PROLOGUE
SYLVIE
On the night before her wedding, Sylvie Peacock could not sleep. She walked toward her window, where she could see the outline of Mumberton Castle. Moonlit treetops were a silvery ocean. The dawn songs of goldcrest and thrush would begin soon, but in the deep of the night: only silence. What was she doing in Northern England on the grounds of a crumbling castle? How had the last glowing embers of hope led her here, of all places, preparing to marry again?
Despite the castle’s grandeur, Sylvie missed the Coconut Grove Elementary School library where she worked, missed the thrum of a second-grade class choosing their weekly books, missed the smells of peanut butter and paper. Another chance at love had been intoxicating, but now Sylvie just wanted to go home to her rescue greyhound, Willie, and her bungalow on Hibiscus Street.
Sylvie moved toward an ornate armoire and touched her wedding dress, which she had picked out with the help of her best friend, Florence. They had spent a humid morning in bridal boutiques—Grace Loves Lace, Ever After Miami—before ordering Cuban sandwiches and strong coffee at their favorite café andfinding the perfect dress on eBay: a long, swishy affair with a big bow in the back, abustle,and pockets. Sylvie liked to tuck a tiny notebook and pencil in her pocket in case someone recommended a book she’d want to read later.
When she’d married for the first time, she was so young: twenty-five! Sylvie’s dress had been short and breezy, nothing more than a white sundress, really. She’d worn gold sandals, held a bouquet of wildflowers—swamp mallow, coral honeysuckle, Carolina jessamine. Alexander had called her his mountain girl even as they married in a bayside ceremony.
Alexander had been dead for ten years, yet Sylvie was still surprised every morning not to find him in the music room where he’d been choir director. Under his tutelage, the kids had sung David Bowie and the Beatles.
The new choir director taught the kids a Taylor Swift medley and Katy Perry’s “Firework.” When Sylvie heard music down the hall, she would stop whatever she was doing (securing book flaps with library tape, ordering more spine stickers) and let the sweet voices wash over her. She would reflect, in answer to the Katy Perry lyrics:Yes. Sometimes I do feel like a plastic bag drifting through the wind. Wanting to start again.
Sylvie’s gown was smooth against her fingertips. She thought about her sisters, Emma and Cleo, both now in England for her wedding. They had been strangers for so long. And yet, who else could understand the riot of uncertainty inside Sylvie: the shards of loneliness; a longing for her father’s cigar-and-soap smell; her terror of love’s entrapment?
When they were children, the Peacock sisters would climb the rocks behind their house to escape their mother. Sylvie was the smallest but insisted she did not need help summiting Skull Rock. She would glance back periodically, to make sure her sisters were protecting her from anything, from everything.
At the top, the three girls made a nest of tangled limbs. Sylviesat in Emma’s warm lap as Emma played with Sylvie’s crimson hair. Cleo’s head rested on Sylvie’s shoulder. It seemed they were the only people in the world—they had each other, and joy, an endless Montana summer. The sisters pointed out stars and told stories about how they would fall in love and marry in the Bitterroot Mountains.
Sylvie had once believed her sisters would always be beside her, watching out for her. She’d counted on their protection. She could still close her eyes and remember feeling safe, sandwiched between them. Now, she knew that her sisters—and Simon—were liars.
In her pajamas, Sylvie sat down at a small desk Simon had placed in the corner of the room for her. She reached into theNew Yorkertote bag she used as a purse, rummaged until she found a Bic ballpoint.
Sylvie ripped a clean page from a tiny notebook. She wrote:
I’m sorry, Simon.
I’m going home.
It’s over.
TWO MONTHS EARLIER…
PART ONE
A LIBRARIAN IN LOVE
1
Sylvie
Sylvie was in love.
She knew that everyone would think—her mother and sisters would surely think—that she was marrying Simon for his money. And, OK, Sylvie knew she wouldnot mindbeing rich. And who didn’t dream of a wedding in a fairy-tale castle?
Sylvie’s sisters never answered when she called, no matter the time of day. Sometimes she would text,Hey, anyone free to chat this weekend?Mostly they would not reply. At all! It was hard to convince herself they were just distracted. It seemed as if something was very wrong between the three of them. Sylvie worried there was a secret her two older sisters were keeping from her. What could it possibly be?
Sylvie dialed Emma’s landline. Emma, the only one of the three Peacock sisters who had stayed in their childhood town in Montana, had a wall phone with a rotary dial, a curly cord, and a satisfyingly heavy earpiece. Sylvie decided the news of her whirlwind engagement should come through the wall phone. She bit her lip as it began to ring. One, two, three, four…after ring number five, Sylvie gave up.
Next was Cleo, who lived in Brooklyn. Cleo was always too busy to talk and prefaced even her callstoSylvie with “I don’t have time to talk but…” Cleo never answered and didn’t answer now. When her assertive, somewhat bossy message came on—Leave a message for Cleo Peacock after the tone—Sylvie cut the line.
Should she call her mother, Donna? Sylvie paused. Whenever she called Donna, Sylvie hung up the phone miserable. Her mother had named her after Sylvia Plath. No, she would not call her mother just yet.
Sylvie decided to send a text. “I deserve this,” she told herself as she composed a note with her thumbs on her tiny iPhone keypad. Her heart hammered in her chest.
What about Alexander?said the voice in her mind.
