After dropping Lucy off at John’s town house in Edgartown, promising to join them for dinner the next night, then sharing a quick kiss with him before he left for the night shift, Annie headed home. Though she was always sorry when their schedules left them little time to be together, the spark of anticipation kept the embers glowing. This time, however, as she drove the mere two blocks to the Chappy ferry, the glow gave way to trepidation about her birth mother’s impending visit.

Annie hadn’t seen Donna since the fall when she’d arrived on the island after a months-long world cruise. The timing had been wrong: renovations to the waterfront mansion had begun; bedlam had enveloped them. And when Donna had offered a few design suggestions—art deco chairs, hand-knotted Mondrian rugs, a few pieces of enchanting art in the storytelling style of Hugo Mayer—Annie had politely (she’d hoped) rejected them due to (she’d said) budget constraints. And though she could not dispute that Donna had terrific taste, Annie knew her choices weren’t right for the Vineyard. Donna had left the next day, albeit with a smile. Annie had been too busy to be upset. She had, after all, only seen Donna twice on the Vineyard and once in Boston when Annie had gone there on her birthday. But unlike their jubilant first meeting, the last visits had felt strained. And despite monthly phone calls filled with pleasant anecdotes, Annie didn’t know what Donna wanted from her—or what she wanted from Donna.

It hadn’t been that way with Kevin. Their first meeting had only lasted as long as it had taken him to devour a Reuben and a beer at Annie’s birthday lunch—yet from the instant she had seen him, she’d been comfortable. Then, when he showed up on the island and didn’t leave, getting to know him had been seamless, natural, fun. Having been raised as the Suttons’ only child, Annie liked having a sibling. And now, as she drove onto the inimitable ferry, she realized it was even easier to build a relationship with John’s daughter than with her own birth mother. If Murphy were still alive, she’d have a heyday with that.

As the ferry chugged its ninety-second chug across the channel, Annie supposed she should try harder to get to know Donna—if only she knew how. Her adoptive parents had been great . . . well, mostly great. And though Annie had always known she’d been adopted, she’d never felt the kind of loss that she’d read many others did; she’d never been curious about her birth parents.

Lifting her eyes toward the sky, she said, “A little help would be appreciated.” Murphy, however, didn’t reply. Some things, Annie supposed, her old friend knew she had to figure out herself.