“She’s…” Natalie froze, suddenly unable to sort through the tangle of lies she’d been tasked with delivering. She fanned her face as if she were flushed. “Wow, it’s really warm here, isn’t it? I’ve probably sweated off all my makeup. I’d better go freshen up.”
Natalie hurried off into the large powder room, locked the door, and slumped against the wall, not even bothering to turn on the lights. She didn’t care about her makeup. Or her hair. Or how she looked in the four-hundred-dollar dress Lulu had paidfor. She had no idea how the rest of this weekend would play out, but one thing was certain—someone she cared about deeply would leave this island furious with Natalie.
Her phone buzzed, and Natalie fumbled for it frantically. But it wasn’t Marigold. Or the weirdly MIA Olivia.
It was Mrs. Friedlander.
natalie ive called you multiple times. monday is no good esme has dance class. can you talk to esme 2morrow? i know you have the wedding but it won’t take long thanks.
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Natalie muttered. She shoved her phone back into her purse and stomped out of the bathroom, suddenly desperate for a drink. She spotted a caterer holding a tray of champagne glasses, took one with a grateful smile, and went to find somewhere to drink it in peace. She ducked around the corner and slipped into one of the smaller rooms she’d heard referred to as the “office,” where members could work on their laptops or hold business meetings. All the lights were out, and Natalie breathed a sigh of relief before she realized that the room wasn’t actually empty. Jonathan stood in front of the large bay windows, staring out at the stormy sea. He seemed so lost in his own world that Natalie felt uneasy about disturbing his solitude. She started to back out of the room, but somehow sensing her presence, he glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, Bumps, it’s you.” Something had shifted since their exchange right before the rehearsal; he sounded suddenly weary and drained.
“It’s me.” She paused for a moment, then went over to join him at the window, which looked over the frothing gray-blue waves. “Quite the view.”
“We need to get you a yacht club membership. I bet you’d write incredible books in this room.”
“Thanks, but I’m not sure the room is the issue for me. A great writer should be able to work anywhere, right?”
He didn’t answer and slumped onto the cushioned window seat.
“Are you okay?” Natalie asked.
“I just get the sense that there’s something going on with Marigold. Apart from the flight delay. Is she freaking out about the wedding? Do you think she’s having second thoughts?”
“Absolutely not,” Natalie said firmly, glad that this part at least was true. Marigold was going to extraordinary lengths to keep the wedding on track. She wasn’t running away. “She loves you so much, you know that. And you love her.”
He fell silent and turned back to stare at the black, churning sea. “That’s not always enough, though, is it?” he said quietly. “A good marriage takes more than love. It requires trust, honesty, communication. Do you really think Marigold and I have that? Are we making the right decision?”
“Of course you are,” Natalie said with the same calm certainty she always employed when speaking to Jonathan or Marigold about their relationship, the tone she’d perfected to mask the pain and remorse she’d been carrying since that ill-fated night when she’d thrown Marigold into his arms.
Except that tonight, her words didn’t sound smooth and confident.
They sounded as fake and desperate as she was. Because for the first time in years, Natalie couldn’t silence the voice in her head telling her that Jonathan was making a mistake. Tonight, the voice didn’t sound like an extension of Natalie’s selfishness or delusions.
Tonight, it sounded like the truth.
CHAPTER FOURTEENOlivia
“Want me to drive?” Zack said as he eyed Olivia’s bandaged foot, which she’d shoved, painfully, into a strappy sandal. After ensuring that the Varicks were able to secure a room at the inn under the wedding rate, she’d rushed to her own room and showered and changed in record time, but they’d still missed the last chauffeured golf carts and would have to drive themselves to the yacht club. Thankfully, the storm had abated for the moment, although the forecast showed that it’d return with a vengeance later in the evening.
“Nope.” Olivia slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key, barely waiting for Zack to settle into the passenger seat before she slammed her foot down on the accelerator.
“Whoa!” Zack yelped. He grasped at the handle as Olivia made a sharp turn onto the bumpy dirt road that served as the island’s main thoroughfare, tires squelching through the mud. She’d been navigating these roads since she was a kid—standardpractice on Sandpiper Island, where parents were delighted to let their children serve as designated golf cart drivers. “Where’s the fire?”
“I already missed the rehearsal. I can’t be late to the actual dinner.” She could only pray that Marigold had materialized during Olivia’s absence, that the New York story had turned out to be true, regardless if Marigold was mistaken about needing her birth certificate. But when Olivia had finally charged her phone back in the room, there hadn’t been any new messages from her sister.
Olivia pressed all the way down on the gas until the cart reached its top speed of twenty miles per hour. The rain had slowed down, and after her hot shower, the cool, damp air felt more bracing than bone-chilling.
The cart’s headlights did little to illuminate the dark road, but Olivia knew the landscape better than the back of her hand, a part of her body she tried not to look at these days since it seemed resistant to her antiaging sunscreen. She turned into the yacht club’s drive with practiced ease, relishing the familiar spray of gravel followed by the satisfying crunch under her tires. “Nicely done,” Zack said as she parked to the side of the entrance. He hurried around to help her out, but she ignored his hand and limped up the front path on her own. “So… where do the yachts park?”
“A yacht is just a boat longer than thirty feet. None of the members have one of those superyachts you’re imagining. This is more of a sailboat crowd.”
“Ah yes, a mere thirty feet. How embarrassing for them. So what about the whiskey tasting your buddy mentioned last night? Didn’t he say that was on a yacht?”
Olivia snorted. “They’d never let Ed Growler join.”
“Why not? Is he Black? Jewish?Catholic?”
“What? No! They don’t have rules like that here.”
