Earl chuckled his trademark chuckle. “Yup. It was especially tough keeping that little secret the night you and Donna came for dinner. She never told us about the cancer, though.”

So when Annie had walked into Donna’s hospital room and seen Earl holding her hand, he must have blushed out of fear that their friendship had been revealed. Not because he’d been flirting with her.

“Nice lady, your mother,” he continued now. “She invested her life savings so you and Kevin could have a stable future. Now it’s up to us to make it work.”

“But we have no control over it. Not now.”

“Maybe,” Earl said, “maybe not. But we’re staying positive, remember?”

Several Edgartown police officers attended the service, along with many of Earl and Claire’s friends, kind faces of men and women who Annie recognized—artisans, farmers, tradespeople. Even Marilyn Sunderland, the newspaper reporter who had been John’s sixth grade teacher and had been scorned by Earl when he’d fallen in love with Claire. It turned out that she—not John—had been the one to chase the media off Chappy when they had descended, and that by the time John had arrived they were all gone. “No one messes with our island family,” Marilyn told Annie as she helped herself to another diminutive sandwich.

Taylor and Jonas were there, too, and they seemed at peace. And Winnie and her whole clan had driven from up island, except for her sister-in-law who was on duty at the hospital and her husband who made his living as a fisherman and sent his blessing: Wunniook, be well.

Annie was touched by the outpouring of support for Kevin and her, wash-ashores that many people there hardly knew, and by the respect they showed for a woman most of them had never met.

After a while the crowd began to disperse, back to reality, back to their lives; as Annie stood by the door with Kevin and Earl, saying good-bye, she knew she wanted to embrace the cushion of community forever.

Then Winnie joined them. Her face emitted its calming, copper glow; her deep brown, sassafras-root eyes brimmed with kindness.

“I bring news,” she said.

They waited, mute.

Finally, Earl spoke. “Well, get on with it, woman.”

“You may have your Inn.”

The surrealness of the hour, the day, the week intensified.

“What?” Annie asked, because one of them needed to.

“The bone is Native American. It is very old—probably nineteenth century—but not Wampanoag. Most important, it was not buried on your land; the archeologist determined it had come in from the water, possibly from a drowning, and had become tightly wrapped in the seaweed, which, when combined with the salt in the ocean, helped preserve the bone once it lodged in the rocks.”

Annie didn’t mention that Lucy had suggested that in the beginning. Such a smart girl, with such a bright future.