CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

Every eye in the room was on Zoey as she walked down Windsholme's grand staircase in time to the guitar music playing softly below. She wore a goofy grin, no doubt in part because she was carrying a paper plate covered with the bows from the gifts she'd received at her very traditional bridal shower. Livvie, clearly more aware of her duties as an attendant than I, had made Zoey a veil from a particularly gaudy shower curtain.

After reviewing the order of the ceremony and bossing everyone into place in my role as wedding planner, I had stepped to the front of the room and stood, waiting, in my role as the maid of honor.

From the bottom of the stairs, Jamie watched his intended with open-mouthed joy.

I glanced across at my mom. Her delicate brows were pulled together in consternation. "I would have walked her down," Mom mouthed at me, evidently not happy with the idea of Zoey walking alone.

"It's what she wants," I mouthed back. This was one piece of tradition Zoey had let go. She would walk down the stairs alone. No one would "give her away." She would look dramatic and spectacular in her real gown, not the short, pale pink dress she currently wore, which showed off her sturdy but shapely legs. Zoey was alone, without a mother or father. She was her own self, to do with as she pleased.

At the bottom of the staircase, Jamie took Zoey's arm and led her to the front of the room, where the officiant awaited, along with the assembled wedding party: me, Livvie, and Pete Howland, the best man and Jamie's partner on the Busman's Harbor police force. The other groomsman, Jamie's nephew, was absent. He hadn't shown up in time to catch the Whaler, though Sonny had waited as long as he could. By text, the errant groomsman had been told to come out on the tour boat with the rest of the guests.

The bride and groom arrived at the designated spot and turned to each other. The guitarist strummed to a stop. He was Bill Lascelle, a former mentor of Zoey's. She'd worked in his ceramics studio. He looked to be in his early fifties and had white hairs blooming in the black curls at his temples. He played the guitar beautifully.

Everyone looked at the officiant expectantly. Her hair was long and gray, pulled back in a simple, low ponytail. She wore a purple-gray dress that hung loosely from her small body "Call me Constance," she had said when we'd been introduced earlier, taking both my hands in hers.

"Dearly beloved," she began. "We are gathered here . . ."

I stole a glance at the other two people in the room, Jamie's parents. Jamie had come along very late in their lives, ten years after his nearest sibling. "The exclamation point at the end of the sentence," his mother said.

"Yes." Jamie's dad always agreed. "The sentence was ‘Surprise!' "

They were more than twenty years older than my mother, and I was a little nervous about how they'd react to Constance Marshall, who clearly hadn't been ordained by any authority greater than the World Wide Web. But, as Jamie had assured me, his parents had been to enough weddings of nieces, nephews, grandchildren, children of their friends, and friends of their children not to be surprised by anything. Both of them beamed at their youngest child, who stood straight, trying not to act flustered. When Mr. Dawes caught me looking at him, he mouthed, "I would have walked her down."

I smiled and shook my head, and he smiled back.

By prior arrangement, the bride and groom didn't read their vows, wanting them to be a surprise for all of us. Constance Marshall called for the rings, and Pete pantomimed not finding them, patting each of his pockets at an increasingly furious pace. Everyone laughed, and the tension went out of the room.

Constance finished up quickly. "By the power granted to me by the State of Maine, I pronounce you husband and wife. What God has joined together, let no one tear asunder. You may kiss."

Blushing deeply, Jamie leaned forward and pecked Zoey on the mouth. I'd seen them make out with more vigor in my kitchen. The guitar started up again, and Jordan, the new waiter, appeared through the door from the dining room with a tray of filled champagne flutes. We each took one and toasted the happy couple. "To the bride and groom!" Mr. Dawes cried.

Livvie and I took one sip each and set down our glasses. We'd be working hard this evening. Zoey didn't touch her drink. I thought she must have been planning for a long night. "Now for the party!" she yelled.

* * *

Jordan and I cleaned the champagne flutes in the kitchen, which was momentarily quiet as the caterers readied the high-top tables for the cocktail party on the great lawn nearest Windsholme. Jordan hand-washed the delicate glasses as I dried.

"What brought you to Busman's Harbor?" I should have asked that during his job interview. The answer might have given me a sense of whether I could count on him to stay for the whole summer. Had Jordan moved to Busman's Harbor to live, or was he a backpacker who'd take off as soon as he had whatever he judged to be enough money?

"I moved here with my mom," he answered. He looked like he was going to say more, but he didn't.

"Your mom's here, too?" I'd imagined he was on his own.

"Yes. She, um . . ." He searched for the right word, or the courage to tell the truth, I wasn't sure which. "She finished up with her job at home, and I wasn't in school. She said we could go anywhere in the country, since we were both free. I didn't have any ideas. I never thought of leaving California. But Mom said she'd always wanted to live on the Maine coast, so we came."

Maine seemed like an odd place for him to land, given the number of two-year and four-year colleges and universities in California. "You didn't plan to go to college?"

He shook his head. "I was in college, but I left. I need to earn some money first."

A common-enough story. We continued washing and drying. "When did you arrive in Maine?"

"A month ago."

"Where are you living?" Finding housing during the run-up to tourist season in a resort town would have been challenging.

He named a campground a ways up the peninsula. It was clean and well-cared-for, but would have been cold and uncomfortable when Jordan and his mother had arrived in early May.

"You packed up and came cross-country," I said. "That was brave. Was it a grand adventure?"

Jordan smiled for the first time since I'd started the conversation. "Sometimes. We saw the Grand Canyon, ranches in Texas with real cowboys. We crossed the Mississippi at Memphis and toured Graceland."

Something in his tone made me ask, "And other times, it wasn't such a grand adventure?"

"It was a big move," he answered. "I've never lived anywhere but LA. I didn't know what we were in for. But Mom really wanted to come, so I did it. For her."