappy, where she’d landed when she’d traded city life for the peaceful island. She’d made friends, connections with people she now cared about and who cared about her. She did not want to be forced to leave.

“Damn,” she said again.

At age fifty-one (a fact she found startling), Annie had lived long enough to know not to envy anyone who had a life of privilege. As a writer, she knew that every individual, every family, had a story (often a dark one, an underbelly, her old college pal and best friend, Murphy, used to call it), and that having beaucoup bucks (Murphy again) was no guarantee of happiness.

“But money helps when you need a place to live,” she said out loud now. Then she did what she did best in times of stress: She put on the kettle for tea.

While waiting for the water to boil, she plunked down on the rocking chair and stared at the wall. Or rather, she stared at the bookcases that stood against the wall, the ones she’d bought when she’d moved in, then packed with her favorite volumes. Along with the corner desk, the bookcases fit perfectly into the snug space and created an inspiring nook where she’d finally been able to settle in and conquer her writer’s block.

Where would her things fit now?

She was almost finished with her latest novel—Renaissance Heist: A Museum Girls Mystery—but with less than a month until her publisher’s deadline, she needed time to focus. How the heck could she do that if she had to hunt for a place to live and then actually move? Should she simply shove everything but her laptop, her thesaurus, and a suitcase of clothes into storage? She’d blow her budget if she could find a quiet, single room (shared bath, kitchen privileges) at an exorbitant summer rental rate, but at least she’d be able to get the book done. Then, come September, she could begin a realistic housing search.

It was a lousy plan, but it was the only one she could come up with at the moment. Her priority, after all, had to be Renaissance Heist, as her editor, Trish, often reminded her. Aside from the deadline that was designated in indelible ink in her contract, Annie had been counting on book sales to replenish her savings now that she’d finally paid off the huge debt her former husband had bequeathed her when he’d disappeared. But how could she be creative with this new crisis dismantling her thoughts?

“Damn,” she said for the third, self-pitying time. She hated that at her age she needed to worry about how and where she would live. Mostly, she hated that her idyllic dream-come-true world was about to come crashing down.

She gazed out the window. The view from the cottage was of the scrub oaks, not the water. Ocean views were reserved for the Flanagans of the world, the “haves” in a world of “have-nots” like Annie. Unless she got really lucky. Really fast.

The kettle whistled.

* * *

“You can move in with me,” John Lyons said over dinner that evening, a simple meal she’d created from fresh bass and carrots and last-of-the-season asparagus from Slip Away Farm. John was handsome—tall, dark-haired, and well muscled, Murphy would have noted—with soft gray eyes and one of those magnetic smiles that made people instantly think he was on their side, though Annie wasn’t certain if anyone he arrested would agree. Even better than his good looks, John was kind. Caring. Sensitive. And Annie adored him. They’d been dating since New Year’s Eve: Things between them were still wonderful, sexy, fun. Yet she’d wanted to linger a while longer in the lovely beginning of their relationship—that magical time when all things were new and exciting—before she made any kind of commitment. And she certainly didn’t want to feel forced into one because of the island housing crisis.

She toyed with a carrot slice. “I think it’s too soon for that, don’t you?”

He cocked his head and grinned the half grin that made Annie feel like a fifteen-year-old girl with a crush on the best-looking boy in the school. “Maybe. But I can’t pretend I haven’t thought about it.”

Neither could she. But before she spoke the words, he added, “Of course, you might not want to be too picky if you’re going to wind up being homeless.”

Annie knew he was joking, but his remark stung. “Right,” she said. “It will be tough to finish my book if I have nowhere to charge my laptop.”

“You can always camp out on the sofa in my father’s study. You know you’d be welcome there.”

“I do know that. And it’s a good feeling. But your parents have a busy household now that’s complete with a beautiful, but sometimes fussy, baby. Which isn’t conducive to writing, either.”

He set down his fork, reached across the table, and took her hand. His expression turned serious. “Look, Annie, whatever you decide, I’ll do what I can to help. The last thing I want is for you to have to leave the island.”

It was the last thing Annie wanted, too. But she’d had enough ups and downs in her life to know that just because she wanted to stay there didn’t mean it would work out.

Just then, John’s cell phone rang.

Annie forked a piece of fish while he checked the call. Born and raised on the Vineyard, John was a police officer in Edgartown and did not turn his phone off. Ever. He looked back to her and mouthed, “Sorry,” then stood, walked toward the front door, and stepped out onto the porch.

“Hi, honey,” she heard him say. She deduced it was one of his teenage daughters, who lived off island with their mother. They were only up in Plymouth, but John once said that having a wide berth of water between his ex and him had been essential after the divorce. Annie had not been surprised. She imagined it would feel disturbingly claustrophobic to live on an island where a former spouse remained, too, where they would no doubt run into each other at the market or the post office or even at the movies. As wonderful as life was on the Vineyard, there were simply few places to hide.

“What does your mother say?” John said into his phone.

She hated feeling as if she was eavesdropping, but her one-bedroom cottage was not built for privacy, and he had not shut the door behind him. She took another bite of the fish.

“That’s not acceptable, Lucy. You know that.”

Oh dear, Annie thought. Lucy was the younger girl—thirteen going on thirty, according to John.

“Put your mother on the phone.” His voice was stern but not threatening; Annie would bet he was a soft touch when it came to his girls.

“When will she be home?” He paused; he sighed. “Never mind. I’ll call her myself.” He did not say goodbye.

The screen door opened. He walked back to the table and sat down. He stared at his dinner plate.

“Everything okay?” Annie asked, though, clearly, it was not.

Picking up his fork, he poised it over his dinner. “Consider yourself lucky that you never had kids.” Then he closed his eyes and shook his head. “Oh, God. I am so sorry.”

Annie smiled. He, of course, had momentarily forgotten how close she’d been to becoming a mother, that the abortion had been one of two life choices she wished she’d handled differently. The other bad choice had been to marry her ex-husband in the first place.

John dug into his dinner, just as his cell rang again. He glanced at it and muttered, “Crap.” He let it ring twice, then said to Annie, “I hate to do this, but I gotta go. It’s Jenn.”

“I understand,” she said, but her words dissolved before she knew if he’d heard them: He was too busy standing up, pulling his truck keys from his pocket, and going back out the door while asking, “What the hell’s going on?” to the woman he had once married. Then he disappeared into the night.

Annie tried to finish her meal but could not. She set the leftovers aside for the compost bin and reminded herself she was on her own now. She tried to have faith that she’d find somewhere to live, and that it would be fine, because she was resilient and had learned how to land on her proverbial feet.

If only she could shake off the feeling that this time there was much more at stake. Maybe she’d feel more hopeful after a good night’s sleep.

* * *

Donna.

The thought of her birth mother’s name jolted Annie from the edge of fretful dreaming.

Of course! She bolted upright in bed, her heart softly pounding. Families help one another out. Or, at least, her adoptive parents had helped each other. Blood relations would, too. Wouldn’t they?

She switched on the nightstand lamp and wondered if she dared to believe it. She’d met Donna only a few months earlier. The woman was open and ebullient and seemed truly happy to finally meet Annie. But she’d recently sold her antiques shop on the north shore of Boston, happily retired, and was now on a long-awaited, four-month world cruise with Duncan, her current gentleman friend. “We’re almost seventy,” she’d lamented with a grin. “Please don’t call him my boyfriend.”

But Donna wasn’t due back until mid-August: far too late for Annie to make a decision.

She wanted to stay on the island, wanted to live and breathe and keep writing there. She also wanted, very badly, to continue her relationship with John, wherever it led. And she wanted to perfect the craft of soap-making that she’d learned from her friend Winnie Lathrop, who was part of the up-island Wampanoag tribe.

But she didn’t suppose she could live in Aquinnah with Winnie and her family, because Annie’s roots were Scottish, not Native American.

She wished she could ask Donna for advice. She also wished she could talk to her adoptive parents, the Suttons, who had known her in a way Donna never could. Annie still found it disturbing to think that a mother did not really know her child.

“It will take time,” Donna had said the day she’d arrived on Chappy after Annie had finally responded to the woman’s letter that began with the powerful words: I am your birth mother. . . .

Donna had stayed with Annie nearly a week, sleeping on an air bed on the living room floor. They’d talked and talked about important things and about nothing special. They’d walked for hours, exploring the dirt roads of the island, getting used to each other’s presence amid the sounds of the waves and the occasional cry of a gull. It had been in January, when most folks had the good sense not to be there. But for Annie, the togetherness had been like a warm quilt.

Annie looked like her, or at least how Annie had looked before she’d traded her designer clothes for jeans and flannel shirts and had stopped having manicures that weren’t conducive to harvesting herbs, plucking wildflowers, and making soap. They had the same dark, almost black, hair that was now streaked with silver, though Donna admitted to having more streaks than her stylist allowed her to show. They had the same long-legged, lean body, the same careful stride, the same happy laugh. The same hazel, not green, eyes.

Mother and daughter. The tree and the apple.

Donna had promised to return after the cruise; they’d agreed that the Vineyard would be a wonderful place to cement their new bond. Which was one more reason it was imperative that Annie found a damn place to live.

There was always Kevin, she supposed. But Annie was still getting used to the idea that her birth mother was in her life, let alone that Annie had a half brother who was nine years younger than she was. She’d met Kevin only once—over lunch, in Boston—when he’d joined her birthday celebration with Donna. She’d told Annie that he’d recently sold his construction business and, like her, he was single again.

“I spent all of an hour with him,” Annie now said to herself with a small laugh. “It might be a bit presumptuous to ask if I could move in for a while.”

Still, she had his phone number.

She could always send a friendly text.

If she knew what to say.

Or how she thought he could help.

She punched her pillow to rearrange the fluff, then snapped off the light again. Tomorrow, she thought. I’ll think about it tomorrow.

Or the day after.

Then she closed her eyes again and prayed that sleep would come quickly.