A Vineyard Crossing Read online

  PRAISE FOR JEAN STONE’S VINEYARD NOVELS

  “Filled with heart.... Perfect for long summer days.

  For fans of Debbie Macomber or Elin Hilderbrand.”—Booklist

  “Lie down on the couch, put a pillow under your head and

  enjoy the ride.”—The Vineyard Gazette

  “Annie Sutton is finally realizing her dream of living

  on Martha’s Vineyard, when a surprise package is left

  outside her cottage door.... a baby in a basket.

  The diverse characters, strong setting,

  and clever mystery surrounding baby Bella

  brims with holiday cheer readers will relish.”

  —Library Journal

  “Stone herself lives on the Island, and we can feel her love for it

  throughout.”—Martha’s Vineyard Times

  PRAISE FOR JEAN STONE’S PREVIOUS NOVELS

  “Stone’s graceful prose, vivid imagery and compassionately

  drawn characters make this one a standout.”—Publishers Weekly

  “A very smart and well-written book.”—Fresh Fiction

  “Stone is a talented novelist whose elegant prose

  brings the Martha’s Vineyard setting vividly to life....

  A very good read.”—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

  “A wrenching and emotionally complex story.

  Sometimes, if you are very lucky, you can build a bridge across

  all obstacles. A very touching read.”—RT Book Reviews

  Books by Jean Stone

  A Vineyard Crossing

  A Vineyard Morning

  A Vineyard Summer

  A Vineyard Christmas

  Vineyard Magic

  Four Steps to the Altar

  Three Times a Charm

  Twice Upon a Wedding

  Once Upon a Bride

  Beach Roses

  Trust Fund Babies

  Off Season

  The Summer House

  Tides of the Heart

  Birthday Girls

  Places by the Sea

  Ivy Secrets

  First Loves

  Sins of Innocence

  A Vineyard Crossing

  JEAN STONE

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Teaser chapter

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2021 by Jean Stone

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2886-9 (ebook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-2886-6 (ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-2885-2

  To my family and friends whose

  Zooms, calls, texts—and shipments of cookies(!)—helped

  get me through 2020 unscathed of heart and mind.

  And most gratefully, in good health.

  Chapter 1

  “I know you don’t want me to go,” her brother said as Annie pulled up to the curb in the departure queue at Logan Airport. “But thanks for staying out of it.”

  She touched his arm, wishing she could stop him, knowing she could not. “Have a good time,” she replied with a forced smile.

  He gave her a small wink, grabbed his suitcase and backpack, and got out of the Jeep. Then he disappeared into the terminal as her heart crumbled a little.

  Kevin, of course, was right: she’d wanted to convince him to stay on Martha’s Vineyard where he now belonged. But Taylor Winsted—the auburn-haired woman who had turned his head a year ago—now lived in Hawaii, having fled her unfortunate past. Annie never dreamed that he would join Taylor; she’d thought that the couple had uncoupled before the woman left. “She needs me,” he’d said when he announced that she’d enlisted his help with renovations to her house on Maui. Annie had been stunned. She’d been happy when Taylor had packed her bags and gone. Relieved, in fact, as Annie had never quite warmed up to her.

  That’ll teach you, Murphy said from her place up in the clouds. Murphy was Annie’s old college pal who had died but remained with Annie in spirit. On occasion, she still offered sage advice. And mischievous quips.

  Annie didn’t respond, but fixed her eyes on the road.

  The trip from Boston back to the ferry at Woods Hole took forever, every mile of highway thick with traffic, every vehicle intent on getting in her way. To top it off, it was August-hot. And humid.

  Or maybe Annie was merely stressed about Kevin having left.

  By the time she reached the boat, she was grateful it was loading. Once on board, she parked where she was directed, then climbed two flights of iron stairs to the upper passenger deck. Squeezing between a texting teen and a large, sun-hatted man, Annie stood at the railing, closed her eyes, and let the sun warm her face and soothe her soul. After all, she was going home. And Kevin would be back—he would, he would, he would. If she turned that into a mantra, maybe it would come true.

  A few minutes later, the engines rumbled to life, and the Island Home pulled away from the pier, out to the harbor, into Vineyard Sound. As they glided past the emerald Elizabeth Islands, Annie’s gaze drifted from the clear blue sky to the sparkling summer sea; the soft motion enveloped her, rocking away the heat and the onslaught of noise that had besieged her in the city. Since she’d moved to the Vineyard two years earlier, the sight of the Boston skyline alone gave her agita.

  She could hardly wait to be back on the island where life was magical and beautiful and blanketed with peace, and where she could think straight again.

  You can be such a drama queen, Murphy whispered.

  Which, of course, made Annie laugh. Out loud. Then she glanced around, grateful that no one seemed to have witnessed her outburst. She mused at how, no matter how badly the city could assault her senses, she was never bothered by the cacophony of too many people or too much traffic on the island, not even during the upcoming jam-packed week of Illumination Night, the fireworks, and the grand finale of summer, the Ag Fai
r. She had, however, been annoyed that Kevin had chosen a “rental turnover” day—a Saturday, of all days—to take off.

  Kevin. Him again.

  Murphy made no further comment, though it was a good bet she would have told Annie to get over herself.

  Then a small hand tugged Annie’s wrist. She turned and looked down at the upturned face of a young girl. Judging by the empty space where her two front teeth belonged, she might have been six or seven.

  “You going to visit someone?” the girl asked, her voice whistling the “s” in “someone.”

  “No,” Annie replied. “I live on the Vineyard,”

  “All the time?” Her freckled nose wrinkled.

  “Yes.” Annie didn’t add, Thank God. “Today I brought my brother to the airport in Boston.”

  “Was he visiting?”

  “No. He lives on the island, too. He’s going to Hawaii now. To see a friend. A lady.”

  The child scowled. “His girlfriend?”

  Annie laughed. “Good question.”

  “How long will he be gone?”

  “A week or two.” Or three or four, Annie supposed. Or more—he hadn’t said. “Are you coming over to visit someone?”

  “No. I live here, too. But Daddy says without tourists to support us, we’d have to move somewhere else. Like Cleveland. So I was hoping you were a tourist.”

  A man walked up behind the girl and put his hands on the crown of her head. He gave Annie a crooked smile that made him look like an apologetic emoji. “Sorry,” he said. “My daughter is taking an unofficial passenger survey.”

  Annie smiled in return. “If this boat is any indication,” she said to the child, “I think there will be plenty of tourists this week.” As the man steered his daughter away, Annie noticed that a thirtyish woman—a petite brunette with a flawless bronze complexion—was standing at the bow of the boat, slightly turned, watching her.

  “Excuse me,” the woman asked as she stepped closer, “are you Annie Sutton?” She had captivating, cornflower blue eyes.

  Though Annie had written several best-selling books, she wasn’t yet accustomed to being recognized. Or approached. She folded her hands and knitted her fingers together. “I am. Do you read mysteries?”

  The woman hesitated. “Um, no. Didn’t you do an interview on Best Destinations? The TV show? You have a new inn, don’t you?”

  When the show’s producer had contacted Annie for their segment on New England vacations, it had come as no surprise. Her editor, Trish, had arranged it as a chance to promote Annie’s books. “I have an inn, yes. On Chappaquiddick.”

  The woman began to speak again, but paused, as if changing her mind. Then she glanced toward the opposite side of the deck and gave a slight wave of recognition. Annie followed her gaze, but did not see anyone return the greeting.

  “Excuse me,” the stranger said, her words rushed and befuddled as she slipped into the throng of tourists, dogs, and rolling suitcases, leaving a cloud of curiosity in her wake.

  * * *

  The line at the On Time was blessedly short; by late afternoon, few people were interested in venturing off the main island and over to Chappaquiddick—the eastern arm of Martha’s Vineyard and technically part of Edgartown. Chappy had no restaurants—unless one counted Jerry’s Place, the mini–mini store that featured freshly made to-go sandwiches and bakery items, salads and ice cream, and recently had added some local specialties. Nor was there much shopping—with notable exceptions such as Slip Away Farm for fresh-picked produce and bountiful flowers, and, again, Jerry’s Place, with its stash of beach supplies, toiletries, and souvenirs. Though numerous houses and cottages were sprinkled around the island, most visitors who crossed were day-trippers: hikers, bikers, sunbathers.

  With four cars ahead of her, Annie figured she’d only have to wait a few short minutes to board the tiny ferry that held three vehicles—two if one was a pickup.

  Drumming her fingers on the dashboard of her Jeep—her favorite acquisition since she moved there two years ago—she tried to organize what was left of her day, a nearly impossible feat now that she ran The Vineyard Inn and all its lively components. Chances were, nothing significant had happened in the hours she’d been gone. She’d left Francine in charge, and Earl Lyons on call in case of emergency, though there hadn’t been any during this inaugural season.

  Some days, Annie couldn’t believe how great things had been working out. Their three guest rooms had been booked all but five days, which only had happened because of a last-minute cancellation due to illness. September looked promising, too, with reservations already at seventy percent. More important, in addition to being low-maintenance, the amiable guests and the year-round tenants—who were ensconced in three additional rooms—were cheerful, engaging, and helpful whenever help was needed. In October, once the summer guests left, winter rental tenants would arrive to claim those rooms. Maybe then Annie could let out her breath. Except, of course, that her next book would be published around that time, so she’d no doubt have to leave the island for a publicity tour. She was waiting to learn the schedule; hopefully, it wouldn’t be grueling.

  Yes, she thought as the first three cars in line boarded the ferry and she inched the Jeep forward, life was hectic, but wonderful. She only wished that Kevin had waited to bolt for Hawaii until after Columbus Day. Or Christmas. Or never. Annie knew that she wanted to protect her over-forty, very grown-up, “kid” brother because he was the only family she had left. And because she’d only known him a couple of years after she’d connected with her birth mother.

  As her thoughts began to slide toward a smidge of sadness again, she heard a sudden rap-rap-rap on the passenger door as it quickly jerked open.

  “Hey, lady, how ’bout a lift?” It was Earl, the stocky, white-haired saint of all saints, who still enjoyed a good chuckle at seventy-five, and whose spunk, as he called it, still functioned well. A ninth- or tenth-generation islander, he looked out for his neighbors, the land, and the shoreline, and was often called the Mayor of Chappy. On any given summer day, it wasn’t uncommon for Mayor Earl not to be driving his truck. Unless a situation made it necessary—a dentist appointment, an early morning run to Stop & Shop, a brother who needed a ride to the airport in Boston—few residents of Chappaquiddick brought a vehicle over to Edgartown when the calendar said it was not yet Labor Day: there were too many people, too much traffic, too few parking spaces in town.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked with a grin. “Aren’t you supposed to be on call for Francine?” Along with everything else, Earl was the Inn’s “handyman extraordinaire,” though Kevin did most of the bull work, thanks to Earl’s advancing years.

  He seated himself and buckled up without waiting for an invitation. Today he wore a pale blue T-shirt from Sharky’s Cantina; he enjoyed advertising island establishments to summer people. Patting the pocket of his well-worn jeans, he said, “Never fear. Francine made sure I brought my trusty phone. She’s on my case way more often than you are.” He chuckled again. “And she’s doing a fine job, Annie. We all should be proud of that girl.”

  “We are,” she replied. Francine was their twenty-one-year-old go-getter who had become an island treasure. “So, did you come to Edgartown for business or pleasure?”

  “None of the above.” His spiky white eyebrows crinkled above his warm brown eyes. “My son required my services. You remember him? Kind of a tall guy. Edgartown cop. Handsome like his father but half-a-foot taller? Pearl-gray eyes like his mother?” Of course, Earl was talking about John, the guy Annie had met soon after she’d moved there and now was engaged to. The guy she would marry one of these days.

  “Very funny. What kind of ‘services’ did he require? If I’m not getting too personal.”

  Earl shrugged. “Nothing life-threatening. I helped him move some furniture around.”

  Furniture? John had been living in his townhouse in the center of Edgartown for quite a while; a year ago, Lucy, his now fourteen-year
-old daughter, had joined him when she’d decided she’d rather live there than off island with her mother and older sister. He might have rearranged furniture then, but now? Was he was making the place ready for when they got married and Annie moved in? Did he want to set the date now that the season was nearly over?

  A wee speck of doubt poked her like a deer tick—undetected until it bit. She hadn’t planned to marry again. Not for a third time. Now that she was a hairbreadth past fifty, she knew that marriage was more than champagne and cuddles, and that life was way more than romance. Which was why sometimes John Lyons fit the old cliché of being too be good to be true.

  She looked back toward the water. The second ferry—two of them crisscrossed in summer—arrived from the other side of the channel; the captain was signaling the next vehicles to drive on. As Annie guided the Jeep over the sturdy planks, Earl waved at the captain and leaned out the open window. “I’m getting a free ride today. How ’bout that?”

  Captain Fredericks (better known as Captain Fred) laughed and tore a coupon out of Annie’s booklet. When he moved on to the next vehicle, Earl turned back to her and said he assumed that she’d delivered Kevin to Logan okay; he asked if he’d been happy to be going and if the traffic had been god-awful up there, too, and Annie knew it was too late to return to the topic of moving furniture at John’s.

  * * *

  It was after four o’clock by the time Annie dropped Earl off at his truck on the Chappy side of the harbor, made her way to North Neck Road, and pulled into the clamshell driveway at The Vineyard Inn. She turned off the ignition, closed her eyes, and sat silently, glad to be home. Though Francine had the day-to-day responsibilities of running the Inn to allow Annie time to work on her next manuscript, Annie had to let her know that she was back. And she should text John to alert him, too.