She was glad she’d told the truth about taking the bus from South Station, even though she’d failed to mention that she’d done that because she’d sold her car. It was one less thing for anyone to have to worry about. Because times had changed, and, if nothing else, Donna MacNeish had learned early on the importance of rolling with the punches. If she hadn’t, she never would have succeeded in business, small though it had been. She’d had a select group of loyal customers—clients, they’d preferred to be called—with perpetual lists of items they desperately needed: Tiffany lamps, Chippendale consoles, eighteenth-century Louis XVI bergeres. She never regretted having used her inheritance from Aunt Elizabeth for tuition at business school.

She’d loved her work, loved her clients. Loved being surrounded by beautiful things. Of course, she’d kept the Vuitton trunk safely at home. Not for public viewing. Not for sale. Ever. It had become symbolic of the good things that—against all odds—had come to her.

As awkward as it had first felt to be back on the Vineyard, it was beginning to feel like home. Donna knew that the picture would be complete once the Vuitton arrived.

Chapter 24

Chapter 24

Kevin told Annie he’d buy her breakfast at Linda Jean’s in Oak Bluffs. Donna said she needed to sleep in. Earl had disappeared sometime after dawn, having left a note saying he needed to go home before Claire had “a hissy fit.”

Annie hadn’t ridden in Kevin’s pickup in a while; she stared at the glove box, but declined to ask if he still had the gun. The near miss the night before would remain a secret between Donna and her.

They sat in a booth by the window that looked out onto Circuit Avenue. The narrow one-way street was silent and still, an occasional vehicle inching past.

“Won’t be long until this place is booming,” Kevin said.

Annie laughed. “You’re starting to sound like Earl.”

He tossed his napkin at her. Though he was being playful, Annie suspected the real reason he’d taken her to breakfast was so they could be somewhere far from Chappaquiddick and their mother. Or far enough. Annie hoped he didn’t want to talk about Mark—she’d had her fill of that conversation after the drama of last night.

“So,” she began, in an effort to help Kevin start, “what’s on your mind? Not that I don’t love having a meal with my brother, but . . .”

“She’s still sick, isn’t she?”

Their coffee arrived for which Annie was grateful. She smiled at the waitress, straightened the napkin in her lap, opened a container of cream, and added a little to her mug—all while considering how to answer Kevin’s question.

She sipped. She swallowed. Then, unable to procrastinate any longer, she asked, “Mom?”

He glared at her. “Yes. Mom.”