CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

Ihelped at the bar through the first crush and then excused myself to tend to everything else. When I peeked into the Clambake's small kitchen, Livvie turned from a steaming pot of clam chowder to give me a quick thumbs-up. Sonny similarly waved me away from the Clambake fire. He had everything under control. I answered several questions from the waitstaff. All was fine, so I went to wander among the crowd.

It was easy to tell Zoey's artist friends from Jamie's large, extended family. Originally from Maine, Jamie's parents and siblings now lived in far-flung locations from Florida to Oregon. They'd flown in especially for the wedding and were excited to see one another and to greet the cousins, aunts, and uncles who still lived in town. They clustered in groups, holding drinks and chatting happily. I listened in as I walked through the crowd.

"Just graduated from . . ."

"Engaged to . . ."

"Opened a hair salon in . . ."

"Retired from . . ."

Like most American families, they were spread across income, education, religious, and political divides and embraced an ever-more-diverse gene pool.

I was relieved to see that the groomsman nephew had shown up on the boat. He'd be spending the night at Windsholme, so now that we had a hold of him, we wouldn't let him go. Given the age spread in Jamie's family, he and his nephew, who was named Dan Dawes, were the same age. Dan had grown up in California, but he'd spent his summers with his grandparents, Jamie's parents, in Maine. He and Jamie had been much more like cousins than uncle and nephew, and I remembered Dan coming out to the Clambake as a teenager. I went to greet him, sticking out my hand.

"Dan, I'm Julia Snowden. I don't know if you remember—"

"Julia! Of course"—he brought me in for a bear hug—"I remember you. And this magical place." He held his arms out straight and turned from side to side, a gesture taking in the whole of Morrow Island. "I have the happiest memories."

He looked remarkably like Jamie. Same height, tannable skin, dark brows, and dark lashes, except that Jamie was blond, and Dan's hair, equally thick, was a dark chestnut brown, slightly long and expensively cut. He was wearing well-designed plaid shorts, a cotton shirt that looked like it had been tailor-made for him, and an oatmeal-colored sweater around his shoulders. Though he was a good-looking man, I realized it was Jamie's unusual combination of coloring that made him so striking.

I smiled back. I loved it when people appreciated Morrow Island.

"I hear you're back in town, running the Clambake," Dan said.

"And working for Zoey, your soon-to-be aunt."

"Aunt." He laughed and looked over at Zoey, still surrounded by friends.

"What are you doing now?" I asked.

Dan had founded a company that did something related to how animation was generated for movies and games. I'd left my venture-capital job in New York eight years earlier, but I could barely comprehend the torrent of computer acronyms and animation terms that made up Dan's description of his company. He'd sold the business a few years earlier, which brought us to the part of the story I did understand from my previous work. Dan Dawes was rich. Not regular rich. Really rich.

I'd met so many of these rich achievers during my venture-capital days. Any family might have one, the one who didn't just make good, but made it big. I wondered idly who that would be in our family. My money was on my niece, Page.

Dan was investing in new companies now. We talked for a few minutes, trading war stories from my New York days, and then I excused myself to check on how things were going.

Carol Trevett's two assistants were passing hors d'oeuvres, something we didn't offer at the regular clambakes. Usually while guests waited for their meals, they hiked around the island, played volleyball or bocce, or watched Sonny and his crew cook over the wood fire. Jamie and Zoey had guessed that their friends and family, long separated, would want time to chat, so the cocktail party and passed hors d'oeuvres were the solution.

We didn't want people to fill up because the clambake was a big meal. Jamie and Zoey had picked shrimp cocktail, bacon-wrapped scallops, and stuffed mushrooms. The big splurge was lobster-caviar canapés, small puff pastries filled with layers of mushrooms duxelles, lobster meat warmed in butter, crème fra?che, caviar, and chopped chives.

As Cassie Howard, the shorter, rounder server, passed by, I popped one in my mouth and savored it. It was earthy from the mushrooms, briny from the lobster, and rich from the caviar and crème fra?che.

"Fantastic!" I called to Cassie as she kept moving through the crowd. She managed a thumbs-up despite the stack of napkins she carried in her left hand.

Like Jamie's family, Zoey's guests had come from all over the country. Driven to achieve both artistic and commercial success, Zoey had moved from California, where she'd grown up and gone to school, to Michigan, then Texas, then Colorado, where she'd worked with Bill Lascelle, and on to New York City, where she'd started Lupine Design. Finally, she had moved herself and her company to Busman's Harbor, Maine, based on an article she'd read on a tourist website. Her crowd was colorful and loud, and predictably more varied and bohemian than Jamie's family. In addition to Constance and Bill, Zoey had invited former bosses, mentors, fellow art students, colleagues, and collaborators. Many of them knew each other through a web of associations and were happy to be together for the first time in a long time. Their conversations were different from Jamie's family's, but just as excited.

"Won an award for . . ."

"Was shown at a gallery in . . ."

"I'm teaching at . . ."

"So fantastic, I couldn't believe . . ."

Zoey was in a corner on Windsholme's front porch, friends all around her. I approached the group, and she introduced me. "Suki, Stella, Jojo, Montana, Derek, and—"

"Amelia," Derek supplied. He was standing next to Zoey, his arm around her, no daylight between them.

I knew who Derek was. I'd been surprised when Zoey told me she'd invited an ex. "I've told you, I've almost always had amicable breakups, usually because I was moving for work, no harm done." She paused. "This particular ex, Derek Quinn, was my college boyfriend. I owe him a lot, and he's remained a friend."

"Hmm, okay," I'd responded. "Does Jamie know about this invitation?"

"Of course," Zoey had said. "Besides, Derek's bringing a plus-one."

I'd wondered how Jamie felt about this. But he was a lot more sophisticated and tolerant than the small-town cop he appeared to be.

Seeing Derek Quinn, the ex, in the flesh was something else. The proprietary nature of his hover next to Zoey made me uncomfortable. Amelia must be the plus-one. When I looked at her, I had to clamp my mouth shut to keep it from dropping open. Amelia looked uncannily like Zoey. Same long, curly brown hair. Same curvy body, though Amelia was a couple of inches shorter. And about fifteen years younger. She wasn't as pretty as my friend, but she had the same big features.

Derek Quinn sure has a type, I thought, looking at the two women. Surely other people were noticing.

It didn't take a mind reader to see how Amelia was feeling. Her brows were pulled down in a suspicious squint.

Jamie and Zoey had been aware that their camps would clump together if left to their own devices. For tomorrow, for the wedding meal, they'd taken care of that with place cards, mingling the groups together. But, for tonight, the first night, people would be eager to catch up. The bride and groom had agreed people should sit with whomever they pleased.

I could place almost every person I saw into one of the groups—Dawes family, artist, local—though there were a few wild cards. One I particularly noticed was an older man, slightly overdressed in a blue blazer. He was good-looking, with regular features, a full head of white hair, and a dapper mustache. He moved smoothly through the crowd, talking to Zoey's friends, Jamie's family, and the locals. I could see he had a kind of easy charm. I wondered who he was and groped for a name on the seating chart for the next day, a man unattached to any other person or group, but couldn't remember anyone.

As I watched, Constance Marshall approached him and started a conversation. Did that mean he was one of Zoey's friends? As I walked around the party, I checked back on them several times. They talked for a few minutes, and then the tone changed. The man, facing me, responded to Constance with a look of confusion and then shook his head in denial. Constance had her back to me, her shoulders tight and high. She shook a finger at the man.

Constance stalked off, still visibly angry. The man moved on, too, almost running into Bill Lascelle. I thought perhaps Bill had approached the man, hoping to smooth over whatever had happened with Constance. But I was wrong. Neither looked at or gestured toward Constance. The men stood side by side, looking toward me as they talked, apparently amiably, for several minutes. Then, once again, the atmosphere turned frosty. Bill crossed his arms over his chest and talked in staccato bursts out of the side of his mouth. Jordan hovered in the background with a drink on a tray, uncertain whether to interrupt the men to deliver it. The man in the blazer shook his head vehemently, pointing into the crowd.

The two men moved apart abruptly. With a visible sigh of relief, Jordan gave the drink to Bill Lascelle.

I wondered if I had a problem on my hands. Was the man in the blazer a wedding crasher? Had he boarded the tour boat at the pier on a whim or with bad intent? We hadn't thought to have tickets or a checklist. It hadn't seemed necessary.

I worked my way into the tight circle around Zoey. "Is everything okay?" I inclined my head toward the man. He was once more moving through the crowd, chatting and laughing with one and all. The man saw me looking at him and started over, but the group closed around Zoey, and Amelia resolutely turned her back to him. I didn't think it was about him. It was about the group asserting their right to Zoey.

"Everything is wonderful." Zoey smiled her big, beautiful smile, genuinely happy. "Thank you so much."

I felt an arm come around my waist, and Tom's voice, calm and questioning, from behind. "Everything okay? It all seems great from out here."

"I'm slightly worried we may have a gate-crasher on our hands." I nodded toward the man in the blue blazer.

"Do you want me to take care of him?"

"No. Not yet. First I want to check with Jamie and Zoey to make sure he isn't invited."

"Okay. You let me know."

We walked together to ring the ship's bell that let people know it was time to find seats for the meal. There was some milling and more clumping, but soon everyone headed toward the picnic tables.

I glanced back up toward Windsholme. Mel, the tall caterer, and Cassie Howard were cleaning up tables and clearing away glasses. The man in the blue blazer was still up there, looking toward the picnic tables as if searching for a place to sit. Mel walked behind him, saying "Excuse me." That seemed to wake the man up, and he walked determinedly down the lawn, patting his hair in place.