"That's Brant Point Lighthouse," she explained, pointing toward the white structure at the harbor entrance. "Local tradition says you're supposed to throw a penny into the water as your ferry passes it when you leave the island. It ensures you'll return someday."
"Does it work?" Megan asked.
"Well, I came back for my wedding, didn’t I?" Jess smiled.
They passed the row of weathered buildings that housed the harbor-side shops - salt water taffy sold from the same storefront for generations, a maritime antiques dealer whose window displayed scrimshaw and ancient sextants, a boutique selling cashmere sweaters at prices that made even born and bred New Yorker Megan wince a little.
"Those are whaling captains' houses," Jess continued, gesturing toward a row of grand homes set back from the waterfront. "See those little platforms on the roofs? They're called 'widow's walks.' The captains' wives would pace there, watching for returning ships."
"Often for years," Nadine added. "Some of those voyages lasted three or four years. Imagine waiting that long, neverknowing if your husband was alive or dead. Talk about commitment.”
Megan studied the houses with interest. "Like architectural monuments to female anxiety. I could write a whole psychology paper on it.”
"Save the analysis for after the wedding," Jess laughed. "This week is strictly for fun and relaxation."
They turned onto Main Street, where centuries-old elms created a green canopy over the cobblestones. The church steeple rose above the surrounding buildings, its weathered copper spire gleaming in the sunlight.
"That's our compass point," Nadine explained, following Megan's gaze to the steeple. "Visible from almost anywhere downtown. Locals use it to navigate - 'two blocks past the church,' 'just before you can see the steeple’. Very practical when you're giving directions to tipsy out-of-towners after the bachelorette party" she added, wryly.
As they walked, the reality of the approaching celebrations settled over Jess - not with the heavy weight she sometimes felt in New York, but with a curious lightness.
Here, with her oldest friend beside her and another dear friend discovering the island she loved, the idea of getting married in this place felt suddenly, surprisingly right.
Perhaps it was Nadine’s cheery nostalgia, juxtaposed against Megan's fresh wonder that put things in perspective. Or maybe it was simply being back on Nantucket, where time moved differently and decisions didn't need to be justified with pros-and-cons lists.
“Yup, wedding countdown has officially begun," Nadine announced as they passed The Flower Shop, where the owner was arranging white peonies in the window. "T-minus five days until Operation Perfect Wedding culminates in the main event."
Megan looped her arm through Jess's. "Just think - this time next week, you'll be Mrs. Julian Foster, sipping champagne on a flight to Bali."
Jess squeezed Megan's arm, grateful for her steady presence. "You're right. It's going to be perfect."
And in that moment, with spring sunshine warming her face and her two different worlds colliding in the most beautiful way possible, Jess almost believed it.
After all, this was where she had learned to sail, to swim, to find her way home in the dark. Surely she could navigate marriage with the same instincts that had always guided her back to safe harbor.
"Come on," she said, linking her other arm through Nadine's. "Let's show Meg the real Nantucket - starting with ice cream for lunch.”
"Breaking the rules already, Whitmore,” Nadine said with mock disapproval. "Some things never change."
12
Sea Glass bridalhad been quiet since Ellen went upstairs, with only two vaguely interested browsers and a couple of daytrippers who'd departed without trying anything on.
Caroline had used the time to create a more systematic catalog of the "waiting dresses," attempting to impose order on Ellen's poetic chaos. The shop bell's cheerful jingle startled her from her concentration, and she looked up to find herself facing a wholly unexpected customer for a bridal store.
A man stood just inside the doorway, tall - six feet at least - with broad shoulders tapering to a lean waist, and he wore faded jeans and a simple gray t-shirt beneath an open flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves.
A leather tool belt hung low on his hips, its worn pouches filled with various implements that caught the light as he moved. His hair was the rich brown of coffee beans, tousled as though he'd run his fingers through it moments before entering, and his face had the weathered quality of someone who spent considerable time outdoors.
A groom, picking up a dress perhaps? Though that made no sense - wasn’t it supposed to be bad luck to see the weddingdress before the wedding? But who knew what superstitions this strange place followed. Or didn’t, more like.
“Ellen?” he called, scanning the shop until his gaze landed on Caroline. Recognition flashed across his features, though she was absolutely certain they'd never met. “Ah, you must be the niece. From Chicago?"
Caroline set down her notebook, acutely aware of her tailored black pants and shirt - city clothes that suddenly felt overly formal in this guy’s work-worn presence.
"That's right," she confirmed, moving toward him with her professional smile in place. "Caroline Doyle. And you are...?"
"Finn Calder," he replied, extending a hand that bore the calluses and tiny scars of manual labor. "I take care of building maintenance."
