Driving onto the little ferry, Annie pondered Donna’s comments. When they reached the other side, she headed up island to Elliott Stimson’s studio. Elliott created lovely watercolors of island flowers—beach roses, hydrangea, day lilies—that might be soothing in the guest rooms. She didn’t want to sway Donna’s impressions of his work, so she simply kept her eyes fixed on the road as if she were in downtown Boston during rush hour and not on the rural Edgartown-West Tisbury Road, which was deserted except for a lone pickup that turned into the dump. The transfer station, she remembered she’d been corrected when she’d first moved there.

The Stimson property was easy to find. Like many West Tisbury settings, it included a gray-shingled house that looked a century or two old and was bordered on the three visible sides by lichen-covered stone walls. The studio was a small, restored barn—it stood off to one side in a quiet meadow flanked by gnarly white oaks whose branches dipped and curved and reached out in welcome. Annie turned into the dirt-packed driveway and drove directly to the studio. A sign on the door read: HONK FOR ATTENTION. So Annie honked.

While they waited, Annie simply said, “No.”

Donna asked, “No?”

“No. Sometimes the past is best left to history. I’d rather not get into details about my contact at the DA’s office.”

Donna nodded. “I’ll be willing to listen if you change your mind.”

Then a white-bearded, large man who Annie recognized from the artisan festivals emerged from the house and sauntered over toward the barn. Like the trees, he offered a pleasant greeting.

* * *

After visiting four artists—one whose work was too ultra-modern for the Inn; two who showed pieces that were strong contenders; and a fourth who was nearing retirement and said she was only participating in the fairs to deplete her inventory—they made it back to Chappaquiddick shortly before five thirty. Donna looked exhausted. Annie asked if their outing had been too much for her.

“Not at all,” Donna replied. “It was worth every minute. Elliott Stimson’s work will work well in the great room.”

Which, of course, hadn’t been what Annie had planned, but she said, “You’re right. That’s a great idea.”

When they reached the cottage, they found a note from Kevin.

Gone to VH for supplies, it read. Earl invited you and Mom for dinner tomorrow night. Six o’clock. Bring cookies.

“Looks like I’ll be baking tomorrow,” Annie said.

“And I’m afraid I’ll be napping. Starting right now.”

They went inside, and Donna headed for the bedroom.

“Will you want dinner?” Annie called after her.

“Doubtful,” came the reply. “I shall feed off my artistic dreams!”

Annie marveled at Donna’s positive attitude; she wished she had inherited some of it.

* * *