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the ferry.”
    I was going for funny; Kate didn’t laugh. She tilted the rearview mirror and checked her lipstick. “I need to get to the mainland. ASAP. I got a call, Bea. From Deidra Mannington, you know, the reporter for
Wine
! It’s the hottest new magazine about the business. She’s over on the mainland in Vermilion, doing an article about some of the wineries there, and she wants to have dinner at six and talk about Wilder’s. She’s going to feature us in an upcoming issue. I zipped home to change.” She glanced down and I saw that Kate was wearing a black dress with a nipped waist and short sleeves. It was just chichi enough for a special occasion and still businesslike enough that the reporter was bound to take her seriously. “But now I’ve got to go. I’ve got to hurry. I don’t want to be late.”
    It really was terrific, and Kate might actually have heard me say so if she didn’t burn rubber, race down the street, and disappear in the direction of the ferry dock.
    Truth be told, I was glad for this distraction and thrilled that Wilder’s—and Kate—was finally getting the recognition it deserved. For too long, Ohio wineries were pooh-poohed by the snooty oenophiles of the world. From what Kate told me, that perception was finally changing, and having Wilder’s featured in a prominent magazine was bound to help. Besides, thinking about Kate’s good fortune kept me from thinking about what I had to say to Marianne.
    Fifteen minutes later, my speech (mostly) prepared and the box of chocolates at the ready, I walked into the library and stopped short.
    Marianne wasn’t behind the front desk. Her husband, Alvin, was.
    I’d met Alvin Littlejohn soon after I first moved to the island at a potluck dinner; and later, I’d appeared before him in magistrate’s court more than just a couple times. Believe me when I say I no longer hold this against Kate or Chandra, the ones who’d dragged me into court in the first place with their petty complaints about the construction traffic at the B and B. They were just as guilty as I was of letting our neighborhood squabbles escalate, and they were just as outraged as I was (and I was plenty outraged) when Alvin told us we needed to stop fighting and start talking. He’s the one who sentenced us to attend a year’s worth of book discussion groups.
    Don’t tell Alvin, but the way things turned out, we were all grateful.
    Even if it did mean reading this month’s selection,
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
, and even if thinking about that Sleepy made me think about the other Sleepy, and—
    When I gulped, Alvin didn’t look up. He was a tall, skinny guy whose thinning hair was the color of a field mouse, and like a mouse, he was busy rooting through a desk drawer and making a little pile of things nearby: an address book, a lipstick, a desk calendar.
    “Hey, Alvin. I was hoping to see your better half.”
    Startled, he stood and blinked at me for a couple moments while he tugged at his left earlobe. “Oh, Bea. It’s you. You haven’t heard.”
    I didn’t like the sound of that. “Marianne? Something’s happened to–”
    “In Cleveland. In the hospital. She’s got a detached retina, Bea. She’s having surgery first thing tomorrow morning. She asked me to stop in and pick up some things for her before I head over to the mainland this evening.”
    “I’m so sorry.” I handed the box of chocolates across the desk to him. “When you go to see her, give her this.”
    “Well, it looks like you did know about Marianne!” He took the chocolates out of my hands. “How else would you have known to bring candy?!”
    “Actually . . .” I pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The candy is sort of an apology.”
    “Because you haven’t finished reading that book of hers yet!” Alvin had prominent ears and a long, thin mouth. When he smiled, he reminded me of a ventriloquist’s dummy. “It was so nice of you to agree to do that for her, Bea!