“Please call me Dorian, Lizzy. I’ve known your great-aunt for ages, and you since you were five years old. We’re family.”
Aunt Amelia smiled, and Liz said, “Of course, Dorian.” It had been eleven years since Liz had last seen Dorian Starwood. Ten of those years away she’d been living in Manhattan attending Columbia University, then pursuing her writing career. But when Liz was younger, she and her great-aunt would trek to Dorian’s home in Palm Beach for readings, sometimes staying the night at her palatial mansion. Also, Dorian was no stranger to staying at the Indialantic, even once bringing her children, Branson and Phoebe.
“Yes, having Phoebe read the tarot at her brother’s restaurant was my idea.” Her smile quickly turned to a frown. “Phoebe’s recently come back from France and seems a little lost since her father died. Cedric was my first husband. She’s not a psychic per se, but she does know how to read the cards. I just wish she and her brother got on better. I know things will turn out all right for the pair in time. That’s one vision that’s very clear to me.” She turned toward Liz. “Lizzy, I did try to testify on your behalf when Amelia told me about your defamation of character lawsuit last year. I had the jet waiting on the tarmac. Your lawyer wouldn’t take my offer seriously, even after I showed him proof I’d helped the Palm Beach PD locate a couple of lost children and find a buried body or two. That reminds me. I brought a first edition of your novel, Let the Wind Roar, for you to autograph. I can’t wait until An American in Cornwall comes out. I told your auntie many solstices ago, you’d be a prolific writer. Didn’t I, Amelia?”
“Yes, you did, Dorian. I even wrote it in my journal.”
“I appreciate your effort,” Liz said. “It turned out okay in the end.” She hadn’t needed a celebrity psychic to help her; all she’d needed was the truth and her father by her side. He hadn’t been her attorney because his license only encompassed Florida, not New York, but she couldn’t have done it without him. Liz traced the scar on her right cheek. It was caused by a shard of broken glass from a bottle of scotch she’d fallen on after being shoved to the floor by her ex-boyfriend; a Pulitzer-prize-winning author who had a terrible drinking problem. He’d sued Liz in a defamation of character lawsuit because Liz had called 911, which in his mind alerted the media and supposedly ruined his good name. She’d won the case. After her stay in the hospital, Liz sold her Soho loft, packed up, and moved home to the bosom of her eclectic family at the Indialantic by the Sea Hotel and Emporium.
“You’re correct, Lizzy. It’s all behind us,” Aunt Amelia said, blowing her great-niece a kiss. “Back to the rehearsal dinner. Remember, Dorian, if you need anything from our hotel chef or Pops at our emporium shop Deli-casies by the Sea, we’re more than ready to help. Even Liz, who, as you know, was classically trained by Chef Pierre.” She turned to Liz. “You wouldn’t mind assisting, would you, dear?”
Between the upcoming Mystical Merfest and reviewing the galley proofs she’d just received for her second novel; this weekend was going to be a busy one. The Mystical Merfest was Melbourne Beach’s celebration honoring Meribel the mermaid. Folklore said Meribel saved dozens of Spanish sailors by dragging them to shore after a hurricane destroyed their treasure-laden fleet. The 1715 shipwrecks were historical fact, as evidenced by the gold and silver still washing ashore today. Even if the story of Meribel was pure fantasy, everyone enjoyed dressing up once a year as mermaids, mermen, and pirates, tasting local island food, and visiting the town’s quaint seaside shops.
“Sure, my pleasure. I’m here if you need me, Dorian,” Liz answered her great-aunt with forced cheer. “No pro-blem-o.”
Dorian gave Liz one of her penetrating stares. Oops. Liz forgot she was sitting with a psychic.
“Your second book will have as many accolades as your first, my dear.” Dorian announced, then she waved her left hand in the air theatrically. On her ring finger was a huge peach-colored semitransparent stone. “No, it’s not a raw diamond or gem.” Dorian said to their questioning gazes. “Julian thought the best engagement stone for me would be a Himalayan salt rock. Wards off bad omens. Diamonds, I have plenty. The healing properties of salt are well proven.” She turned to Aunt Amelia. “Don’t you think it was such a kind and loving gesture?”
“Indeed,” was all that Aunt Amelia could come up with, then looked away, stifling a grin.
Liz didn’t need to be psychic to observe Dorian seemed to be talking herself into the merits of having a salty engagement ring. And why was she warding off anything? She wondered what would happen if Dorian got caught in the rain. Would it wash away? Would a deer come over to lick it?
With downcast eyes, Dorian mumbled, “As my fiancé has requested, it will be a small dinner and wedding. I’m sorry you can’t bring Ziggy, Amelia. Julian tends to be overprotective. Especially after… You know if it was just us girls planning this wedding, it would be a no holds barred, bigger-than-life affair. Instead of using your hotel’s sightseeing and ecotour boat we’d hire an entire Norwegian cruise liner for the rehearsal dinner.”
“Totally understood, Dorian. And indeed, we would.” Aunt Amelia’s emerald eyes lit up with the possibilities. “Isn’t it tradition to have the bride plan the wedding of her dreams?” Aunt Amelia fed a piece of kiwi to Barnacle Bob. A bribe to keep his beak shut.
Liz noticed that her great-aunt had missed the words, ‘especially after…’ that Dorian had just said then immediately segued into something else.
“It’s not that. This isn’t my first wedding, but it is Julian’s.” Her statement hung in the air for a few minutes.
“Even more of a reason to have a big wedding,” Aunt Amelia said.
After hearing Dorian say she would like a larger-than-life party, it seemed it was Julian, the groom to be, who wanted to keep things on the down-low. Liz couldn’t wait to meet him. “Even if it’s small, rest assured, Auntie will make it wonderful.”
Doubt clouded Dorian’s eyes. “Maybe it’s because of Julian’s and my age difference? What if he’s embarrassed to be twenty-five years younger than me?”
White warlock Julian Rhodes was only forty-five? Liz put her napkin to her mouth to hide her surprise. It seemed a little late for Dorian to be asking that question two days before her nuptials.
“Dorian, how long have you known Julian?” Liz asked, feeling protective of her great-aunt’s friend.
“We’ve known each other for six months. Enough time to know our union was written in the stars. Plus, my son Branson is the one who introduced us. So that’s enough for me. I know I’m being immature wishing we could have a larger celebration. It’s just I never had a big wedding for my first marriage,” Dorian explained. “My first was a quickie Paris affair. Orchestrated at the last minute because I had a brioche in the oven—my Branson.” She laughed, and Liz and Aunt Amelia joined in out of politeness. “Plus, Julian wants to keep it as small as possible. Especially after what’s been happening lately…” She clamped her hand over her mouth as if she’d said too much.
“What’s been happening, dear?” Aunt Amelia asked.
“Oh, it’s nothing. He tends to be overprotective.”
“You’re not in danger, are you?” Aunt Amelia’s emerald eyes looked fierce. “You don’t have to worry about anyone here or at the emporium. We’re all like family.”
Dorian relaxed her small shoulders and Aunt Amelia didn’t question her further, just poured more of her Island Bliss tea into Dorian’s cup.
The Starwood-Rhodes wedding was small. Small meant less work for everyone, but Liz had a prickly feeling at the back of her neck that things might not turn out as planned. Anonymity, per Aunt Amelia, had been the couple’s top priority when choosing the Indialantic