A Vineyard Crossing

Book 4: Vineyard Novel

by Jean Stone

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romance

Synopsis

Martha’s Vineyard may be picturesque and peaceful, but even there, happilyever-after has its dark side …
Annie Sutton is not only a bestselling mystery author, she’s the proprietor of the newly opened Vineyard Inn. Recently engaged to local police sergeant John Lyons, instead of making wedding plans, Annie’s fighting with him about his older
daughter, a troubled teen who has moved home—bringing chaos in her wake. With Annie’s beloved brother away on a troublesome journey of his own, Annie needs a friend. She begins to confide in one of the Inn’s guests, a mysterious
stranger named Mary Beth Mullen. Her mix of kindness and vulnerability makes Annie trust her—until Mary Beth shares a secret that leaves Annie torn between family loyalty and a promise she made.
When a handsome, internationally acclaimed journalist checks into the Inn, he too unpacks a boatload of trouble for Annie, triggered by a provocative photo, covertly snapped—and posted on the internet. Intrigued, as tensions mount
between her and John, Annie decides to eschew the police and get involved herself—enlisting Mary Beth’s help. But Annie is soon questioning whether anyone on the Vineyard this season is who they seem—and realizing that any
chance of happiness rests in finding out just who her real friends are …

Release date: July 27, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 323

Sample

“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 Fair. 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.

But first, if only for a minute, she wanted to savor the light breeze that drifted in the window and listen to the gentle surf lapping the beach on the western rim of their property. Their property, hers and Kevin’s, thanks to the gift from their mother. Earl would receive one-third of the Inn’s annual profit and one-third of the net if they ever sold the place. God knew he’d put in enough time, sweat equity, and worry to deserve an equal share. And now, with their first full quarter about to end, Annie was certain that, after they set aside a chunk to keep them afloat through winter, there would be a generous profit to share.

It had been an interesting few months, with too much to do to grapple with issues that Annie would have spent too many hours grappling about, anyway. Most of the issues, like nuptial plans, could wait until the chaos slowed to a simmer.

The thought of John’s kindness, his strength, his love for her, made Annie smile. So she reached for her phone and texted: HOME AT LAST. BOSTON SUCKS. MV IS PARADISE. DINNER? She hoped he’d invite her to his place. She was too tired to cook, and besides, he was better at it. She could have a nice cool shower before she left, maybe a short nap. Then she could put on something prettier than the denim capris and T-shirt she’d tossed on early that morning because she and Kevin had needed to make the eight-fifteen boat.

And, she reasoned, as she got out of the Jeep and crossed the lawn toward the back of the Inn, if she went to John’s, she could find out about moving the furniture. Maybe they could set a wedding date—perhaps around the holidays. By then she should be better prepared to be someone’s wife. Again.

She wondered if Kevin would be there to give her away.

She was pissed; he knew it.

But his sister had no right to try and run his life—did she?

He sipped a Diet Coke and munched on little pretzels while he studied the screen on the seatback in front of him. The miniature outline of the plane looked to be over Chicago. Maui was a long way from there, but at least he wasn’t hyperventilating the way he used to do when Meghan was buckled up in the seat next to him.

Meghan.

He closed his eyes and tried to think about the woman who was waiting for him in Maui instead of thinking about her.

“You’re back!” a familiar voice rang out.

Annie snapped out of her daydream and into her role as innkeeper.

Francine was on the patio, balanced on a lounge chair. Her ebony hair was pinned atop her head; her sleeveless denim minidress was protected by a canvas apron, which, though clean, was splashed with permanent badges of her delectable creations in the kitchen. A silver colander sat next to her—it was mounded with plump blueberries.

“Guilty.” Annie spotted Bella, her little body huddled on her colorful play rug, her hands busily matching blocks of different shapes into corresponding holes that Earl had die-cut into the walls of a purple wooden castle that he’d somehow found time to build. When Bella saw Annie, she stood on wobbly, toddler legs, and cried, “Annie!” She held out her chubby arms, and Annie happily scooped up the two-year-old.

“Hello, sweet girl. Did you pick blueberries today?”

Bella nodded and nestled her soft cheek against Annie’s neck. And Annie’s heart glowed, if such a thing really were possible.

“Blueberry scones tomorrow morning,” Francine said. “Our guests seem to like them.”

“Yum,” Annie said.

“Yummm,” Bella echoed.

“So, you got Kevin there okay?”

“I did. He’s well on his way to Hawaii by now.” Enough said, Annie thought. There was no need to share her displeasure. “How were things here today?”

“Fine. The couple in room six checked out. It’s cleaned and ready, but I’m still waiting for the woman who reserved it to show up. No rush, though. She’ll be here for two weeks. She sent a cashier’s check for the whole amount, so that’s great.” That had happened before; Earl said not everybody liked paying by credit card and having all their financial information floating around in outer space. “Tomorrow the bird-watching couple from Amherst will be leaving, but that room’s reserved for Monday—two sisters from Indiana—so I have a day to get it ready. And the honeymooners will be here another week.”

Francine had proven adept at shuffling and juggling and making sure that everyone was happy and settled and treated to special things like blueberry scones. There hadn’t been a single glitch all season—at least, not since they’d finally received the go-ahead to open. Best of all, nearly every guest had rewarded the Inn with five stars online. The most positive reviews had come from newlyweds who praised the lovely, secluded suite with king bed, sumptuous Jacuzzi, and postcard view of the Edgartown lighthouse. Kevin had labeled it “the honeymoon suite” and suggested they promote the Inn as a venue for ceremonies and receptions. As intriguing as that sounded, they agreed to get through the first year before trying to tackle special events. Meanwhile, the year-round tenants added to the Inn’s charm, and everyone “fit” into the tranquil enclave that Annie had hoped they’d create. Yes, she reminded herself, so far, everything was terrific.

“Jonas will be here for dinner,” Francine continued. “You want to join us? He surfcasted this morning out at Wasque and landed a nice bass for the grill.”

It pleased Annie to think that Taylor’s son, the once shy young man, the burgeoning artist, was no longer shy and was, in fact, dating Francine. She was also happy that nearly two dozen of his paintings that they’d hung in the Inn had already sold; each time one was bought, Jonas replaced it with another, though that one was soon gone, too. Earl joked that they were going to need a revolving door for the canvasses. Jonas’s work was good and, apparently, so was his fishing. Clearly, the Vineyard was a place of healing for him—as it was for so many wash-ashores, Annie and Francine included. If only Annie liked Jonas’s mother half as much as she did him, life would be easier.

“Dinner sounds delicious, but I’m planning to see John. Thanks, anyway.”

Then a woman rounded the Inn and stepped into the backyard. “Hello?” She was a petite brunette with flawless bronze skin and cornflower eyes—the woman from the boat.

Francine sprang up to greet her. “You must be Ms. Mullen?”

She nodded, then gave Annie a small wave. “Hello again.”

“Hello,” Annie said, trying to conceal her surprise. “You should have told me you were coming here. Welcome.”

Ms. Mullen wore jeans and a light green T-shirt that looked new—it bore the logo of the Marine Biological Laboratory in Woods Hole. She offered a soft laugh. “I got distracted when I thought I saw someone I knew. But I was mistaken.”

“Your first trip to the island?” Francine asked.

She nodded.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” Annie said. “And, again, welcome to The Vineyard Inn. I’m Annie, but I guess you already know that. And this is Francine, our assistant manager. And our mascot, Bella.” Bella diverted her big, dark eyes from the Inn’s latest guest and burrowed them below Annie’s collarbone. “She’s shy until she knows you. Then she’ll talk your ear off. In the meantime, Francine will get you settled. Do you have a car?”

“Yes. A rental. I couldn’t get a reservation for mine on the boat.”

“Right,” Annie replied. “It’s still August. And the island has a busy week ahead. But we’ll tell you about that later.”

Francine stepped forward. “First, let’s get you checked in. I’ll get your bags. Annie? Would you watch Bella for a few minutes?”

Annie nodded. “We’ll go down to the cottage.” She watched as Francine led the woman away. Annie hadn’t asked what had brought her to Chappy for two weeks, though it was rather curious that she was alone. Most single women preferred to stay in Edgartown, Oak Bluffs, or Vineyard Haven where things like shopping and restaurants were within walking distance. But two weeks would leave plenty of time for chatter, especially over breakfast. Hoisting Bella higher on her hip, Annie whispered, “I’m going to take a nap. How about you?”

Then a text alert pinged.

“Ding-dong,” Bella said, which Earl had taught her to do when anyone’s text sounded.

Annie laughed and dug her phone out of her pocket. She smiled when she saw that the message was from John.

DINNER AT THE NEWES AT 6? I’M ON 8 TO 8 TONIGHT.

“Ugh,” Annie said. So much for a nap. Or a bath. A quick shower would have to do. As she and Bella headed down the slope that led to the cottage where Annie lived and worked and loved her Vineyard life, she was reminded that being in a relationship with a cop meant having to be flexible. Especially in summer, when his shifts were long and he often was worn out. Then she wondered if, over dinner, he’d want to talk about their wedding plans. And if so, was she ready to make them?

“Abigail is coming back,” John said. They were seated at a quiet table in Edgartown’s renowned Colonial pub—established in 1742—a plate of bangers and mash in front of him; grilled tuna and island-grown veggies in front of Annie.

She flinched. She’d been toying with the sweet peas and mushroom slices, thinking about broaching the topic of the wedding, when he blindsided her. “What?” she managed to ask. Abigail was John’s elder daughter, who recently had turned eighteen. After her parents’ divorce several years ago, her mother had moved to Plymouth, which was nearly two hours from the Vineyard, counting the boat trip. Unlike Lucy, Abigail had preferred to stay there with John’s ex, whose name was—what? Jane? Joan? Annie knew it began with another J—John once said their friends had called them “Johnny and J____” when they’d been a couple, which had made them sound like a seventies’ singing duo. Sonny and Cher. Donnie and Marie. Peaches and Herb.

He swigged his root beer. “Jenn has decided to move in with her boyfriend.”

Right, Annie thought. The ex-wife’s name was Jenn. The singing duo would have been Johnny and Jennie. Yikes.

“Abigail said she abhors him,” he went on. “She claims that though she also loathes being trapped on the island, the idea of living under the same roof with her mother’s ‘ridiculous boyfriend’ is ‘totally more abysmal.’” He pierced the bangers with his fork. “I can’t believe that teenagers talk like that in Plymouth. Besides, when was she ever ‘trapped’ here?”

Annie tried to process what she’d heard. Would she now be expected to be actively involved as a stepmother to both Lucy and Abigail? Would the four of them live under the same, two-bedroom roof? “I thought she was going to go to college.” When Abigail had graduated from high school in June, John had gone to the ceremony with Lucy, Earl, and Claire—Earl’s wife and Lucy and Abigail’s grandmother. John hadn’t said much about his elder daughter after that. Summers on the Vineyard were so hectic that the days and nights tended to eclipse everything else.

“She didn’t get into BU.”

Annie had a vague memory of already being told that. “What about Rhode Island? Wasn’t that her backup?”

He shoved a forkful of potato into his mouth, shook his head, and waited half a minute. “Turns out, she never applied. She only wanted BU because that’s where her boyfriend went. But he’s long gone now. He was a year ahead of her so, no surprise, right after he got there, he hooked up with another girl. A college girl. End of high school romance.”

“Oh, dear,” Annie said, remembering how crushed she’d been when, at sixteen, she thought that her first boyfriend had found “. . .