She accepted the whiskey he offered her, and they sat down on the threadbare couch. A minute later, Hugo’s gray pit bull–Lab mix, Humphrey, leaped up and sprawled across them. It should’ve felt awkward. It should’ve feltdangerous. She was in the home of a stranger she’d met on the beach, and not a soul knew where she was. But there was something about him that felt comfortable, safe. Not like she’d known him forever, because she was certain she’d never met anyone like him before—a Canadian college dropout who worked at a marina, refueling boats. It was more like stepping into a house she’d never been to but that felt like home, like it’d been waiting for her.
She didn’t go back to the yacht that night. As the fire died down and the first signs of dawn streaked across the sky, Marigold used Hugo’s computer to email Jack and instructed him to leave her wallet at the marina when he refueled for the trip home. She didn’t bother asking for her luggage.
The next two weeks were the most magical of Marigold’s life. Her friends, family, manager, and booking agent all assumed she was off the grid at sea, so she didn’t have to worry about getting back to anyone. There were no Instagram comments to respond to in order to boost engagement. No parties where she’d be cornered by vague acquaintances asking for photos or favors, who’d inevitably slink off and call her a bitch behind her back when she kindly explained why she couldn’t get them an invite to the Met Gala or fast-track their application to Zero Bond. Hugo was the first person she’d met since Natalie who didn’t want anything from Marigold apart from her company.
Hugo took Marigold out in the small sailboat he’d refurbished, and they spent a blissful day island-hopping with a cooler full of beer and ham-and-cheese sandwiches. Most of the beaches weredeserted, allowing Marigold to play out theBlue Lagoonfantasies that’d been living rent-free in her head since she’d watched it at a middle school sleepover. But whenever they caught sight of other people, she and Hugo would quickly devise some ridiculous roles to act out. They spent nearly an hour pretending to be lost German tourists until Marigold dissolved into hysterical laughter and had to run back to the boat. Tears were still streaming down her cheeks as they sailed back into the harbor, recounting Hugo’s feigned confusion at being informed they were on Wagmatcook Island. His eyes had widened as he said in a terrible German accent, “Wagmatcook? That has not been legal in Germany since the war!”
“I think this was the best day of my life,” Marigold said as they climbed into the dinghy to row back to the dock.
“It’s not over yet,” Hugo said with a smile.
“Good. I wish I could do this with you forever. I never want to go back to real life.” She hadn’t told Hugo much about her life in New York, but he knew she wasn’t happy in the “media relations” job she’d alluded to.
“So don’t,” Hugo said. “Stay here with me.” He reached into a tackle box, twisted a piece of fishing wire into a ring, and knelt down. “Marry me, Marigold.”
She couldn’t remember if she’d said yes aloud or if she’d just kissed him. They’d gone straight from the harbor to the small courthouse in town and spent the rest of the night celebrating, first at the local bar with all of Hugo’s friends, then on the beach, where they downed two bottles of champagne before stripping down and having sex on the shore as the tide rolled in.
It was the happiest Marigold had ever felt.
But the next day, she woke up with a skull-shattering headache, a terrible sunburn, a rash from rolling around in thesand, and a stomach full of bile and regret. This was insane, even for her. It turned out that everyone who’d ever called her flighty, careless, and irresponsible had been right. She’d married a man she’d known fortwo weeks! A man who’d spent his whole life in a small Canadian fishing village and said he’d never move to New York. Marigold winced as she imagined the look on Olivia’s face when she told her family the news—the mix of disappointment and resignation, as if she’d always expected something like this to happen. No, she couldn’t go through with this; it’d just confirm everyone’s worst fears about her. It was time to be an adult for once, to do the right thing, no matter how much it hurt.
After throwing up in the bathroom, she staggered into the living room and scribbled out a shaky note; her head was spinning so badly, it was hard to write. She told Hugo that he was a wonderful man but that this was a fantasy, not real life, and that he had to forget all about her.P.S., she’d written,Tell your mom I’m sorry and that I hope she doesn’t hate me.
Then she’d kissed the sleeping Hugo on the cheek, scratched Humphrey behind the ears, and tiptoed out of the house.
Six weeks later, after Hugo’s confused, worried messages to her eventually tapered off, Natalie had asked Marigold if she wanted to meet up for drinks with a friend of hers—a “really hot doctor.” He hadn’t sounded like Marigold’s normal type, but maybe that was for the best. It was time to grow up and date a man in the real world, not in fantasyland.
And so she did her best to push Hugo from her thoughts and agreed to go meet Jonathan.
Marigold stepped out of the taxi outside Hugo’s house—the one Bruce had confirmed he still lived in, according to tax records. It’d taken a private jet, a boat, and a car for her to get here. The gray shingled house looked exactly as Marigold remembered—the same gravel path lined with white seashells, the same weathered blue door, the same battered pickup truck in the drive. No wait,somethingwas different. Marigold took a step back and surveyed the house. Those window boxes hadn’t been there before; she would’ve remembered the cheerful pansies and zinnias, especially since Hugo had told her that he’d never been able to keep plants alive. Maybe he had a girlfriend? Marigold paused on the path; she hadn’t considered that possibility. It wasn’t fair to spring this on some innocent girl who might not have any idea that her boyfriend was technically married to a woman he’d spent two crazy weeks with four years ago and hadn’t seen since. But what other option did she have? She needed those papers—today. She had just a few hours to clean up the mess she’d created.
She’d tried calling Hugo’s old number on the way here, but he didn’t answer. She DMed him on Instagram, but he never read the message.
Only Hugo’s truck was in the driveway, so there was a good chance he was home alone. Though if Hugodidhave a girlfriend, she was probably some free-spirited, earthy type who rode a vintage bike to her job at the vegan bakery. Whatever. If the phantom girlfriend was home, Hugo could explain everything to her after Marigold left, signed divorce papers in hand. Steeling herself, she marched up the front steps and rapped on the door. A dog barked, and a second later, she heard the sound of nails scratching. When no footsteps followed, she knocked again, louder this time.
“Coming!” a familiar voice called, and Marigold felt her stomach lurch.
The door opened, and then there he was, exactly as she remembered. Tall and leanly muscular, dirty-blond hair pulled back into a wavy man bun that emphasized his sharp jaw.
“Holy shit,” he said, eyes widening. She’d forgotten how intensely green they were, how people always asked if he was wearing colored contacts. “It’s you.”
Hugo stared at her agape, like Scooby-Doo facing a ghost. It would’ve been comical if Marigold hadn’t just left her wedding festivities, chartered a private plane, and flown to Canada to fix the worst mess of her life.
“It’s me,” she said.
CHAPTER EIGHTNatalie
Natalie tried to clear her head as she headed up the inn’s stairs toward Jonathan’s room, but the anxiety that’d been building throughout the day had begun to reach a fever pitch. Marigold didn’t have a wedding license and was flying to New York for her birth certificate. Olivia had gone AWOL, and the other bridesmaids were asking a million questions Natalie couldn’t answer. And on top of that, she’d completely blown her chances with Susan Denver. She’d probably see her again before the end of the wedding festivities, but Natalie couldn’t see a way to bring up her book—Remember when you said you’ve always wanted this kind of novel? Well, I have it!—without sounding unhinged.
She nodded vaguely at a blond woman coming down the stairs in jeans and a fleece. “Natalie!” The woman reached out for a hug.
“Hannah, hi!” Natalie said. “Sorry, I was in my own world.”
“I get it. Westleigh is also a dreamer. Maybe she’ll be writerlike you!” Westleigh was Hannah’s five-year-old daughter and, in Natalie’s recollection, screamed bloody murder if forced to part with her ever-present iPad. “We were supposed to stay with my folks, but my momrefusesto buy new kitchenware, and I can’t be around all those microplastics in my… present condition.”
“Of course.” So her “new addition”wasa baby and not a home renovation. “Congrats!”
Hannah beamed. “Thank you. I hope our news doesn’t distract too much from Marigold’s big day. This weekend is all about her, of course! I haven’t seen Marigold yet. Is she saying here or at the cottage?”
