My heart stuttered. “Are you pregnant?” I asked calmly. That would be fine. I would support the baby, of course. Pay for college. Make sure the kid stayed in school.
“No, I’m not pregnant. Listen to you! It’s just that you know the groom.”
“I do?”
“Yup! It’s a totally small world. Want to guess?”
“No. Just tell me who it is.”
“His first name starts with a C.”
Men whose names began with C in Manhattan? “I—I don’t know. I give up.”
“Christopher.” Willa’s voice was smug with affection.
“Christopher who?”
“Christopher Lowery!”
I jerked back in my chair, my pinot noir sloshing dangerously. “Lowery?” I choked out.
“I know! Isn’t that amazing? I’m marrying your ex-husband’s brother!”
CHAPTER TWO
WHEN I CLOSED MY PHONE a moment later, I saw that my hands were shaking. “Dennis?” I said. My voice sounded odd, and Father Bruce glanced over, frowning. I gave him a little smile—well, I tried. “Den?”
My boyfriend jerked to attention. “You okay, hon? You look…weird.”
“Dennis, something came up. Willa…um…can we just…table our conversation for a little while? A few weeks?”
A tidal wave of relief flooded his face. “Uh…sure! You bet! Is your sister okay?”
“Well, she’s…yeah. She’s getting married.”
“Cool.” He frowned. “Or not?”
“It’s…it’s uncool. I have to run, Dennis. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, that’s fine,” he said. “Want me to drive you home? Or stay over?”
“Not tonight, Dennis. Thanks, though.”
I must’ve sounded off, because Dennis’s eyebrows drew together. “You sure you’re okay, hon?” He reached across the table and took my hand, and I squeezed back gratefully. Once you cut through Dennis’s thick outer layers, there really was a sweet man inside.
“I’m fine. Thanks. Just…well, the wedding’s in a couple weeks. A bit of a shock.”
“Definitely.” He smiled and kissed my hand. “I’ll call you later.”
I drove home, not really seeing the streets or cars, though presumably I avoided hitting any pedestrians and trees en route. Since the tourism season was still in full swing, I took the back roads, driving west toward the almost violent sunset, great swashes of purple and red, taking comfort from the endless rock walls of the Vineyard, the pine trees and oaks, the gray-shingled houses. The time I’d spent away from here—college, a brief stint in New York and then law school in Boston—had secured my belief that the island was the most beautiful place on earth.
Martha’s Vineyard consists of eight towns. I worked in Edgartown, land of white sea captains’ homes and impeccable gardens and, of course, the beautiful brick courthouse. Dennis lived in charming Oak Bluffs, famed for the Victorian gingerbread houses that made up the old Methodist enclave called the Campground. But I lived in a tiny area of Chilmark called Menemsha.
I waited patiently for a slew of tourists, who came down here to admire the scenic working class, to cross in front of me, then pulled into the crushed-shell driveway of my home. It was a small, unremarkable house, not much to look at from the outside but rather perfect inside. And the view…the view was priceless. If Martha’s Vineyard had a blue-collar neighborhood, it was here, at Menemsha’s Dutcher’s Dock, where lobstermen still brought in their catches, where swordfishing boats still ran. My father’s father had been such a fisherman, and it was in his old house, set on a hill overlooking the aging fleet, where I now lived.
Through the living room window, I could see Coco’s brown-and-white head appearing then disappearing as she jumped up and down to ascertain that yes, I really had come home. In her mouth was her favorite cuddle friend, a stuffed bunny rabbit that was slightly bigger than she was. A Jack Russell-Chihuahua mix, Coco was somewhat schizophrenic, alternating as it served her purposes between the two sides of her parentage—exuberant, affectionate Jack or timid, vulnerable Chihuahua. At the moment, she was in her happy place, though when it came time for bed, she’d revert to a wee, trembling beastie who clearly needed to sleep with her head on my pillow.
I unlocked the door and went in. “Hi, Coco,” I said. With a single bound, she leaped into my arms, all eight pounds of her, and licked my chin. “Hello, baby! How’s my girl? Hmm? Did you have a good day? Finish that novel you’re writing? You did! Oh, you’re so clever.” Then I kissed her little brown-and-white triangle head and held her close for a minute or two.
When Pops had been alive, this house had been a standard, somewhat crowded and typical ranch. Three small bedrooms, one and a half baths, living room, kitchen. He died when I was in law school and left the house to me, his only grandchild (biological, that was…he’d liked Willa, but I was his special girl). No matter how much I made as a divorce attorney, I would never have been able to afford this view on my own. But thanks to Pops, it was mine. I could’ve sold it for several million dollars to a real estate developer, who would’ve torn it down and slapped up a vacation house faster than you could say McMansion. But I didn’t. Instead, I paid my father, who was a general contractor, to renovate the place.
So we knocked down a few walls, relocated the kitchen, turned three bedrooms into two, installed sliding glass doors wherever possible, and the end result was a tiny, airy jewel of a home, founded on the hard work of my salty, seafaring grandfather, renovated by my father’s hands and funded by my lawyer’s salary. Someday, I imagined, I’d put on a second story to house my well-behaved and attractive future children, but for now, it was just Coco and me, with Dennis as our frequent guest. Sand-colored walls, white trim, spare white furniture, the occasional splash of color—a green oar from a barn sale in Tisbury leaning tastefully in one corner, a soft blue chair in front of the bay window. Over the sliders that led to the deck hung an orange lifesaving ring, the chipped letters naming Pops’s boat and port of origin—Pegasus, Chilmark.
With a sigh, I turned my attention back to my sister’s bombshell.
I’m marrying your ex-husband’s brother!
Holy testicle Tuesday.
Time for some vinotherapy. Setting Coco back down, I went to the fridge, uncorked a bottle and poured a healthy portion, oh yes. Chugged half of it, grabbed a bag of Cape Cod sea salt and vinegar potato chips and the bottle of wine and headed for my deck, Coco trotting next to me on her tiny and adorable feet.
So my sister was marrying Christopher Lowery, a man I’d last seen on my own wedding day thirteen years ago. How old was he then? Sixteen? Eighteen?
I took a sip of wine, not a gulp, and forced myself to take a deep breath of the salty, moist air, savoring the tang of baitfish (hey, I was a local). I listened to the sound of the endless island wind, which buffeted my house from two directions this night, bringing me strands of music and laughter from other places, other homes. Calm down, Harper, I told myself sternly. Nothing to panic about. Not yet, anyway.
“I’m getting a glass,” a voice said. Kim, my neighbor and closest friend. “Then I want to hear everything.”
“Sure,” I answered. “Who’s with the kids?”
“Their idiot father,” she answered.
As if summoned, Lou’s voice shattered the relative quiet as he yelled across the small side yard that separated our homes. “Honey? Where’s the box of Pull-Ups?”
“Find