Seconds later, Annie walked off the ferry and went up Daggett Street to North Water, then turned left for the short distance to Winter Street . . . where she promptly stepped into a place that teemed with whirring power saws and hammering carpenters, and emitted a pungent aroma of new paint—as if she didn’t have enough of all that at home. She mused about how springtime often seemed like the noisiest season on the island; as much as Annie loved the accelerated pace when the Vineyard first woke up, sometimes even the birds chirped more loudly than seemed necessary. She wondered if the beloved up-island pinkletinks could get annoying, too.

Trying to stay focused on her mission, she walked directly to the thrift shop on North Summer. Her goal was simple: find secondhand, decorative pieces leftover from estate sales. She’d learned that people who sold their summer homes often didn’t want the bother or the cost of shipping their household goods over to the mainland. With any luck, Annie might find tchotchkes that had been island-made.

“Hi, Annie!” The cheerful voice behind the counter belonged to a woman whose name Annie couldn’t remember but whose face was recognizable as that of a clerk at the Edgartown post office. It continued to amaze her that if islanders weren’t at their paying jobs (there were often two or three of those), they tended to volunteer. “What brings you here on this beautiful, chilly day?”

Annie had been so preoccupied she’d barely noticed the weather, though she had put on a corduroy jacket instead of a lightweight windbreaker. She also hadn’t noticed whether the trip across the channel had been choppy or smooth. The little ferry had become such a way of life, it was hard to remember when she’d first moved there and had prayed she wouldn’t be the first one to board, and wind up with only the canvas-covered chain separating the front bumper of her car from the deep blue sea as they bobbed and lurched toward the other side. Now, she felt that the motion was nicely soothing.

She smiled at the clerk. “Tchotchkes for the Inn. Decorative pieces for shelves or on top of bureaus or end tables. Earl suggested ceramic cats, glass candy dishes, and a few magazine baskets. But I’d like things that are special. Unique. And locally made, if possible. We’re saving money for the big things like nice furniture and quality linens, so our budget for the ‘extras’ is a little tight.” Her explanation sounded more positive than saying she’d come to the thrift shop because they were nearly broke.

The postal clerk frowned. “We had a lot of those here last fall after the typical spike in house sales. I’m not sure what’s left. But poke around—you never know.”