A teenager sprawls on a built-in bench, headphones on, aggressively ignoring the world. Two younger kids sit at a fold-down table doing homework—or pretending to, while actually drawing what appears to be a sea monster eating a stick figure labeled “Mr. Paul.”
“Jenna, Millie, Aidan—we have guests!” Emma sweeps through, somehow tidying as she moves without actually putting anything away. “This is Jo, the bride, and—I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”
“Delilah. I’m doing the flowers for the wedding.”
“Delilah! Gorgeous name. Girls, say hi.”
Jenna, the teenager, lifts one hand withoutlooking up. Millie, ten, offers a shy wave. Aidan, eight, holds up his drawing.
“I made a picture of the sea monster that lives under the marina.”
“That’s…very detailed,” I say.
“The stick figure is Mr. Paul. He’s getting eaten because he was mean to Mom about the coffee maker.”
“Aidan.” Emma’s tone is patient but final. “We don’t draw pictures of our neighbors getting eaten by sea monsters.”
“Even if they deserve it?”
“Even then.”
“What if it’s anicesea monster and Mr. Paul doesn’t actually die—he just learns a lesson about being grumpy?”
Emma considers this. “Still no.”
Aidan sighs the sigh of an artist misunderstood and returns to his drawing—though I notice he starts erasing Paul.
Jo explores the space, running her hand along the curved wood walls, peering out the windows at the water. “Emma, this place is incredible.”
“It needs work.” Emma says it cheerfully, likeneeds workis an exciting adventure rather than an overwhelming burden. “The electricalis sketchy—Paul’s right about that, even if I’d rather chew sand than admit it—and there’s a leak somewhere in the stern I haven’t found yet. But it was my Aunt Dottie’s, and she loved this boat, and now it’s mine.”
“Your aunt sounds like she was quite a character.”
“She was a force of nature—never married, traveled everywhere, collected ex-boyfriends and interesting hats.” Emma grins. “She left me the boat and a box of letters I’m afraid to read because they’re probably scandalous.”
She leads us outside to the deck, where fading daylight turns the water to gold. This is where we’ll do the photos—Jo against the railing, the marina stretching behind her, boats and water and sky.
“The light is ideal right now,” Emma says, pulling out her camera. “Delilah, can you hold up the bouquets one at a time? I want to see how the colors read.”
I hold up the first one—white roses with eucalyptus and dusty miller. Emma snaps a few shots, checks her screen, nods.
“Beautiful. Next?”
We cycle through the options: blush peonies, wildflowers in sunset colors, classic red roses that Jo immediately vetoes because “Dean would have aheart attack if I walked down the aisle looking like a Valentine.”
Jo and Dean. Getting married. After all these years of circling each other, they figured it out.
Will Levi and I figure it out?
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I try to ignore it. Fail.
“Go ahead,” Jo says, catching me. “I can tell you’re dying.”
It’s Levi:Just got out of the meeting. It went okay. Miss you. Call tonight?
Okay.The meeting went “okay.” What does okay mean? Good okay? Terrible okay? “You have to move back to LA permanently” okay?
