A Vineyard Season

Book 6: Vineyard Novel

by Jean Stone

Genres: Friendship; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

For fans of Debbie Macomber and Elin Hilderbrand, Jean Stone’s “lovingly rendered” (Booklist) Vineyard novels are heartwarming beach reads set on beautiful Martha's Vineyard, featuring bestselling mystery author and Vineyard Inn proprietor Annie Sutton as she makes a fresh start on the island she’s come to call home.

There’s no place like home. Especially when home is an island paradise in full bloom . . .

With her wedding only weeks away, Annie should be grateful to be back on Martha’s Vineyard, running her cozy Inn and crafting her artisan soaps. But her recent trip to L.A. to see her bestselling novels turned into films has her fantasizing about a life in California. Annie knows her fiancé, John, would never relocate—the small-town police officer’s whole life is here. And Annie is looking forward to the imminent birth of a baby in her own extended family. Yet somehow she can’t stop imagining . . .
 
Then John’s older daughter is diagnosed with a serious illness, rocking their world and sending John
off-island to tend to her, alongside his ex-wife. When Annie’s newfound celebrity attracts a stranger into her midst with a secret that could wreak havoc on her half-brother Kevin’s life, Annie is faced with a choice that will test their relationship. With the distance between her and John growing deeper every day, suddenly Annie is questioning everything—including her ties to the only place she has ever dared to call home . . .

Praise for Jean Stone’s Vineyard Novels

“Filled with heart. . . . Perfect for long summer days. For fans of DebbieMacomber or Elin Hilderbrand.” --Booklist

“Lie down on the couch, put a pillow under your head and enjoy the ride.”
–The Vineyard Gazette

Release date: April 25, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Home. At last.

As the big ferry rounded the jetty and headed into Vineyard Haven Harbor, Annie closed her eyes and waited patiently to feel the subtle bump against the pier. She smiled. She’d been gone all winter, working with screenwriters and producers in the exciting, energetic, exhausting realm of Hollywood, transforming her best-selling mystery novels into scripts for a dream-come-true TV network series.

But Southern California wasn’t Martha’s Vineyard.

Oh, sure, Annie thought, both places have lovely beaches. And, yes, unlike the Vineyard, SoCal has sunny skies and hardly any humidity. And palm trees and flowers blooming in February. And convertibles with their canvas tops down. And movie stars all over the place (which islanders could boast having in summer, if any of them cared about that sort of thing). In truth, Annie had fantasized about permanently living in L.A. About reinventing her entire career into writing for film, about brainstorming with others instead of sitting at her keyboard plink-plinking in solitude, about having a year-round tan, a preposterous notion for a woman her age, but there it was.

Greg Williams hadn’t helped. An illustrious wizard of Hollywood, head of a multi-Oscar- and Emmy-winning production company, he was always on the lookout for seasoned writers to lure into his stable, using flattery as his bait especially when they seemed vulnerable, unsure of themselves. The way Annie had been when she’d arrived. After all, though she’d penned numerous novels, film scripts had eluded her. Until she was caught in Greg Williams’s web.

“Your ideas are brilliant.”

“Your scriptwriting instincts are outstanding.”

“You could have a real future here.”

Annie supposed his lines were well practiced and polished, like those used in any bar, in any town, anywhere, though he wanted talent and not sex.

It had been tempting. But Annie knew she belonged on the Vineyard. On the opposite coast. Which was why she’d spent Thursday night into Friday flying toward the sunrise, then boarding the early Peter Pan bus from Boston south to Woods Hole to catch the boat. It had been a long journey, and she’d been gone too long. But John would be waiting on the dock, his arms outstretched, eager to embrace her. And on April 23—only three weeks away—they’d be facing one another, holding hands. And Annie Sutton and John Lyons finally would be married.

That, too, had been a long journey.

“Hey, Annie!”

The voice jolted her. It took a second for her to recognize the woman standing in the aisle: She worked at both the post office in Edgartown and the thrift shop. But Annie couldn’t recall her name. Betsy, maybe? Bonnie? Her bottle-blond hair was in a ponytail and she looked to be in her early forties, younger than Annie by a decade or so.

“Haven’t seen you for a while,” the woman said.

Apparently the island grapevine hadn’t notified the residents of Annie’s whereabouts. Thank goodness. “I’ve been away,” she replied, “on business.”

With a flick of her ponytail, the woman sat on the armrest of the seat opposite Annie’s. “That’s right. You were in . . . California?”

So the grapevine remained well oiled, after all. “I was.” She seemed like a nice woman, but Annie had wanted these last moments alone to help her make a smooth mental transition from the palm trees to the pinkletinks—the latter being tiny peeping frogs that alerted the Vineyard as soon as spring arrived. She’d also wanted to freshen up before seeing John. As his bride-to-be, who’d been on the lam for three whole months, she did not want to resemble a ragtag, jetlagged traveler who’d left LAX more than twelve hours ago, counting the plane, the bus, the boat. And the waiting in between.

“It wasn’t a bad winter here,” the woman went on. “Not much snow. A little ice. And the infernal wind. Otherwise, it was kind of boring. So I took a third job as an assistant admin at the Boys and Girls Club. Speaking of which, John’s girl, Lucy, was a big help after school in the arts and crafts room.”

Annie smiled. “I know. She told me it’s a lot of fun.” Annie had made it a point to frequently contact John and his family, even Abigail. And, of course, all her friends who formed the rest of her “island family.” Staying in touch had helped her keep her priorities in balance, a yoga exercise for her mind.

“Lucy’s a good kid,” the woman continued. “Smart, too. Too bad she can’t keep coming. What with everything going on.”

Annie didn’t know that Lucy had stopped going to the club. But between maintaining straight A’s in school, having a boyfriend, and lending a frequent hand to her grandparents (though they maintained they did not need help), it wasn’t surprising. “Lucy’s sixteen now,” Annie replied. “And I swear her life is busier than mine.”

The engines slowed to a low growl. Annie slid forward on the seat and glanced out the window, its glass hazy with salt spray from the perpetual trips between Cape Cod and the island. Back and forth. Seven days a week. Year-round. And now the houses that graced the hill above the shoreline grew larger as the Island Home drew nearer into port.

Annie hoisted her purse. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said with a smile, “I need to duck into the ladies’ room and comb my hair. And try to look civilized.”

Stepping aside so Annie could navigate around her, the woman asked, “Is John picking you up?”

It seemed like an odd question. “He is.”

The woman looked over Annie’s shoulder and out the cloudy window. Then she nodded slowly. “It’s good that you’ve come home,” she said.

Before Annie could ask what she had meant, a voice blared from the loudspeaker, notifying drivers to return to their vehicles, and for walk-off passengers to exit on the starboard side of level one.

“Gotta go!” The woman gave Annie a quick wave and darted toward the iron staircase leading down to the freight deck.

For a moment, Annie was befuddled. Why was it good that she’d come home? And yet, as she grabbed her carry-on and headed to the restroom, she reasoned that Betsy/Bonnie was only being friendly, a common trait among true Vineyarders.

Yes, Annie thought. That must be it. Surely there was no need for butterflies to start flapping their wings in her stomach.

John’s arms weren’t exactly outstretched, but his pearl-gray eyes locked straight on Annie, and that was good enough. They skipped the “hi” and “how was the trip?” and hugged only a little longer than if Annie had been shopping on the Cape for a few hours. His daughters often accused him of not doing public displays of affection.

“So,” he said, with a half-cocked smile once they’d collected her suitcases from the luggage cart and were buckled into his SUV, “you’re back.”

“So it seems.”

He reached over and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “I’m glad.”

He didn’t mention that the silver strands Annie had left with had disappeared, or that her hair’s dark brownish-black “natural” state had been revived. Some things he didn’t seem to notice, including that she was a little slimmer, thanks to snacking on fresh oranges instead of Lucy’s fabulous cookies. Then again, she knew that looks were of little importance to him. He no doubt didn’t even realize that he was tall and handsome, and a heartthrob to many, especially when he was in uniform as a detective sergeant of the Edgartown Police Department.

She leaned over, straining her seat belt, and kissed him. “I’m glad I’m back, too.” Through the nylon of his jacket, his shoulder felt less muscular, as if he’d lost weight, too. Perhaps he’d stopped feeding on pizza and had finally learned to cook. Or, more likely, one of his daughters had.

He pulled away, halfcocked a smile again—his face looked thinner, too—started the engine, and became occupied with the rear camera and the mirrors as he backed out of the space.

“Mom and Dad want to throw you a welcome-home dinner tonight,” he said, maneuvering onto Water Street and driving toward the five corners. “I said tomorrow would be better, that you’d probably be tired today.”

It was only ten thirty in the morning, and Anne was eager to see John’s parents, Earl and Claire, who had been like family to her since she’d moved to the Vineyard. “I can do tonight,” she said. “As soon as we get to Chappy, I can sleep for a few hours. And I’d love to see everyone.”

He nodded but said, “And everyone wants to see you. Including Lucy, who has the science fair today. I think it goes until seven or eight, so she’ll be getting home too late to join us. And you know she’d hate that.”

Putting her hand on his, she said, “Okay, then let’s do tomorrow. There’s no rush. I’m not planning to go anywhere for a long time.” She said that not only to tell John but also to reinforce the fact that any California daydreams she may have had were just that.

He lifted his arm and rested it on her shoulder, while keeping his eyes fixed on the road. “I’ve missed you, you know.”

Annie moved a little closer; his hand felt warm against her cheek. Then she drifted into a half-sleep, where she remained all the way across the channel from Edgartown to Chappaquiddick—the quiet, smaller island that was called Chappy by many, and “home” by only about two hundred residents. Including Annie.

“Did you tell her?” Earl’s voice whispered.

Annie stirred and opened her eyes. They were parked in the small clamshell lot at the Vineyard Inn—the wonderful place that she owned along with Earl and her brother, Kevin. John’s window was down and Earl was crouched, squinting beneath his spikey white brows as he peered inside.

“Told me what?” she asked, sitting straight up, her thoughts blurred like the glass of the window on the boat. She realized she’d slept all the way from the boat and had missed crossing the channel on the On Time, the tiny, open-air, raft-like ferry that held only three vehicles, two, if they were big.

John cleared his throat. “Dad’s asking about dinner.” He turned back to Earl. “We need to come tomorrow instead of tonight. Annie’s tired. And Lucy has the science fair.”

Earl scratched his chin and slipped his hands into the pockets of his L.L. Bean wool jacket. Just because it was April didn’t mean it was time to put away cold-weather clothes on Martha’s Vineyard, where that infernal wind, as Betsy/Bonnie called it, sometimes made spring feel like January.

Shaking off the remnants of her catnap, Annie lifted her carry-on, which she’d parked at her feet, and got out.

“I really am tired,” she said, circling to Earl and giving him a hug. “But it’s great to see you. So, yes, let’s plan on tomorrow, if that works for Claire.”

Earl raised his fingers to the horizontal lines that skated across his forehead and saluted. “Count on it. She’s dying to hear about your adventures with those movie folks.”

Annie laughed. “My adventures mostly dealt with work. Not very exciting, I’m afraid.” She was determined to downplay what she’d been doing; she didn’t want anyone to think she preferred California to the island or that she thought the people she’d met there were more interesting—“cooler,” Lucy might have said—than anyone back home. She did not want people to think that, because it wasn’t true. Well, it almost wasn’t true.

“In the meantime,” Earl added, “your mother-in-law-to-be stocked up your kitchen. She’ll get you to eat one way or another.”

“I’m glad. Because as well as being tired, I’m hungry.” She wasn’t hungry at all, but neither Earl nor Claire needed to know that.

He grinned. “You also might like to know I gassed up the Jeep for you, had her oil changed, had her checked out, so she’s good to go. I even put fresh water in your water bottle on the console and replaced your hand sanitizer.”

“Thanks, Earl. You think of everything.” She took his hand and squeezed it.

“You won’t get to see Francine and Jonas and Bella until later; they’re at a gallery on the Cape. The place is going to show some of his paintings. That boy’s doing real well.” He said it with a note of pride, as if Jonas were one of theirs, because he—and Francine and, of course, little Bella—couldn’t be closer to their hearts if they were blood relations. They’d had prime slots on the list of essential people with whom Annie had stayed in touch.

“That’s wonderful,” she said. “I’ll watch for them to come home. If I’m awake, that is.” Jonas and Francine now lived on the property of the Inn. Just before Annie had left, Kevin started converting the old workshop into a home for them. She’d been looking forward to seeing the finished product.

“Are you coming in?” she asked John, who was still gripping the steering wheel.

“Sorry. I can’t. I’ve got to get back to the station. Besides, you need to sleep. We’ll talk later.”

“I’ll get your bags,” Earl said as he lumbered to the back, lifted the tailgate, and said loudly enough for Annie to hear, “Looks like there’s more here than you left with.”

That was true. She’d found so many cute things to buy: clothes for Lucy and Abigail, lovely scarves from the Huntington Botanical Gardens for Claire and Taylor, a baseball cap from NASA’s Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena for Kevin, and an Edward Gorey jigsaw puzzle for Earl, because during one of their phone calls, Claire had mentioned that his winter project involved developing an addiction to puzzles. “Like he’s an old fuddy-duddy,” she’d said. Annie had also picked up gifts for others, including Francine’s baby, who was due to arrive in a few weeks. John had been the most difficult, because he was not a souvenir kind of guy; he certainly wouldn’t wear a T-shirt with HOLLYWOOD silk screened on the front, or would want a refrigerator magnet of the big sign up in the hills. She’d been thrilled to find a very nice vegan leather wallet, though she skipped having his initials tooled into the front.

“I’ll help you, Dad,” John was saying as he finally got out.

He lifted two of the suitcases and let Earl take the lighter one. Together, they ambled down the slope to Annie’s cottage and brought the bags inside.

“Get some rest before you unpack,” John said. He gave her another hug, kissed her forehead, then left with his dad.

Annie stripped out of her travel clothes and took a quick shower. The water was blissfully hot, no doubt thanks to Earl, who must have seen to that as well. She pulled on a warm nightie, slid under the comfy covers of her much-missed bed, and tried not to feel disappointed. Between the woman on the boat and John and Earl, Annie sensed that something was different, that something had changed. Or maybe she simply needed time to recalibrate to the rhythm of the island and the people that she loved.

Then again, because she’d been up all night, maybe she wasn’t thinking clearly yet.

Yes, she decided, that was all it was. Things would seem perfectly normal after she slept.

If Murphy, her long-deceased friend and self-appointed guardian angel, cared to offer advice (as she often did from her place in the heavenly clouds), then Annie fell asleep before she heard it.

It was after three o’clock when Annie awoke, no longer tired but by then very hungry. After quickly dressing in jeans and a long-sleeved sweater that had hung untouched in the closet since early January, she started to prowl through her beloved tiny kitchen with its natural stone counters and wide-plank floors—a far cry from the white-walled, white-marbled, wide-windowed space of the sunshine-drenched bungalow (complete with French doors that led out to the pool deck)—where she’d spent the winter. Blinking back that lovely image, she found some bread and a container of what appeared to be fresh chicken salad that Claire must have made; it emitted an aroma of dill, Claire’s favorite herb.

Annie made half a sandwich, set it on a plate, then noticed a large cookie tin on the counter. A Post-it note was stuck to the top: the only message was a smiling emoji hand-drawn in a thick marker. Prying off the lid, Annie was greeted by a generous stack of jumbo-sized chocolate-chip cookies, the ones Lucy had become famous on Chappy for baking and, fat and calories aside, tasted better than a Clementine plucked right off a tree.

Lucy, she thought, her heart warming a little. She wondered how the teenager was making out at the science fair; she’d told Annie that her entry examined the long-term effects of beach erosion and the keys to preserving the habitats of Sengekontacket Pond, the Barrier Beach, and Trapp’s Pond. It seemed like a big undertaking for someone her age, but Annie had no doubt that the teenager was up to the task.

John had said the fair went until seven or eight; Annie decided it would be fun to see Lucy’s entry and the others. Being in a room filled with energetic, Vineyard high schoolers might help Annie reacclimate. So she wrapped her half sandwich and two cookies—one for her, one for Lucy—grabbed her keys and her purse and headed out the door.

She had barely stepped onto the porch, however, when she remembered she needed a coat—something she’d rarely thought about in sunny California.

Nothing’s perfect, Murphy commiserated. And no place is, either. Except, of course, where I am. But you can’t come here yet. You still have work to do.

Annie growled with exasperation. She went back inside and found a jacket that she likewise hadn’t worn since January. “By the way,” she addressed her old friend, while zipping up, “where have you been? I haven’t heard from you in three months.” She’d missed having the spirit of her sidekick nearby.

You had your work to do; I had mine. I kept an eye on things here for you.

“Good things?”

Murphy paused, a habit of hers that Annie found annoying because she couldn’t tell if Murphy was still there or had whirled back up to heaven.

Let’s just say “things,” came the reply.

“Murphy . . . ,” Annie began, but the air in the cottage suddenly went still, a signal that her old friend had vacated the premises. Annie growled again and went out the door.

But on the short drive to the Chappy ferry (aka the On Time), Annie realized she was smiling. She nibbled on her sandwich as she thought about Murphy, her bright, red-haired, life-of-the-party friend since college, whom she dearly missed, though she was grateful for her occasional ethereal presence. After graduating, Murphy had become a well-respected behavioral therapist, then the wife of a prominent Boston surgeon and the mother of twin boys who, like their mother, were rambunctious. Annie and Murphy’s final fabulous adventure had been the weekend that they’d come to the island to celebrate their fiftieth birthdays. Annie still couldn’t pass the Charlotte Inn in the heart of historic Edgartown without remembering when they had whiled away an afternoon on the patio, sitting in wrought-iron chairs under shady blue umbrellas, sipping cosmos instead of plain Chardonnay because Murphy claimed that vodka dressed up with Chambord and orange liqueur showed more enthusiasm than plain old wine. They wore floral sundresses and open-toed sandals that showed off their fresh pedicures; as usual, they shared lively conversation about some things that mattered and more that didn’t. That was the day Murphy suggested it was time for them to make bucket lists.

“What would you want to do if you weren’t such an infernally sober stick-in-the-mud?” Murphy asked between sips.

Annie had a good laugh at that. “Okay,” she said after taking a few moments to think. “The first thing I’d do would be to move here. To the Vineyard. At least for a while.”

“Do it,” Murphy said in an uncommonly serious voice. “Make the move. It’s time to reinvent your life.” Annie knew it was Murphy’s way of telling her to stop wallowing in the past, to shed the baggage of too many losses and disappointments that she’d amassed from living in the city all her life.

In hindsight, Annie wondered if her friend had had a premonition, because a month later, Murphy had been diagnosed with a rare, swift-moving cancer. And yet it didn’t stop her: between her family, work, and chemo treatments, Murphy managed to carve out a day or two here and there for Annie. Together they found a cottage on Chappy that was perfect for Annie, then, with her bald head cocooned in a gaily striped turban, Murphy accompanied her on moving day. She said she needed to see her best friend settled and to know that she was safe. That had been on Labor Day. Four weeks later, Murphy was dead. And Annie’s heart felt irrevocably broken.

Thanks to her friend’s prodding, however, Annie stayed true to her dream. And she was still there, surrounded by unending beauty and the peaceful rhythm of the place she now called home. Besides, she suspected that if she dared to leave, Murphy would come back to haunt her in a rap-on-the-knuckles kind of way. Even worse, she might take her Irish stew of witticisms, serious talk, and often snarky humor elsewhere. Of course, Annie still wasn’t sure if Murphy was a real ghost or a figment of her overactive writer’s imagination. Over time, however, she’d decided it didn’t matter; she liked to think that Murphy was still with her.

But now, as Annie drove into the lot at the high school in Oak Bluffs, she wondered if her old friend had nudged her to remember that afternoon at the Charlotte Inn for a reason.

Finishing her sandwich, Annie gathered her things and decided that if Murphy had been hinting at something in particular, it must not be terribly worrisome, or she would have explained.

Wouldn’t she?

The Science and Engineering Fair was held in the high school cafeteria. More than two dozen foldout poster boards sat atop six-foot lunchroom tables scattered around the expansive space; some featured drawings and hand-lettered descriptions of numerous topics, from sea glass to ancient tribal relics unearthed up-island at Aquinnah; other entries spanned topics such as marine life and wind farms and had in-depth PowerPoint presentations accompanied by informational handouts. Exhibitors were stationed at their booths, greeting a hearty throng of meandering people, which included teachers, other students, and visiting parents, as well as neighbors and supportive islanders.

Annie walked around, keeping an eye out for Lucy. Soon she spotted a large poster with a bold headline that read: SENGEKONTACKET, BARRIER BEACH, TRAPP’S POND: WILL THEY BE HERE TOMORROW?

Annie went toward the booth, but Lucy wasn’t there; instead, a young man stood next to the table, his back to Annie. He was tall with slim shoulders; his light brown hair crept over his collar. He turned as Annie got closer; that’s when she realized it was Kyle, Lucy’s boyfriend, who had shot up in height while Annie was away.

“Kyle!” Annie said, trying to hide her surprise at his growth spurt. “It’s so nice to see you.”

“Hi, Annie,” he replied shyly, because that was Kyle. “You’re back.”

She nodded. “At last. Is this Lucy’s project?”

“Yeah. Pretty cool, huh? She did the posters and a PowerPoint. Too bad she wasn’t here for the judging. She won first place in the Investigative category. Look.” He held up the large wood-and-brass trophy on the table in front of him. When he smiled, his adorable dimples in both cheeks smiled, too. “I was going to text her about it, but I figured I’d wait till she got back. Let her see for herself, you know?”

“Wow,” Annie said. “This is wonderful. I’m sure it’s well deserved.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “She’s so crazy-smart. But I thought she’d be back by now.”

Annie looked around. “Where’d she go?”

“To check on Abigail.”

A what-on-earth-had-Abigail-done-now feeling swept over Annie, despite the fact that before Annie had left, the eighteen-year-old had cleaned up her act, finally pointing her life in a positive direction. But as badly as Annie wanted to grill Kyle as to why Abigail needed checking up on, she quashed her runaway thoughts.

“Is Lucy at the house?” Annie simply asked. The “house” was John’s town house in Edgartown, the lovely two-bed, two-bath place he’d won in the affordable-housing lottery long before Annie had met him. Even though he was a hardworking, well-respected police detective, John would have been hard-pressed to come up with the kind of deposit that new homes on the island now commanded.

“I guess. You wanna text her?”

Pretending to be interested in the posters that framed Lucy’s exhibit, Annie tried not to show concern.

“Thanks, but I’d rather surprise her. And I’ll have a chance to check in with Abigail, too.”

“Don’t tell Lucy she won first place, okay?” He swept his hair off his br. . .