Annie’s whole body went rigid, her heart and lungs and everything inside her dropped like a schooner mast in a nor’easter.

Suddenly, Earl, too, appeared.

And Kevin.

And Claire.

John bent down and pulled the thing from the dog’s mouth.

The crowd grew silent, then the band stopped playing.

John held the thing up for everyone to see. “It’s a damn plastic bottle,” he said.

Hearty cheers rose up from the lawn.

“Put it in the recycle bin,” John said to his daughter. “And try to stay out of trouble.”

Looking somewhat dejected, Lucy shuffled to the bins.

“Was it really plastic?” Annie asked as he whisked her away.

He shrugged. “Looked that way to me.” Then he took her by the elbow, and they went back to the party.

* * *

Annie woke up in the morning to the sounds of island songbirds; saltmarsh sparrows, eastern towhees, and red-eyed vireos were no doubt among those who had arrived in nature’s procession after the pinkletinks had quieted. She lay in her bed again, surprised that she’d had a wonderful night’s sleep. The Grand Opening had been a big success; reporters from both island newspapers (not only Marilyn) and online Vineyard sites had been there, taking notes and looking pleased. Claire reported a head count of two hundred fifty-two, not counting the caterers or the band or the people who now lived there.

Taking a deep breath, Annie said aloud, “We did it.” She hoped that Donna and Murphy were both listening.

Then she sat up, dangled her legs over the edge of the bed, and opened the drawer of her nightstand. She took out the white envelope, then slowly peeled off its wax seal. She paused a moment, then reached inside and pulled out a single sheet of paper. A small gold key was attached.

My dearest Annie, the note read.

You are reading this because I’m gone. I am so sorry we could not have had more time, but please know that I cherished every moment we spent together. I am so proud of you, of the woman you are. I am even more proud that you had the courage to reach out to meet me at last. I hope you know that.

I’m attaching the key to the Louis Vuitton trunk. I will have already told you that the things in the pocket inside the lid are for Kevin; the rest is yours.

Some time ago, when you asked about your birth father, I was deliberately vague. He and I had made a promise to each other that as long as either of us was alive, we would keep our secret. He loved you; I loved you. More than you will ever know. I hope you’ll understand that, and that you will take comfort from what you will find in the Vuitton.

My love forever,
Donna