She viewed the On Time come and go; she listened to the gulls, watched an old man fishing dockside, and studied the boats bobbing at their moorings, water gently lapping at their hulls. Nearly an hour had passed when she supposed she should get back to Chappy. But as she stood up, she glanced toward the ferry queue on Daggett Street and saw Jonas’s SUV waiting to drive on. Even from that distance, she knew the vehicle was his by the large canvases and the artist’s easel stacked in the back.

She jogged over as he moved up the small ramp. Then she skipped on board the ferry and waited until he’d turned off the engine before going over to his open window.

“Jonas! I’m so glad to see you.” For all the weighty things that she was trying to deal with, Jonas had a whole lot more—had always had a whole lot more.

“Hey, Annie. Hi. I went to New York. I got some of my paintings out of storage. For the Inn. If you want. They’re mostly Chappy scenes. A few of them are on my website.”

“Wonderful! I can’t wait to see the real deal.” The fact that he really had come back to the island might be an omen that life would be good again. For all of them. She hoped.

“You need a ride back to the Inn?”

“No thanks. My Jeep’s in the lot. But can you come by tomorrow and bring the canvases? Maybe right after lunch?” Thanks to the added hours, she knew that Georgia would be with Donna then.

“Okay. And thanks, Annie. For giving me another chance.”

She smiled and tapped the well of the window. “That’s what friends are for.”

They docked on the Chappy side, and Jonas drove off. Annie walked slowly to her Jeep, wondering how it happened that her spirits were always lifted not necessarily by someone energetic, but often by someone like Jonas who, despite having a heap of issues, was doing the best he could.

Like the hummingbird, she thought.

* * *

Once home, Annie sent Kevin away, still not ready to talk to him about the Inn. She defrosted some soup that she’d made late in the winter and thought it might entice Donna to enjoy a homemade Sunday night supper. When Donna finally roused and joined Annie in the kitchen, she extolled the aroma and flavors, though she merely sipped the broth and barely made a dent in the vegetables or the chicken. It seemed that since she’d been forced to face the seriousness of her illness—and have others know it, too—she’d taken a downhill slide. She looked more wan than she had before and only seemed interested in sleeping.

But Annie had come up with an idea that might help perk up the evening—and open the door to asking about her birth father.