Chapter 1
ABBY
Abigail Preston staredat the sleek lines of the custom sailboat decorating the glossy auction house brochure, tuning out the raucous bidding war over a sterling silver thimble set. As she studied the photograph, tears stung her eyes like a wayward splash of lemon juice. Would the guilt ever wane?
“Did I miss it?” Sage Harper flounced onto the chair Abby had saved for her, pink-cheeked and breathless, her hair a mass of windswept honey-blond curls.
Her friend’s arrival yanked Abby from her melancholy thoughts, snapping her surroundings into focus. The auctioneer, calling out bids with over-punctuated precision. The stiff wooden chair that left her backside numb. The scent of stale coffee in paper cups and antiques newly released from dusty attics. Each sight and sensation helped shove her self-reproach into the back of her mind.
“I think they’re saving the sailboat for last.” Abby tucked the brochure into her purse and switched the bid paddle from her left hand to her right, ignoring her clammy palms.
“Thank goodness.” Sage’s shoulders slumped with her heavy exhale. “I can’t afford to miss this opportunity. It may be my last chance.”
“I know the feeling.” Abby offered her friend a shaky smile. Although her coveted auction item wouldn’t change her life the same way Sage’s would, she’d been searching for the antique Spode sugar bowl for months—the last remaining piece to complete her set.
As if reading her mind, Sage nodded toward the stage and whispered, “Do you think that’s your sugar bowl?”
The mysterious auction item sat on a small table, cloaked in a black cloth the size of a handkerchief.
Good old Herman Chesterfield sure loved his theatrics. Too bad the auctioneer’s assistant—his ninety-year-old mother, Mabel—didn’t get the memo. Preparing the next item in the auction lineup, the spunky senior wheeled a gilded frame resting on a rickety antique easel toward the stage, abandoning it by the ramp to wait its turn.
Abby tensed. The large photograph of a vintage sailing schooner held her gaze against her will. The same photograph from the brochure. The same photograph that haunted her dreams.
“There it is,” Sage breathed. “The answer to my problem. At least, I hope so. Isn’t she beautiful?”
Abby heard Sage speaking but couldn’t process the words. Her mind reeled backward in time to the day two fishermen discovered the sailboat shipwrecked on an island off the coast of Blessings Bay—to the first thought that had flashed in her mind.
Please don’t let it be Sam Bailey’s boat.
She shivered at the memory, shame slithering up her spine. Her fears weren’t founded in the painful possibility of recovering his remains but in the unlikely chance he’d be found alive.
What kind of foster mom was she? What kind ofperson? Her sweet eight-year-old son prayed nightly for his father’s safe return. And even though his dad had been missing at sea for months, Max Bailey’s faith never wavered. Not even once.
Each night, she bowed her head beside him, her prayers drenched in sincerity. ShewantedSam to be found, safe and sound. She wanted father and son to be reunited. Of course she did! She wasn’t a monster.
Or was she? The second she’d heard the wordshipwreck, her heart had betrayed her—had betrayed Max. At the miraculous possibility of his father’s rescue—of Sam returning for Max—she’d wanted to cry. Not tears of joy or relief. Tears of grief.
She’d longed to be a mother, from the moment she held her first baby doll wrapped in a pink polka-dot swaddle. Even after discovering her late husband’s infertility, she’d dreamt of adopting a child—a child who needed all the love she had to share.
When Max came into her life last Christmas, he fit so effortlessly. As if she’d had a Max-shaped hole in her heart all those years. She didn’t want to lose him or the family they’d built together.
Only upon learning the recovered sailboat belonged to local legend and eccentric billionaire, Edwin Mackensie, not Sam Bailey, did the relief finally come.
And that had to make her the most selfish person in the world.
“Our next treasure may be my favorite of the day.” Herman broke through her thoughts. Standing tall in a tweed suit, he pinched the black cloth between his white-gloved fingertips. At some point during her self-chastising reverie, he’d moved on from the thimble set.
“While it’s tragically been separated from its family, it’s no less remarkable as a standalone piece.” He overenunciated with the tiniest hint of an English accent. An accent the self-proclaimed anglophile had acquired purely from binge-watching British television. “This exquisite, early nineteenth century, bone china sugar bowl by the irrefutably flawless Great Britain–based houseware company, Spode, would be a coup for any serious collector.” He whipped the cloth away with the dramatic flourish of a matador, eliciting oohs and aahs from the crowd.
“This is it.” Sage gave her hand a quick squeeze.
Abby squeezed back, grateful for the moral support.Time to focus.
“The gold edging is pristine,” Herman continued. “And the delicate floral design featuring blue and purple violets is hand-painted, making this piece one of a kind.”
“He’s laying it on a little thick, isn’t he?” Sage whispered.
Abby scooted toward the edge of her seat, her heart thrumming. She’d counted on not many people coveting a single sugar bowl. Didn’t most collectors prefer complete sets? But the way Herman went on and on about it, she might have more competition than she’d anticipated.
