A Vineyard Morning Page 3

  What about the rest of the cottage? Would Donna be shocked that her daughter hand-washed dishes, stoked a woodstove for heat, and had a braided rug on the living room floor? In her antiques business, Donna had no doubt dealt with items from places like Sotheby’s and Christie’s, not dug out of an attic. Perhaps the women would have been more compatible if they’d met when Annie was still married to Mark, back when she’d pretended that pretty things could compensate for what her life was lacking, the kind of love she’d shared with her first husband, Brian, until his life was cut short by a drunk driver.

  And then there was the Jeep. Would Donna be appalled that Annie no longer drove a Lexus but a Wrangler? The hard top seemed to offer better protection against winter winds than canvas—would Donna at least laud her for being smart about that? Or would she be disappointed . . . and disapproving?

  And why on earth did Annie care?

  Rabbit hole! You know better than to go down there!

  Murphy’s voice was followed by three quick raps on the door—Earl’s special knock. Annie kicked off the covers, pulled on her fleece robe, and stepped into her slippers, grateful that Earl, like Murphy, had become one of Annie’s saviors from herself.

  Chapter 3

  “I heard your mother’s coming.”

  Annie set the coffeepot on the woodstove and wrapped her robe closer around her. The morning had brought a spiteful April chill. “Looks that way.” Rubbing her hands together, she stared at the classic eight-cup pot as if that would help it percolate. Donna no doubt owned a Keurig. Or one of those fancy Italian things.

  “Hello?” Earl asked. “Are you awake?”

  Annie tucked her hair behind her ears. “Sorry. I didn’t sleep well. Too much on my mind.”

  He pulled out a chair and sat at the small wood table. “If you wanted less to think about, you should have stayed in Boston and been content to write your books.”

  “My dad used to say I had a perpetual game of ping-pong going on inside my brain,” she said as she grabbed two mugs from a natural hickory cabinet. She was glad she’d nixed her original idea for trendy, high-gloss acrylic that wouldn’t have belonged in the cottage, though it looked great at the Inn. Cozy and home-like for her; sleek and fashionable for guests.

  Annie had to admit that once they’d figured out a plan, they‘d done a great job—especially when revamping the house. An architect had showed them how to use the original footprint and preserve the vintage details from the 1940s, while designing the contemporary kitchen and baths. They were also adding new flooring and a massive Vineyard stone fireplace in the great room. The seven bedrooms, the great room, the reading room, and the media room would be true to the look and feel of the island. After all, the Inn would not merely be a getaway for tourists—it also would have affordable rooms for islanders off season, with three reserved for year-round residents. In short, The Vineyard Inn—or #TheVineyardInn—would offer something for everyone.

  Which reminded Annie, once again, about her overlooked task. “Damn,” she blurted out as she plunked a cinnamon roll on a small plate and set it in front of Earl in what once had been their morning routine before building the Inn had interrupted. She sat down across from him. “I keep forgetting I have to decorate the rooms.”

  “What? Get a few tchotchkes? Piece of cake. The wall colors are all picked out. What’s hard about finding a few ceramic cats, some glass candy dishes, and a basket or two for magazines? Then you’ll only need a bunch of paintings for the walls. The kind of stuff that looks like the island.”

  “It’s not as easy as it sounds, but . . .” and right then an idea popped into her head. “You’re brilliant, Earl. But let’s not just make it look like the island . . . Let’s make it be the island.” She jumped up, dashed into her bedroom, then returned with the tote bag she’d brought to the festival meeting. Fumbling through the contents, she found the sheet of paper she wanted.

  Earl watched her as he chewed on the roll.

  “Twelve,” she said with a broad smile.

  His spikey gray eyebrows elevated. “Care to elaborate?”

  “Artists. Twelve artists are registered for this year’s artisan festivals. Maybe they’ll be willing to donate a couple of their favorite pieces to the Inn. We could offer them for sale, and rotate them around the guest rooms and the common areas. We’ll be promoting the Vineyard and hopefully generating business for the artists, while we get to adorn our walls with authentic island creations. In our ads and on social media we can say the Inn is decorated in ‘Vineyard natural.’” As she said the last words, she raised her arms and stretched them apart in elongated air quotes. “What do you think?”

  “I think your game of ping-pong has a winner.”

  “It will save us lots of money, Earl. We’ll be able to cut a good chunk out of the decorating budget.”

  “Now you’re talking. Because Lord knows, we’re pretty much out of cash.”

  She wondered how bad the finances had become, then she chose to trust that Earl and Kevin knew what they were doing. After all, she’d only ever been an elementary school teacher. What did she know about the cost of building? “Maybe Donna would like to help.”

  “Donna?”

  “My mother. Birth mother.”

  Earl nodded. “Right. I keep forgetting her name. Kevin always calls her ‘Mom.’”

  “That’s understandable.”

  Earl scratched his day-old beard. “Do you think you ever will? Call her ‘Mom’?”

  Annie laughed because she didn’t know what to say. Then she leaped out of the chair, cried “Coffee!” and scooted to the stove where the pot had finished its dutiful, old-school percolating.

  * * *

  Of course, finding the right tchotchkes, as Earl called them, would be important. Especially since she didn’t want the Inn to look like a souvenir shop. After he left, Annie took a quick shower, dressed, and headed to the On Time ferry in her Jeep, grateful that because it wasn’t summer yet there would be room in the parking lot. Tradespeople often parked their trucks on either side and shared ferry ticket costs for vehicles; many of the workers were those who Earl and Kevin said were few and far between now, though Annie wondered if they simply lacked the funds to hire them. At least her new idea might free up a small part of the budget.

  As she waited for the “little ferry,” as her friend Francine liked to call it, Annie thought about how much she missed Francine and baby Bella. But Francine had reconnected with her aunt and uncle who lived in the Midwest. They had offered Francine and Bella free room and board, and, “Get this!” Francine had cried to Annie one day late last summer. “They want to pay for me to go to college! I can major in hospitality. Maybe I can come back to the island for the season if you’ll have me—if you’ll have us, Bella and me. By the time I have my degree, The Vineyard Inn will be in demand, and I can run the whole place if you want!” Annie hoped that Francine and Bella would be able to make it at some point over the summer. A room had already been earmarked for them, no matter if they made it that year or the next. After all, Francine and Bella were special to their small island family; they would always have a home at the Inn, whether or not money was tight.

  The On Time arrived; an SUV and a dump truck drove off; the captain signaled Annie to walk on. She sat on one of the long benches and closed her eyes, a jumble of have-to-do’s and want-to-do’s spinning in her mind like a child’s kaleidoscope. By the time they reached the other side, she’d resolved one thing: she’d wait to contact the artists until Donna was there. That way mother and daughter could share something more genteel than making soap.

  Seconds later, Annie walked off the ferry and went up Daggett Street to North Water, then turned left for the short distance to Winter Street . . . where she promptly stepped into a place that teemed with whirring power saws and hammering carpenters, and emitted a pungent aroma of new paint—as if she didn’t have enough of all that at home. She mused about how springtime often seemed like the noisiest season
on the island; as much as Annie loved the accelerated pace when the Vineyard first woke up, sometimes even the birds chirped more loudly than seemed necessary. She wondered if the beloved up-island pinkletinks could get annoying, too.

  Trying to stay focused on her mission, she walked directly to the thrift shop on North Summer. Her goal was simple: find secondhand, decorative pieces leftover from estate sales. She’d learned that people who sold their summer homes often didn’t want the bother or the cost of shipping their household goods over to the mainland. With any luck, Annie might find tchotchkes that had been island-made.

  “Hi, Annie!” The cheerful voice behind the counter belonged to a woman whose name Annie couldn’t remember but whose face was recognizable as that of a clerk at the Edgartown post office. It continued to amaze her that if islanders weren’t at their paying jobs (there were often two or three of those), they tended to volunteer. “What brings you here on this beautiful, chilly day?”

  Annie had been so preoccupied she’d barely noticed the weather, though she had put on a corduroy jacket instead of a lightweight windbreaker. She also hadn’t noticed whether the trip across the channel had been choppy or smooth. The little ferry had become such a way of life, it was hard to remember when she’d first moved there and had prayed she wouldn’t be the first one to board, and wind up with only the canvas-covered chain separating the front bumper of her car from the deep blue sea as they bobbed and lurched toward the other side. Now, she felt that the motion was nicely soothing.

  She smiled at the clerk. “Tchotchkes for the Inn. Decorative pieces for shelves or on top of bureaus or end tables. Earl suggested ceramic cats, glass candy dishes, and a few magazine baskets. But I’d like things that are special. Unique. And locally made, if possible. We’re saving money for the big things like nice furniture and quality linens, so our budget for the ‘extras’ is a little tight.” Her explanation sounded more positive than saying she’d come to the thrift shop because they were nearly broke.

  The postal clerk frowned. “We had a lot of those here last fall after the typical spike in house sales. I’m not sure what’s left. But poke around—you never know.”

  Annie thanked her, then wove around the shop, past clothing and kitchenware and trinkets from other people’s lives. She browsed through old books of Vineyard photography; she found a pair of candlesticks decorated with small plastic fish, a couple of nautical maps, a pair of signs that read THIS WAY TO THE BEACH and CALL US WHEN YOU GET TO THE BOAT. But nothing evoked the authentic island feeling she wanted for the Inn.

  Annie wondered if Donna had ever thought about the people who’d owned the antiques that had filled her shop. Had she considered what the family had been like, whether they’d been happy or riddled with misfortune? Annie stopped in front of a sofa with white fabric that featured navy blue illustrations of sailboats and anchors. Had the family who owned it been part of the annual regatta? Or had they simply thought that an island house had to convey a water theme? Then Annie remembered when she and her dad had taken long walks after supper; he’d called them his “constitutionals.” Standing on the sidewalks, they’d tried to peer in windows when the lights were on but the drapes hadn’t yet been closed. Once they saw a father with a little girl. They were sitting on a sofa—brown plaid had been in vogue. Annie’s dad had made up a story: the girl’s father no doubt worked at the Necco plant in Cambridge, making sugary, pastel wafers. Annie had added that the daughter must be a Girl Scout like she was, and that the mother baked lots of yummy cakes or bought them at Star Market and pretended they were hers. On those walks, Annie and her dad had laughed a lot.

  She wondered if Donna had baked cookies for Kevin or if she’d bought them at Star Market. Then Annie wondered why, with all she had to do, she was standing in the middle of the thrift shop, thinking about her birth mother. She supposed she’d get to know her sooner or later. Or not.

  “Find anything?” The clerk was standing next to Annie.

  She blinked, startled from her silly pondering. “Not really. I was reminiscing.”

  “We get a lot of that in here.”

  “I’m sure you do. But, no, I haven’t seen anything.”

  “We have more plaques in the corner. ‘Home is where the Beach is,’ ‘Vineyard Magic,’ that sort of thing.”

  Annie shook her head. “I don’t think so. We want to make a statement without saying it.”

  The clerk nodded as if that made sense to her.

  “Thanks, though. Maybe if I go to one of the gift shops I’ll get a better idea of what I want. Then I’ll be back.”

  As she headed toward the door, she noticed several clumps of scallop shells glued onto a mirror frame. The effect was amateurish, almost as if it had been made in an elementary school art class, but the sight of it triggered a thought: scallop shells. Lucy had said the rocks that marked the graves at the burial ground had single items on top—a scallop shell on one, a piece of wampum on another. She’d also said that it was “cool.”

  “Perfect!” Annie said out loud. As the front door closed behind her, more thoughts started to gel. She could collect the things herself! On the beach. Right on Chappaquiddick. How much more local could she get? Maybe she’d find sea glass. Driftwood. White oyster shells that were intriguing for their gentle shapes and the rows of salt—layered by time—often sculpted on them.

  She was so excited she wanted to run back to the ferry. If Donna didn’t want to get her feet dirty in the sand, maybe Annie could coax Lucy into helping collect the artifacts. Annie could even pay her enough to cover the application fee for the Mayflower Society if one of Lucy’s ancestors had come over on that boat, four hundred years ago.

  With ideas still churning, Annie reached the wharf just as the On Time pulled in. And Kevin’s pickup was driving off.

  “Hey!” Annie called.

  He put his window down, pulled over onto Dock Street, and stopped.

  “Where you headed?”

  “Hardware store!” His cheeks were bright, his freckles dancing on them. He gave her two thumbs-up. “Two!” he cried. “We got two!”

  “How wonderful! Two what?”

  “I have no idea how much help they’ll be, but we hired two more workers this morning, thanks to your generous offer to ditch the decorating budget.”

  Annie laughed. “Two workers?”

  “Yup. They’re both good painters, and they can do cleanup stuff. What they don’t know, we’ll teach ’em. And they came cheap.”

  “Where’d you find them?”

  Kevin laughed. “Right on Chappy. Taylor. And her son, Jonas. Remember him?”

  As far as Annie knew Kevin was still dating Taylor, though he’d been quiet about the extent of the relationship now that Jonas had moved into the garage apartment at Taylor’s house. And though Annie had come close to actually liking the quirky woman (for Kevin’s sake), having her around every day for the next several weeks might be a challenge. Still . . .

  She quieted her concern. “That’s great news, Kevin. Keep it in the Chappy family, right?”

  He nodded. “Yup. Nepotism all the way. Dinner tonight?”

  “Sorry. I’ll be at John’s.”

  “Later then.” Kevin gave her a quick salute, then pulled away, heading up the hill toward town, leaving the image of his smile resting on her heart.

  Chapter 4

  It was good to be back in John’s kitchen, sitting at the table, slowly sipping wine, watching as he quietly stirred the pot of scallop chowder he’d made that afternoon. Cheerful daffodils—compliments of Lucy—stood in a glass canning jar that probably came from the collection that Lucy and her grandmother Claire used for their strawberry, elderberry, and beach plum jellies and jams. Lucy had also filled the house with a welcoming aroma of freshly baked bread—in addition to genealogy, baking had become a hobby. Annie wondered if the girl would like to earn some money by supplying the Inn with home-baked muffins packed with island berries.

  But she supposed she was
getting ahead of things.

  Having left her Jeep on the Chappy side, Annie had walked up the hill to John’s. She was tired; she hadn’t been sure if she’d be hungry, but being in his kitchen had recharged her appetite. Lucy was upstairs doing homework; their recently acquired puppy—a mix of this and that with thick black-and-white fur and jumbo paws that were growing faster than the rest of him—still didn’t have a name. Despite a number of random ideas (Rover? Spot? Lucas, after one of their ancestors who might have been Wampanoag if Lucy had her way?), John and Lucy simply had not been able to agree. The nameless pup was nestled on his soft bed in the corner, surveying every move his master made. Since late last summer, when Lucy had left her mom’s in Plymouth and moved back to the island to her dad’s, John and Annie hadn’t had much time alone, and less time for romance, let alone for sex.

  They’d tried in the beginning. When John worked the four-to-midnight or midnight-to-eight shift, Lucy stayed with Earl and Claire, who had more space now that Francine was in college and she and Bella were away. When John was done at midnight, he often found a Chappy ferry captain willing to take him across to Annie’s; when he worked midnight to eight, Annie sometimes went to Edgartown and greeted him when he got home. But all that changed over Christmas vacation when Lucy turned fourteen and announced that though she loved her grandparents, she was tired of schlepping back and forth from Chappy to Edgartown to go to school or to meet up with her friends. “I’m old enough to stay alone, Dad,” she’d said. “The police station is two blocks from our house. I’m not going to do anything you won’t find out about.” John had tried to argue that he didn’t like the thought of her being alone, not because he didn’t trust her, but because he was concerned that something bad might happen. Lucy had laughed. “We’re on the Vineyard, Dad.”

  Which, of course, was a solid argument, because nothing of much consequence happened in Edgartown, especially off season.

  And though Lucy wasn’t stupid, John and Annie had agreed not to sleep together when his daughter was in the next room. “Call me old-fashioned,” Annie had said, to which he’d replied, “I’d rather call you wonderful.”