Heroes Are My Weakness(22)

Mint green tieback curtains framed the window over the sink, and a souvenir plate collection hung above the dark wood cabinets. Barbara’s pride in her grandchildren was evident in the numerous photos displayed on the refrigerator.

A still-handsome octogenarian whose high cheekbones and broad nose suggested she might be some combination of African and Native American sat at the kitchen table with the only young woman other than Annie, a petite brunette with a snub nose, black-framed, rectangular glasses, and a medium-length bob. Barbara introduced her as her daughter, Lisa McKinley. This was Jaycie’s friend, and the one who’d recommended Jaycie to Cynthia Harp for the housekeeping job.

Annie soon learned that Lisa was both Peregrine’s volunteer librarian and the owner of the island’s only coffeehouse and bakery. “Bakery’s closed until May first,” Lisa told Annie. “And I hate Bunco, but I wanted to meet you.”

Barbara gestured toward her refrigerator photo gallery. “Lisa has two beautiful girls. My granddaughters. They were born here.”

“My punishment for marrying a lobsterman instead of taking off with Jimmy Timkins when I had the chance,” Lisa said.

“Don’t mind her. She loves her husband,” Barbara said, before she introduced Annie to the other women.

“Doesn’t it bother you, being out in that cottage all alone?” The question came from Marie, a woman whose deeply etched lines descended downward from the corners of her mouth, giving her a sour expression. “Especially with Theo Harp as your only neighbor.”

“I’m pretty fearless,” Annie replied.

The puppets in her head fell all over themselves laughing.

“Get your drinks, everybody,” Barbara ordered.

“You couldn’t pay me to stay there,” Marie said. “Not while Theo’s at Harp House. Regan Harp was the sweetest girl.”

Barbara jiggled the dispenser on the wine box. “Marie has a suspicious nature. Don’t pay attention.”

Marie wasn’t deterred. “All I’m saying is that Regan Harp was as good a sailor as her brother. And I’m not the only one who thinks it’s strange that she took that boat out with a squall blowing in.”

As Annie tried to take this in, Barbara directed her toward a seat at one of the two tables. “Don’t worry if you’ve never played. There’s not a steep learning curve.”

“Bunco is mainly an excuse for us to drink wine and get away from the men.” Judy Kester’s comment didn’t merit her big laugh, but Judy seemed to laugh at almost everything. Between her good humor and the dyed, bright red hair that projected from her head like a clown’s yarn wig, it was hard not to like her.

“Real intellectual stimulation isn’t allowed on Peregrine,” Lisa said tartly. “At least not during the winter.”

“You’re still mad because Mrs. Harp didn’t come back last summer.” Barbara rolled the dice.

“Cynthia’s my friend,” Lisa said. “I don’t want to hear anything bad about her.”

“Like the fact that she’s a snob?” Barbara rolled again.

“She’s not,” Lisa countered. “Just because she’s cultured doesn’t mean she’s a snob.”

“Mariah Hewitt was a lot more cultured than Cynthia Harp,” Marie said sourly, “but she didn’t go around looking down her nose at everybody.”

Despite Annie’s own issues with her mother, it was nice to hear her spoken of fondly.

As Lisa took her turn, she explained to Annie, “Cynthia and I became friends because we like so many of the same things.”

Annie wondered if that included their decorating tastes.

“Mini-Bunco,” someone said at the next table.

The game was as easy to learn as Barbara had said, and Annie gradually sorted out the names and personalities of the women seated at both tables. Lisa fancied herself an intellectual; Louise, the octogenarian, had come to the island as a bride. Marie’s personality was as sour as her face, while Judy Kester was naturally funny and cheerful.

As the island’s volunteer librarian, Lisa soon turned the conversation to Theo Harp. “He’s a gifted writer. He shouldn’t be wasting his time writing trash like The Sanitarium.”

“Oh, I loved that book,” Judy said, her boundless good humor as bright as the purple sweatshirt that proclaimed her WORLD’S BEST GRANDMA. “Scared me so bad I slept with the light on for a week.”

“What kind of man writes about all that torture?” Marie said, pursing her lips. “I’ve never read anything so grisly in my life.”

“It was the sex that made the book sell so good.” This observation came from a ruddy-faced woman named Naomi. Her towering height, harshly dyed black bowl cut, and big voice made her an imposing figure, and Annie wasn’t surprised to learn she captained her own lobster boat.

The most stylish member of the group—and the owner of the local gift shop—was Naomi’s Bunco partner Tildy, a sixty-year-old with a thinning blond crop, cherry red V-neck sweater, and layered silver necklaces. “The sex was the best part,” she said. “That man has some imagination.”

Although Lisa was about Annie’s age, she was nearly as puritanical as Marie. “It embarrassed his family. I don’t object to well-written sex scenes, but—”