CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE

We went out to the front porch just in time to see the Jacquie II pulling up at the dock. The rehearsal dinner guests—dressed casually, as instructed—streamed off in a cloud of chatter that seemed to become even louder as the boat's engines died.

The rest of the wedding party headed down to greet the new arrivals, but Zoey didn't move. I hung back with her, wondering if the real beginning of the wedding weekend was overwhelming for her. I knew Zoey well. She wasn't easily daunted. But she'd imagined this for so long. Could the reality match the dream? She stared at the people coming off the boat as if she'd never seen any of them before.

"You okay?" I asked.

"So okay." She turned to me and smiled, but she still didn't move.

"Constance is going to do a great job," I said, by way of making conversation. Focus on the little successes of the day, I thought. Remind her things are going well.

"I knew she would," Zoey responded. "I wanted her to be here so much. She was my art teacher in high school, the first person who ever saw something in me. She encouraged me to apply to art school for college. She was the only adult who was a constant in my life after my mother died."

"Does she have a partner or a family?" I was intrigued by the woman. She seemed to have an inner calm that I envied.

"I think her students are her family," Zoey said. "I'm not the only one who keeps in touch. She has this marvelous bungalow near Griffith Park. Sometimes she'd invite me after school. It was the only place I could completely relax." Zoey paused. "She retired this year. It must be a big change for her."

It had taken some time for Zoey to open up to me about her difficult childhood and her mother's murder. I knew from experience she didn't want my sympathy. She wanted me to hear her stories and accept them, as any friend talking to another. Parts of her life had been exceptionally sad, but it was also her life. The facts of her life.

Zoey still didn't move, though the boat was half-empty. The guests milled around near the dock, greeting the rest of the wedding party.

"Bill plays the guitar very well," I said, keeping up the conversation.

"I've listened to him so many times," Zoey said. "I worked at his studio in Denver for two years. In the evenings, he'd play, and we'd all sing. Bill taught me a lot about ceramics, but even more about the business."

I made a mental note to be sure to talk to Bill Lascelle. Now that I was the business manager of Lupine Design, I would've loved some words of wisdom from someone far more experienced than me.

"He took me under his wing," Zoey was saying, "I'll always be grateful. I want to achieve what he has."

"Then you will," I said. "But first you're getting married."

My last remark seemed to move Zoey off the dime. "Yes, I am," she said, flashing her killer smile. Then, suddenly, she was bounding down the lawn toward the dock, waving her arms and shouting, "Welcome!"

* * *

"Julia!" Vee Snugg, waving madly, was one of the last off the boat. She clutched me to her formidable bosom. Vee and her sister, Fee, lived in their B and B, the Snuggles Inn, across the street from my mother's house in Busman's Harbor. The sisters were friends of my mother and late father, and honorary great-aunts to Livvie and me. When Zoey came along, they took her naturally into their big hearts. They had been the hosts of Zoey's bridal shower and were the only people to whom we hadn't needed to give the instruction "very traditional" with regard to Zoey's wishes. They wouldn't have known how to do things any other way.

Vee was one of the few who hadn't heeded the directions to dress casually. Or perhaps she had dressed casually, for her. Her pure-white hair was, as always, wrestled into a chignon that hadn't moved despite the breeze on the boat ride over. She was dressed in a well-cut maroon skirt and a well-cut pink blouse, and had a white, cotton cardigan over her arm. Hearty Mainer though she was, she'd be glad of that later. She was fully made up, her lips a lively red, and she completed her ensemble with her omnipresent nylon stockings and high heels.

Her sister followed her off the boat. Fee, bent with arthritis, was also in a skirt, but a denim one. Less effusive than her sister, she put a hand on my arm. I put my hand over hers and squeezed.

Next off the boat were my former landlord, Gus, and his wife, Mrs. Gus. Gus still regarded Zoey with some suspicion as a newcomer though she'd eaten breakfast in his restaurant several times a week since I'd first taken her there a year ago. The couple had known Jamie since he was born, and his parents were old friends.

"Lovely evening," Mrs. Gus said, glancing at the still blue sky.

"Let's hope it stays that way," Gus grumped, reminding me about the storm, one of my many worries about tonight's party, albeit one I couldn't do anything about.

I cast a hurried look up the terraced great lawn to the area where our picnic tables stood. The experienced staff were already busy, setting up their serving stations and putting on each picnic table the cutlery, including nutcrackers and picks for the lobsters, the rolls of paper towels that served as napkins, and pitchers of water and iced tea.

Craning my neck slightly, I could see into the dining pavilion, where our bartender was dispensing the stronger stuff. There was a crowd around the bar. I hoped he would be able to keep up.

My boyfriend, Tom, was the last passenger off the Jacquie II, after he'd helped any guests in need of assistance onto the gangway. I flew into his arms, so relieved to see him. He was an invited guest, but Maine State Police detectives often got called out on their days off. I was thankful that wasn't the case today.

"Whoa, Julia. Is everything okay?"

"Yes," I answered. "It's just that," I waved my arm around, encompassing the whole island, "it's Zoey's and Jamie's wedding. I want it to be perfect."

He opened his arms, and I stepped back. Still holding my hands, he searched my eyes. "Pre-wedding jitters? On the part of the maid of honor. Is that usual?"

"And the wedding planner, and the venue manager," I said. "And there's a storm coming, and new staff, and the first clambake of the year, first event inside Windsholme, and, and, and . . ."

He squeezed my hand. "Just breathe. It's going to be okay."

As we walked toward the clambake, I breathed in and then out, and unclenched my jaw. I leaned into Tom's chest, under his strong shoulder, where I fit perfectly. He was a handsome man, his body toned by hours in the gym. His features were regular and angular, the planes of his nose and cheeks sharp. His round, heavily lashed brown eyes softened his face. In them, I saw the boy who had become the man.

We'd been together for almost a year. We were headed toward the dining pavilion where we'd had our first kiss, finally admitting to an attraction that had been a long, slow burn. I had been with someone else; then he had been with someone else. He was brokenhearted; then I was. But there was nothing of the rebound in our relationship. He was a smart, steady man, who made me laugh and who supported me in everything I did. Even this. Crazy this.

"I have to check on the bar," I told him.

"I know." He took my hand again and then reluctantly let go as I walked away. He knew what it was to have to go to work, even when you didn't want to. "It will be fine," he called, his voice just loud enough for me to hear.