“Thank you,” she replied. There was no need to return the compliment. Men—or women, she supposed—who had movie-star genes like Mark knew exactly how they looked. “My wardrobe has changed a little.” That was when she realized she was in her comfort clothes—a flannel shirt, jeans, short boots. She’d pulled her hair into its casual, short ponytail, not caring if the silver streaks were more noticeable that way. She’d also foregone wearing makeup; she rarely wore it anymore.

“It suits you,” he said. She almost thought he’d intended to be nice until he added, “Though I have to say I’m surprised you’re living here. God, what do you do all day, day after day? Other than during July and August, does anything really happen on the Vineyard?”

“I write books,” she answered. “And I make soap.” She could have told him that she also now canned vegetables because she enjoyed spending time with Claire, or that sometimes she went fishing with John because it was fun, or that she loved being part of the artisan festivals and that she planned to get into gardening, having been inspired by helping with the Garden Tour the previous year. She could have told him that her calendar was packed with films and plays and lectures, and that she had wonderful, trustworthy friends. But Annie doubted that he’d care about any of it. More important, she did not care to tell him.

“Yeah, I heard you were a writer. You make any money at it?”

The wrath that had long simmered in Annie might have boiled up then. But time and circumstances finally enveloped her in healing kindness, and she simply said, “I didn’t ask you to meet me to talk about money. I wanted to let you know I don’t need you to get involved with anyone in Boston about the remains. It’s been taken care of. But thank you, anyway.”

For a second, Mark almost looked dejected. Then he squared his shoulders. “Really?”

“Really.” She made sure to hold her head high. “And thanks for meeting me. But I have to get back to Chappy now.” She unknotted her legs from beneath the picnic table bench and stood up. He stood, too, and went around the table, blocking her path toward the On Time.

“Annie,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”

She shook her head. “No, Mark. You might have missed the woman that you thought I was. But that wasn’t me. The real me is here. The real me is happy. Go back to Boston. We were finished long ago.”

He touched her arm. “I’m sorry. About all the bills I left.”