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 spark ling 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 lastminute 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-oneyear-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 manu script,
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.