The cove is packed tighter than a subway car during rush hour. Wedding guests, the staff from the inn, and what appears to be half of Cider Cove are all jockeying for a position around the outdoor bar, which is currently three people deep with folks waiting for those famous frozen concoctions that taste like a vacation in a glass. The luau buffet has been demolished and restocked so many times I’ve lost count, and the steel drum band that materialized from somewhere is currently making “Sweet Caroline” sound like it was always meant to be played on the sand.
“Bizzy!” Emmie appears at my elbow, holding one-year-old Elliot, whose dark hair is sticking up in all directions thanks to the humidity. He’s sporting tiny board shorts that make him look ready to hit the waves, assuming the waves were located in a kiddie pool.
Emmie Granger and I are besties. In fact, we’ve been best friends since preschool. We share the same medium-length dark hair, same denim blue eyes, and same name, Elizabeth. But thankfully, we go by the nicknames our families have given us to avoid confusion. In fact, I gifted my daughter the same moniker, Elizabeth, so she could join the Elizabethan party, too. But we just call her Ella.
Emmie leans in. “Can you believe how lucky Charlotte and Piers got that you had room for their entire wedding circus?”
I follow her gaze to where our husbands are tossing a football with what appears to be every male within a fifty-yard radius. Jasper and Leo look like they’re having the time of their lives, which makes sense since they went to college with Piers back when their biggest worry was whether the dining hall would run out of pizza.
“Lucky is one word for it,” I say. “Though I have to admit, three weeks ago I’d never heard of either of them. Then Piers calls Jasper out of the blue, and not only are Jasper and Leo now groomsmen, but their venue canceled, and suddenly we’re hosting the wedding of the century.”
“More like the wedding of the week.” Emmie grins. “But everything looks amazing. You really outdid yourself with all the tropical touches.”
“Yeah, this place looks like the tropics detonated all over Maine,” Georgie chimes in, scooting in close wearing not only the requisite lei and rose-colored sunglasses, but also that coconut bra I mentioned and a grass skirt that’s seen better decades. “And I mean that in the best possible way.”
“I’d love to take credit for the tropical explosion,” I admit, scanning the crowd. “But I can’t. The woman responsible is right over there.” I point toward a redhead with a sleek bob who’s currently directing my staff with the efficiency of an air traffic controller. “She showed up this morning with a truck full of decorations and turned my peaceful inn into Club Med. I’ve been trying to meet her all day, but between squeezing wedding guests into every available closet and making sure nobody drowns in the punch bowl, I haven’t had the chance.”
“Well, now is your opportunity,” Emmie says. “I’ll come with you for moral support.”
“And I’ll come for the entertainment value,” Georgie adds, because, of course, she will.
No sooner do I take another step on the sand than two women all but accost the poor wedding planner with a shouting match—a blonde and a woman with long chestnut locks. I happen to recognize both of them. The blonde would be the bride, and the woman with the chestnut locks just so happens to be my husband’s ex.
“I should kill you for this!” the bride shouts at the wedding planner, her voice carrying over the steel drums and party chatter.
“Well, that escalated quickly,” I say, watching the two women square off like they’re preparing for a cage match.
I’d better break this up before there’s an actual murder at my inn. It wouldn’t be the first time, and I have a sinking feeling it won’t be the last.
CHAPTER 2
Nothing ruins a perfectly good luau faster than two women screaming at each other over a redhead who looks ready to bolt for the nearest coconut tree.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned as the owner of the Country Cottage Inn, it’s this—never turn your back on a wedding party, especially when two women in designer sandals are preparing to launch handbags at each other.
The steel drums have switched to something that sounds vaguely like elevator music played through a blender, and the smoky scent of charcoal and pineapple mingles with enough hairspray to punch a hole in the ozone. The sun is starting its dramatic descent toward the horizon, painting everything in shades of orange and pink that would make anyone want to sit on the sand and watch the display in a trance—anyone but these two.
“Ladies,” I say, sliding in between Charlotte Van Buren and Camila Ryder with the confidence of an innkeeper who’s broken up fistfights before. “Let’s not spill anything this evening that we can’t mop up with a cocktail napkin.”
Charlotte is seething with her mascara already threatening toevacuate, and Camila looks like she just got caught sneaking the last brownie out of a bake sale anddaredyou to say something about it.
Charlotte Van Buren is exactly what you’d expect from a socialite who treats every moment like a photo opportunity—blonde hair that defies both humidity and gravity, a tan that screamsprofessional spray booth, and the kind of effortless beach waves that probably took three hours and a small village to achieve.
She’s wearing a white sundress that is no doubt couture and is accessorized with enough gold jewelry to fund a small country. Everything about her screams Insta Pictures influencer, from her perfectly manicured nails to the way she angles herself toward any camera within a fifty-foot radius. She’s the bride who hired a wedding planner three weeks before her big day after her original venue mysteriously fell through, and judging by the way she’s glaring at said wedding planner right now, things aren’t going according to her hashtag-worthy vision.
“Stay out of this, Bizzy,” Camila is quick to snip my way. Camila Ryder has been a thorn in my side for far too long, with her chestnut hair, champagne problems, and a face that belongs on a wine label warning you about heartbreak. She’s still hot to trot after Jasper—my husband—despite the minor inconvenience that he’s, you know, married. Tome. But she has finagled her way into the sheriff’s department as his department secretary because nothing saysI’m over youquite like becoming your ex’s employee.
Jasper is the head homicide detective down in Seaview County, and Emmie’s husband Leo just so happens to be a deputy there, too. Oddly enough, Camila left Jasper for Leo once upon a time and nearly cost Jasper and Leo their friendship, but now Leo is married to my bestie Emmie, and we’re all living happily ever after—despite the fact this wicked witch keeps trying to trip us up.
“Camila Ryder,” she says smoothly, extending her hand to theredhead while shooting me a look that could freeze margaritas. “I work with the sheriff’s department. Please excuse our beautiful bride-to-be. She’s under a lot of pressure right now, as you can imagine.” She takes a moment to slice a glance my way. “And this lovely lady is Bizzy Baker,” Camila purrs, like we’re old friends instead of longtime mental sparring partners. And don’t think I didn’t notice that she left out the surname my husband gifted me. “I was just accompanying Charlotte to chat with our charming wedding planner. You’ve met Tessa Greene, haven’t you?”
“I’m Tessa Greene,” the redhead says my way, looking grateful for the rescue. Her sleek bob is slightly mussed, and she’s clutching a clipboard as if it’s a life preserver.
“I met Charlotte this morning,” I say, offering the bride a smile that I hope readsI come in peace. “But I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you until now. It’s so nice to finally get a chance to speak with you, Tessa.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Emmie chimes in, bouncing Elliot on her hip. “Tessa, I think we met by way of text messages. I’m the one who helped get the food together for the luau.”
“Oh, you are my lifesaver! Thank you for putting up with all of my madness.”
