Prologue
The ceremony was scheduled to start at five p.m., which meant that at 4:55, people began to drift toward the white folding chairs that clung to the edge of the rocky bluff like sea-foam. The advanced guard was composed of the oldest guests who worried about being late, and the youngest guests who were keen to secure an unobstructed view of the lilac-wreathed altar so their photos would be grid-worthy. The majority remained under the tent until 5:10, knowing full well that these things never started on time and that it’d be foolish to leave the shade—and the open bar—earlier than necessary.
By 5:20, nearly everyone was seated, even the women most worried about sweating off their makeup. The string quartet was on their second movement, and the excited chatter began to give way to muted grumbles. “Sotypical of her,” one guest muttered as she fanned herself with the program.
At 5:35, necks were beginning to pinch from the strain oftwisting to scan the bluff for signs of movement. A few minutes later, whispers rippled through the crowd as wide-eyed guests cupped their hands to their dates’ ears, or frantically texted friends sitting in other rows. “Holy shit,” a man in a seersucker suit said, staring at his phone. “I don’t think they’re coming.” A few paces away, the wedding planner stood in her pink suit, her matching lips frozen in a huge, unnatural grin while she spoke ventriloquist-like into her headset. They’d missed their window. Now the altar would have to be moved six inches to the right in order to frame the setting sun, a process far too messy and laborious to perform in front of guests in their light-colored, dry-clean-only finery.
By 5:45, the whispers had given way to a tense, uneasy silence, and the live music took on a slightly manic, desperate quality. Some of the guests were on Zola.com, reading the refund policy on wedding gifts purchased online. A few of the bride’s friends were drafting texts in their Notes app, planning the supportive missives they’d send once the news was confirmed.Love you, girl. Don’t worry—we’re all here for you.OrYou’re so brave to listen to your heart!
The wedding planner’s head shot up, eyes widening as she clutched her earpiece. She nodded crisply. “Roger that.” She caught the violinist’s eye and nodded again. A moment later, the musicians seamlessly transitioned to Pachelbel’s Canon, their bows seeming to sigh with relief as they slid across the strings. The guests swiveled and looked around, some faces clearly relieved, others visibly disappointed that the drama was ending.
Or was it?
The couple appeared at the top of the aisle, standing hand in hand as they surveyed their guests with warm smiles. Butsomething was wrong, and the guests squinted for a better look. “Wait,” a woman whispered to her friend. “She’s not…”
“Nope,” her friend confirmed. “Definitely not. What the hell is…”
She trailed off as the officiant cleared his throat. “Dearly beloved, please rise.”
CHAPTER ONENatalie
Just relax, Natalie told herself as she approached the check-in desk of the Sandpiper Inn, her best friend’s wedding dress draped over her shoulder.You have every right to be here. The reservation is literally in your name.But even after a decade of friendship, Natalie still felt like an impostor in Marigold’s world.
Part of the problem was that the goalposts kept shifting. It took years before Natalie could make it through dinner with Marigold’s family without making a faux pas like asking for parmesan on her seafood pasta or, horror of horrors, ordering a cappuccino with dessert. (“They’d ban you from Italy for life for that!” Marigold’s stepfather, Bill, had said with a smile. When a red-cheeked Natalie had tried to laugh it off, faux-pleading, “Please don’t report me; I’ve always wanted to go to Italy!” an awkward, pitying silence fell over the table as if Natalie had just admitted she’d grown up without indoor plumbing.) Then just as she found her footing in Marigold’s Manhattan, she was droppedinto places with entirely new social minefields to navigate. Who knew you weren’t supposed to wear shoes on a yacht? Or that inquiring what a European did for a living was as uncouth as askingSo, how big is your penis?
But this weekend would be different. Natalie wasn’t Marigold’s plus-one at a gala fundraiser where tickets cost more than her yearly salary. She was themaid of honor, a veritable VIP in the wedding world. She half expected to hear murmurs of excitement when she entered the inn with Marigold’s dress. But no one even looked up as Natalie struggled toward the reception area, dragging her heavy suitcases and the cumbersome garment bag. Not even the suited woman behind the desk.
“Hi there,” Natalie said, suppressing a grimace.Hi therewas one of the phrases that only slipped out during awkward interactions with strangers. The worst wasHave a good one!, which she’d inexplicably started saying after she’d turned thirty, a change as bewildering and unwelcome as the errant chin hairs she’d begun plucking around the same time.
The suited woman behind the desk looked up. “Hello. How can I help?” She had an unplaceable accent—maybe a Brit who’d moved to the US in high school and studied abroad in Sweden?
“I’d like to check in, please. The reservation is under Natalie Pickard.”
“Check-in is at three p.m.,” the woman said with a tight smile.
“I know. But I called last week to confirm early check-in? And I also called yesterday to double-check and was told it wouldn’t be a problem?”
“Check-in is at three p.m.,” the woman repeated. Her tone implied that if Natalie had heard otherwise, it was because she’dhallucinated the conversation or was simply too dense to comprehend the information she’d been given. “You’re welcome to leave your luggage here, if you wish, and we’ll bring it up when your room is ready. At three p.m.”
With a sigh, Natalie hoisted the garment bag onto her shoulder and staggered over to a pair of leather armchairs. The Sandpiper Inn looked like it’d been unchanged since its 1816 founding—all polished mahogany, brass handles, antique silver candlesticks, and oil paintings of distinguished sea captains and wave-tossed whaling ships. Under normal circumstances, Natalie would’ve been delighted to sit and people-watch, relishing how far she’d come from the Cleveland suburbs where she’d grown up. But not when she had urgent errands to run and a twelve-thousand-dollar dress in her possession. She glanced at her phone—it was almost two p.m. and she had to be back at the ferry dock by three to meet the courier delivering the wedding rings. Natalie didn’t mind leaving her suitcases with the bellhop, but she couldn’t risk letting Marigold’s wedding dress out of her sight. Then again, wasn’t it safer to leave it at the inn than to lug them back down to the harbor, where countless dangers lay in wait, from sea spray to motor oil to sugar-mad children brandishing Popsicles?
Olivia never would’ve ended up in this situation, Natalie thought ruefully. There’d been some awkwardness when Marigold had asked Natalie to be maid of honor instead of her older sister. Marigold and Olivia hadn’t always gotten along, but the hypercompetent, intimidatingly organized Olivia would’ve never found herself marooned in the reception area, clutching a custom-designed Danielle Frankel gown. The suited woman never would’ve used a patronizing tone with her; one raised eyebrow from Olivia was enough to make anyone cower, fromjunior associates at her law firm to the power-tripping hostess at Carbone.
Natalie had vowed to be the world’s best maid of honor—it was the perfect chance to pay Marigold back for all her generosity and to show everyone that Natalie wasn’t a clueless suburban rube. But above all else, it’d assuage the guilt that’d been festering for the past few months. No,years. If Natalie helped make Saturday the best day of Marigold’s life, then she’d be absolved, it wouldn’t matter how many selfish wishes Natalie had whispered in the dark. How many twisted prayers the universe had rightfully seen fit to ignore.
As she fretted about what to do with the dress, she pulled out her phone to check her messages. She’d asked the makeup artist and hairstylist to email her when they’d landed in Portland and found the car Natalie had sent for the two-hour drive up the coast. But when she saw the bolded name in her inbox, her heart lurched, and a familiar mix of hope and dread flooded her chest.
Over the years, she’d developed a ridiculous ritual whenever he emailed her. Instead of opening the message, she’d first fantasize about the contents—sometimes for a minute or two, sometimes longer. She’d allow her mind to flit from one unlikely scenario to another, from the fairly innocuous, like asking if she wanted to meet for drinks, to the laughably improbable—a confession of love. Then once she’d settled on a scenario, she’d write the email in her head, editing the words as carefully as she did her tutoring students’ papers, even though it was entirely imaginary. The longer she spent crafting the message, the more crushing her disappointment when she eventually read the actual text.
Crushing disappointment wasn’t something Natalie could deal with today, so she forced herself to open the email rightaway, prepared for a businesslike question about logistics for the weekend. But to her surprise, it had nothing to do with ferry schedules or meal selections. She grinned with pleasure at the opening:Hey Bumpy.
She’d first met him in an American Lit seminar in college, and over the course of the semester, as friendly run-ins at the campus coffee shop turned into study sessions and lunch outings, he’d shortened “Natalie” to “Nat,” which morphed into “Natty.” And then when their professor assignedThe Deerslayer, “Natty” became “Natty Bumpoo” and eventually “Bumpy,” which he’d called her off and on for the last twelve years. She read on:
Hey Bumpy,
Did you see thatHowl’s Moving Castleis playing at the Metrograph next month? There’s still time to redeem yourself. I’ll be in Bora Bora, but I expect a full report from you on my return.
It’d been years since they’d last discussed Natalie’s childhood obsession with Diana Wynne Jones and her irrational fear that watching theHowl’s Moving Castleadaptation would taint her love for the book. This was why Natalie had never been able to get over him, hard as she tried. Just when she’d managed to convince herself that they weren’t anything more than friends, he’d do or say something like this—a small gesture that reminded her how carefully he listened to her.He just has a really good memory, Natalie told herself.It doesn’t mean anything.But she wasn’t sure she truly believed it.
