Henry’s phone dings, and he opens the text. “She sure was a looker. Hasn’t changed much.”
“It’s because she’s a witch.”
Henry glances up, lopsided grin. “Maybe. That hair’s the same damn color. Impressive. I wonder—” he peers down, making the image larger on his phone “—who the couple is...”
“You think there’s something important here?”
“Maybe. It looks like Philip did.”
He leans back, taking off his reading glasses. Bonnie plops her toy in his lap, and he rubs her head. “Look, I’ll do some more digging on my end. Meanwhile, you enjoy London and think back on if Philip said anything that could shed light on this.”
“I will.”
An awkward pause. “So London, heh?”
“Heathcliff and I needed to get away. It was kind of spur-of-the-moment. It’s hard at home.”
“I get it.” He clears his throat. “How long do you think you’ll stay?”
I shrug. “Probably for at least a few weeks.”
“Well, you and that poor little hurricane of yours take care. Bring me back one of those Big Ben tower souvenirs.”
We say goodbye, and I settle back in the chair, sipping my wine.
Lucy leaps up onto my lap, and I rub her back. That went about as well as I could have hoped. We just needed to get past the other night. Even if we’re both a little attracted or curious, too much could go wrong. Henry’s not just any man—he was Philip’s best friend. Losing his friendship would be like losing yet another piece of Philip. I touch the little jet necklace, only the stone separating my fingers from Philip’s hair. I just can’t lose anything else now.
I refocus my thoughts on Mirabel, digging hard into memories from the weeks before the accident.
It’s a blur of our beautiful routine. Saturday morning pancakes and cartoons with Heathcliff. Reading theNew York Timeswith coffee on Sunday mornings. A long afternoon at Edisto Island. We chattered about where we’d go out to eat on our next date night. What movie we’d see. But something had beenoff. It was so subtle, I’d barely noticed it. Philip had unusual moments of quietness. One morning, as he rinsed out his oatmeal bowl in the sink, he stared out the window, thick blond brows furrowed, stuck in some kind of daydream.Everything ok?I’d asked.Oh yeah.And he snapped out of it.
He was preoccupied with something, and he hadn’t wanted to trouble me with it.
Why?
Heathcliff yells up the stairwell that it’s time to eat. Lucy leaps off my lap, running for cover under the bed.
I stand, brushing the cat hair off my pajama bottoms before going downstairs for dinner. It might take some time to find these answers, but I’m determined. I owe it to Philip to uncover what he wanted me to know so badly that night.
Ten Years Earlier
“Try to look a little happy. It’s your wedding day,” I say, sitting next to Henry at the bar. “Or is it the music you’re bummed about?”
“Summer of ’69” blares from the dance floor behind us.
Henry smiles sideways. “Hey, aren’t wedding reception songs supposed to suck?”
“Sure. It wouldn’t be a wedding otherwise. I’m not even sure you’d officially be married.”
He chuckles.
The bartender hands me a hard cider, and I clink my bottle against Henry’s.
“To bad wedding songs.”
“To bad wedding songs.”
I’ve only talked to Henry a handful of times, but there’s something sad about seeing the groom drinking alone. Not that it isn’t easy to get lost at this wedding reception. It’s ridiculously expensive and crowded, and we’re in a century-old factory building remodeled into an art gallery, niche office building, and reception hall. The enormous room has worn brick walls and gaudy chandeliers; string lights dangle from the high ceiling. Little offshoot corridors and quirky unused rooms jut out from the space with plenty of vintage nooks and crannies for hookups. Three minutes ago, I saw Ginger’s maid of honor slip into a side room with Gabe, an old law school friend of Philip and Henry’s.
