Chapter 29
Annie and Kevin had a late supper, a salad she fabricated out of various greens, leftover rotisserie chicken, cranberries, and pecans. They had agreed to leave Taylor alone with her thoughts, alone with her decision about whether or not she’d go to Jonas and tell him he was right about her. A child should know its mother, Annie mused, her thoughts drifting toward Donna. Just as a mother should know her child.
Then again, she also knew that circumstances didn’t mean those things were always in everyone’s best interest.
As they nibbled on brownies that Annie had moved straight from the freezer to the microwave, Kevin said, “I guess if I plan to stick around, I should come clean to her about my wife.”
“That’s up to you,” Annie said. “Secrets aren’t always a bad thing. Though it does seem that, sooner or later, they manage to come out of hiding.”
“You’re right,” he said. “I’ll remember that. But I don’t think it’s up to us to tell the cops about Taylor and Jonas.”
“Agreed. That should be her decision.”
“We can just say she was helping the Flanagans out, which isn’t a lie.”
“True.”
“When do you want to go to the police station?”
“Tomorrow is the tour. I think this can wait another day, don’t you? It’s not as if anyone will go anywhere, not even Nicole. For starters, anyone with a car knows they need advance ferry reservations to leave the Vineyard in July.”
“So we’ll wait till Friday. Are you going to tell John first?”
John. Was it possible that Annie had almost forgotten about him? That she’d gone through an entire day without having him cross her mind, not even once? She wasn’t sure whether or not that was a good sign. “I don’t know. Should I?”
Kevin laughed. “Depends on how you really feel about keeping secrets. But I’d bet that if you ever want a real relationship with him, or even if he never comes back, he’d want to know before you tell his buddies on the force. It’s a male thing. Ego, you know?”
They finished eating, then Kevin said good night and headed off to the On Time, toward John’s house, where Annie might have been living if she’d known more about the male ego.
After cleaning the kitchen and crawling into bed, she picked up her phone and stared at the screen. It was nearly ten thirty; did she dare call him that late? Did she dare call him at all? Kevin’s words echoed: If you ever want any kind of relationship with the guy . . .
If she called and he didn’t answer, she could leave a brief message so he’d know she had tried to tell him before she told Lincoln and whoever else would be on duty Friday morning.
If his ex-wife answered again, Annie would hang up.
Or if the woman screened his messages and deleted hers, Annie would see it as a sign.
Stop overthinking it, came Murphy’s sudden voice. You’re tired. Go to bed.
Annie laughed. She was, indeed, exhausted. And her news could wait until after the garden tour, couldn’t it?
She quickly convinced herself that Murphy was right. Besides, there would be plenty of time to tell John before his ego could suffer. And plenty of time for Annie to get properly braced for his declaration that he would not be coming home. Ever.
* * *
The alarm went off at six o’clock on Thursday morning.As Annie leaned over and shut it off, she realized she’d been dreaming about Taylor.
It felt strange that she now empathized with the woman she’d once thought of as her adversary. Maybe she would actually come to like her if Kevin stuck around, and if the couple spent more time together. It was true that they both deserved happiness, which also sounded like a cliché, but life sometimes was one, wasn’t it?
Thinking about that gave Annie a new mission, which propelled her up, out, and over to Edgartown by seven thirty.
Her first stop was halfway down South Water Street, where the garden tour was to begin.
Among the things Annie had learned about the island was that when it came to special events, people showed up in droves. And they showed up early. The line to the first stop already extended up South Water toward North, then spilled around Main Street at the bank on the corner. She couldn’t see how far up Main it went. As magical as the exciting turnout, countless blossoms perfumed the air, infusing the village with energy and joy.
The hours passed quickly: Annie moved from venue to venue, talking with the home owners and visitors; savoring the joyful energy that exuded from the lemonade-sipping, photo-snapping, high-chattering throngs; making certain all things were in order, which they were. The participants had been involved for several years, so they knew what to do and what to expect. Even Mrs. Atwater, whose hollyhocks had been leveled when Claire had landed in them, was cheerful and welcoming, her garden incredibly appearing no worse for the mishap.
As directed, the judges had scattered to peruse the entries independently. Annie caught up with Monsieur LeChance on the north side of town, where he was performing his judging tasks near the Harbor View Hotel. Despite the warm day, he looked especially proper in a navy blazer, white pants, and straw bowler.
“Good day, Annie,” he said as she approached. “A pleasant turnout, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely. Much more than I expected.”
“The gardens are spectacular. We’ve had just the right amounts of rain and sun this year for horticultural perfection. Très magnifique.”
Then a group of women sidled their way around Annie. Monsieur LeChance spoke to each of them, asking if they were enjoying the tour and which gardens they’d found most appealing. He scribbled the opinions in a palm-sized notebook, smiling and nodding the whole time.
As soon as the ladies wandered off, Annie said, “I have a question, monsieur. But it’s not about the gardens.”
His eyes and mouth widened, transforming his already elongated face into an Al Hirschfeld caricature.
“It’s about your music.”
“Ah. My violin has captured your attention.”
“It has. And more than that, I have a friend who played the cello years ago. I don’t think she’s played for a long time, possibly because she doesn’t know of an ensemble she could join. Do you have any suggestions?”
“As it happens, I am in a quartet. Two violins, a flute, a clarinet. My goodness, a cello would be a nice addition.”
“Really?” Annie felt hopeful. “I thought you might know someone, but I never dreamed it would be this easy.”
“Well,” he said, tending to his invisible mustache, “we would need to have your friend audition.”
“Of course. Do you give public performances?”
“Oui. In fact, we’ll be at Union Chapel this Sunday morning. There’s a special service honoring the men and women of the regatta.”
Annie had forgotten that the annual regatta had been underway for a few days, though she’d noticed an exceptional crowd of sailboats bobbing in the harbor. “Thank you, monsieur. I’ll be sure to tell my friend. Maybe you know her? She lives on Chappy and went to Berklee. Her name is Taylor.”
“Taylor Winsted? We’ve never met, though I’ve heard of her. Her mother was a patron of our little group before she took sick.” He clucked a bit and shook his head. “Poor old girl. She was a musician, too, you know. A flautist for the Metropolitan Opera.”
Dumbstruck was the perfect word to describe Annie’s reaction. “Mother” had been a flautist? A classical performer who’d been accomplished enough to work for the Metropolitan Opera? “I had no idea,” she said.
“I didn’t know her then. Apparently, she met Stan Winsted when she and her family vacationed here one summer. The gossipmongers told me she wound up in ‘the family way.’ She married him, gave up her career, and was relegated to life on Chappaquiddick. It was, of course, back when options for young women were still rather limited. Though, to be fair, that’s not to say she’d have done things differently.”
Annie suddenly felt as if she’d unintentionally peeked into someone’s diary. Knowing Taylor’s history, however, explained a lot: Aside from the obvious musical talent, which might also be the link to Jonas’s artistic bent, Taylor’s mother might have influenced her to give her baby to the Flanagans so both she and the baby would have a chance at a bigger, more exciting life. Annie wondered if anyone really escaped from having their past chart the course of their future. In a way, it was true even for her: If she hadn’t met her first love on South Beach decades ago, would she have gravitated to the island so many years later?
Two elderly couples entered the garden gate then, and Annie stepped out of their way. She thanked Monsieur LeChance again and told him she’d relay the information.
It wasn’t until she strolled toward the next stop that Annie realized that, after all this time, she at last knew Taylor’s last name. Winsted. No doubt from old Yankee blood.
* * *
Final count: three hundred twenty-three visitors.
First Place Winner: Mrs. Atwater, who might have been the favorite due to the magnificent way she’d restored her assaulted blossoms.
Annie hurried down the corridor in the rehab facility, eager to give Claire the news.When she reached the room, she heard Earl’s voice. Great, she thought, he can learn firsthand about the success. But as she whirled through the open door, she screeched to a stop; sitting at the foot of his mother’s bed was John.
“Annie!” he said and jumped to his feet. As he did, Annie noticed a woman in the chair next to him. She had dark hair that was neatly cut and coiffed and wore a crisp linen shirt, stylish cropped pants, and high-heeled wedge sandals. Her bronze eyes turned toward Annie with obvious disinterest. She did not need an introduction.
A chill shot from Annie’s brain down to her toes.
Neither Earl nor Claire spoke.
“Sorry,” Annie said, her hand touching the base of her throat, the little hollow where her pulse liked to race. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. . . .”
“No,” John said, “it’s fine. You didn’t know I’d be here. No one did. Not even my mother. Right, Mom?” He turned to Claire, who responded with a flat-lipped grin.
“He came in on the one fifteen,” Earl announced, as if that explained anything.
“A quick visit,” John said with a nervous chuckle. “I wanted to check in with Mom. To see how she’s doing.”
The fact that no one was addressing the woman in the wedge sandals confirmed who it was, as did the fact that Annie’s stomach—which was astute at recognizing danger—was now doing somersaults.
“Um . . .” John continued, “this is . . . this is Jenn.” At least he didn’t add “my ex-wife” or worse, “my daughters’ mother.” Then he said, “Jenn, this is Annie Sutton. The writer.”
The writer? Really? Annie was embarrassed that he had called her that, as if she were a mere acquaintance, just one more celebrity hiding out on the Vineyard.
“Hello,” Jenn said without standing.
“Hello,” Annie managed to reply.
Earl backed up his chair; the metal scraped the linoleum. “Maybe Jenn and I can wait out in the hall so you can visit Claire, Annie.”
If Jenn wanted to disagree, she didn’t say. Instead she got up, picked up her oversized canvas bag, strutted past Annie, and followed Earl out into the hall.
“So,” John said once they’d disappeared, “surprise.”
“Right. Surprise.” There were a thousand things she could have said, starting with, “Isn’t it nice that you and your ex came down to visit your mother,” followed by, “You make such a lovely couple.” Instead, she merely stood and stared into his pearl-gray eyes.
“If you two are going to argue,” Claire said from her bed, “I’m going to call for a wheelchair to bring me to the dayroom. I don’t need to be in the middle of anything that’s going to raise my blood pressure.”
Annie turned to her, her stomach tumbles abating, her mind starting to clear. “There’s no need for that, Claire. I only came to report that the garden tour was a great success. And that Mrs. Atwater won first place—mostly, I think, for the noble way she resuscitated her hollyhocks. Lots of money was raised, so you can be proud of that.” Then she spun on one heel and said, “That’s all I came to say. I’ll talk with you another time.” She walked from the room, amazed that her legs were still holding her upright and were able to power her forward. At least Earl and John’s ex were nowhere in sight.
* * *
“Annie. Stop.” John caught up to her in the corridor by the front door. “Let me explain.”
She stopped and inhaled a deep breath. “No need to, John. Though I’m awfully glad I hadn’t moved in with you. With three of us—to paraphrase what Princess Diana once said—it would have been a bit crowded.”
He held up his hand. “No. It isn’t like that.”
She clutched the pink file folder that held the breakdown of the tour statistics; she felt foolish for having stepped into John’s family and taken care of things for Claire while he’d been reuniting with his wife. She tried to remember that Claire was her friend. And that Earl had befriended Annie before she’d even known that John existed. But right then, that logic felt as thin as white wisps of clouds on a breezy summer day.
“She only came to talk with Mom and Dad,” he continued. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“Well. She must miss your family, then.”
“That’s highly doubtful. No. She wanted to talk to them about Lucy.”
That was as big a surprise as the fact that they were there at all. “What about her?” Annie no longer cared if John’s daughter wasn’t her business. After all, she had nothing left to lose.
He took her by the shoulders. Tenderly. As if he were going to tell her that he loved her. Or break up with her. “Annie,” he said slowly, “I didn’t know how to tell you. . . .”
She shook her head in quick, jerking motions. “Don’t. Please. Don’t say the words. I’ve been thinking that it’s time for me to leave the island, anyway. I don’t belong here. You have your family and I . . . well, I have Donna now. And Kevin. I’ve had a chance to get to know him pretty well, thanks to you. You don’t owe me anything, John. You never did.” She slipped from his grasp and headed toward the door.
“Wait,” he called in his no-nonsense, police-officer voice.
She stopped again, her back to him.
“Please don’t be angry,” he continued. “If you’re thinking I’m not coming back to you, you’re wrong. In fact, if I don’t get to sleep with you again—and soon—I’m damn well going to lose my mind.”
A corner of Annie’s mouth twitched once. Twice. Then turned up into a smile. An elderly couple walked past. “For God’s sake, lady,” the woman said, “do as he says. Otherwise, he might arrest you.” Annie laughed. Island life. Small town. Yes, this was her home. She turned around.
John stepped forward and grasped her shoulders again. He rubbed her arms as he spoke. “But Lucy will be with me. That’s why Jenn came today. To make sure my parents will help out with her. Deep down, I guess she’s an okay mother. All of Lucy’s acting-out shit has been because she’s miserable on the mainland. She misses her home. And, damn, I guess she misses her dad, too.”
Annie raised her hands and touched his chest. “So do I.”
“But I won’t have as much time if she’s living with me.”
“We’ll make time, John. I’m busy, too.” A ghost of guilt that resembled her editor emerged before her eyes. She laughed. “We’re adults. We have lives . . . we had lives before we met each other. We can’t drop them now just because we want to be together.”
His gaze traveled her face. “So you’d be okay if I’m a full-time dad again?”
She shook her head. “I’d be disappointed in you if you weren’t.”
He tipped up her chin, then bent and kissed her mouth. And all Annie could think about was how much she’d missed that kiss. “Of course,” she added when they pulled away, “I have nowhere to live.” Then she remembered the place in West Tisbury. She had completely forgotten to call about it the day before. Taking a step back she dug through her purse. “Will you wait right here while I make a phone call?”
With his wonderful, cockeyed smile, John said, “I have a better idea. I’m going to get Jenn back to Plymouth tonight. Lucy and I will be back tomorrow. Will you join us for pizza? I want you to be a presence for her, too. But only if you want.”
Annie searched for the note that had the number in West Tisbury. “Of course, I want,” she said. “But for her sake, let’s take it slowly, okay?” Without waiting for his reply, she said, “Now get out of here while I try to find a rental that with any luck will come with much less drama.” She began to dial, then quickly added, “By the way, tomorrow I’ll tell you about Fiona Littlefield, and how Kevin and I solved your case.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she waved him off. “Go,” she said, then turned back to the door. “Hello?” she said into the phone. “My name is Annie Sutton, and I’m a friend of Taylor Winsted. Taylor told me you have a garage apartment.. . .”