Wind Chime Wedding (A Wind Chime Novel Book 2) (10 page)

She knew every single person here. She knew each of their parents, their children, their spouses. She knew where they worked, what kinds of cars they drove, what they planted in their gardens each year. She knew who was struggling to make ends meet and whose lives hadn’t turned out quite the way they’d hoped.

But she also knew that every single person here loved this island as much as she did. They loved the sense of peace that came from living in a place surrounded on all sides by water. They loved spending their weekends out on the Bay with a fishing rod in their hands. They loved the slow pace of life in the village and the way the sky lit up with colors each night as the sun sank into the horizon.

Colin’s question from the night before floated back:
‘Are you marrying a guy who lives in D.C. because there aren’t enough single men to choose from on the island?’

Stepping over a crack where shoots of flowering thyme were breaking through the cement, she wrapped her arms tighter around the plastic container of deviled eggs she was carrying. She had been up until 3AM last night, unable to sleep, trying desperately to remember if there had ever been a time when Tom had made her feel the way Colin had when he’d touched her.

It was normal for the spark to wear off at some point in any relationship. She had been with Tom for fifteen years—since her sophomore year in high school. Of course she didn’t still feel fireworks when he touched her now.

But she must have felt something in the beginning.

She must have.

A knot formed in her throat and she forced it back. Or…maybe they had just skipped that step. What mattered was that they had something to hold onto
after
the spark died, right?

She and Tom had a history. A past.

When everything in her life had fallen apart, Tom had been there to pick up the pieces.

She would never forget that.

Even if they’d been moving in different directions lately, they still had that past. They still had that memory of the people they had been before—the people they had been to each other.

Everyone changed. She and Tom were just going through a strange cycle right now…one where they weren’t changing in sync. But they would get back on track again. They would.

It was only a matter of time.

Resolved, she climbed the steps to the porch where Della and Annie were laying out dishes of food on a long row of folding tables.

Della turned. Her curly, gray-blond hair was sticking up in a million directions. An apron dusted with flour was tied around her ample waist. She smiled as she took the container from Becca’s hands and opened the top, peering inside.

“I got a little carried away,” Becca said, feeling the need to explain herself when Della lifted a brow at the number of eggs inside.

“You didn’t have to bring anything,” Annie said, smoothing a pink cloth over the table by the window. “We have plenty of food.”

“I know,” Becca said, “but I always make deviled eggs on Easter.”

“Of course you do, honey,” Della said gently, setting the container down between a roasted vegetable quiche and a coconut cake. “But everyone would have understood if you didn’t have time to make them this year. Don’t you have enough to do with the wedding and the move?”

Becca felt a prick of annoyance. She
always
made deviled eggs on Easter, just like her mother had before her, and her grandmother had before her—from their family recipe with Old Bay Seasoning instead of paprika.

It was tradition.

She wished everyone would quit pushing her away and telling her that she didn’t have time to do the things she loved anymore.

“Where’s your fiancé?” a familiar voice slurred in her ear.

Becca stiffened when Jimmy’s arm came around her and his sour, whiskey-scented breath brushed against her cheek. Disgusted, she pushed him away. “It’s not even noon and you’re already drunk.”

He smiled, his arm tightening around her waist. “You need to lighten up, sweetheart.”

“And you need to leave,” she said coldly. “You have no business being here, around all these children, when you’ve been drinking.”

“Can’t.” He grabbed a sugar cookie off one of the trays on the table. “Courtney got called into work at the hotel. I’m watching Luke.”

Becca scanned the yard for Luke. She found him sitting on the curb beside Jimmy’s truck, his back resting against one of the wheels. His head was bent over a notebook as he focused on a sketch he was working on. Becca felt another wave of frustration. He should be dyeing hard boiled eggs with Taylor or hunting for plastic ones with the rest of the kids down at the marina, not sitting by himself, drawing. “I’ll watch Luke. You need to go home.”

He reached up, touching her cheek. “I like the view better from here.”

“That’s enough,” Ryan Callahan said, a warning in his voice as he strode out of the café. Taking Jimmy’s elbow, he steered him toward the steps. “Becca’s right. It’s time for you to go home.”

Jimmy jerked his arm free and Ryan pushed him, hard, toward the stairs. Jimmy stumbled, hiccupped, then burst out laughing as he looped his arm around Ryan’s shoulders. “How about a game of pool at Rusty’s?”

“Sure,” Ryan murmured. “Right after I shove you off the pier to sober you up.”

Joe Dozier, Della’s husband, peeled off from the group of watermen and followed Ryan to lend a hand. The rest of the islanders watched them go with a mixture of pity and disapproval on their faces. All except for one man—Becca’s father—who was staring down into his soda, his head bent in shame, unable to even look at the spectacle Jimmy was making of himself.

Because that had been him once.

“How about a cup of coffee?” Annie suggested lightly from behind her. “I just powered up the espresso machine.”

Becca shook her head. She didn’t need a cup of coffee. What she needed was for Jimmy to quit drinking and take care of Luke, for Tom to stop bailing on her, and for the board to drop their threat to close the school.

She looked back at Luke, who was standing now, unsure of what to do as he watched Jimmy walk away. Becca pushed off the railing, starting toward the steps.

Shelley stopped her. “I’ll go,” she said. “I’ll tell Luke to come up to the porch and have something to eat with us.”

Becca nodded, still so angry she could hardly speak. Spotting her best friend, Grace Callahan at the other end of the porch, Becca strode over to her. “We need to talk,” she said, motioning for her friend to follow her around the side of the wraparound porch so the rest of the islanders couldn’t hear them.

“What’s up?” Grace asked.

Becca paused under a beam covered in wind chimes made of tinted sea glass. “What do you know about Lydia Vanzant?”

“Nick Foley’s ex-wife?”

Becca nodded. She didn’t care if Shelley thought their chances of saving the school were almost nonexistent. There was no way she was going to let a woman with an axe to grind against her ex-husband use them in some petty game of revenge.

Grace Callahan was one of the top political reporters for
The Washington Tribune
, the largest newspaper in D.C. If anyone could dig up information on the governor’s former spouse, it would be Grace.

“Not that much,” Grace said. “I mean, I know she had a hell of a reputation as a public school administrator, but you probably know more about that than I do. Other than that, I haven’t read anything about her in years—at least not since the divorce. Why? What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

A child’s laughter drifted in from the yard, and they both turned, watching Della adjust Taylor’s flower crown so it wouldn’t slip into her eyes while she filled her plate with food.

“Would you let me know if you hear anything, or see her name mentioned anywhere?” Becca asked.

“Sure,” Grace said. “Is there anything in particular you want me to keep an eye out for?”

“No,” Becca said as sunlight filtered through the glass, casting a kaleidoscope of colors over the side of the café. “But feel free to dig as deep as you want.”

C
olin drove through Severna Park, the affluent suburb north of Annapolis where he’d lived as a child. Waterfront estates sat back on sprawling lawns, surrounded by manicured gardens and hundred-year-old shade trees. Long paved driveways were filled with expensive cars, most likely belonging to family members who’d gathered together for the Easter holiday. In a few of the yards, children chased each other around, laughing and scouring the ground for eggs.

When he felt the familiar tug of longing for a family of his own, he clamped down on it. It had been over a year since he’d let his mind wander down that path. Holidays had always had a way of busting big fat holes through his defenses.

He’d spent most of the day alone, declining his father’s invitation to join him and Natalie at church that morning. He’d never been particularly religious and he had no desire to be part of the obligatory photo op at the charity event afterwards. Holidays, in his family, had always been more about how to gain a political edge over an opponent than anything else.

Besides, he thought, as he closed in on the last driveway at the end of the street and caught a glimpse of his childhood home—a three-story brick mansion with white columns and a sweeping view of the Severn River—he knew better than to show any signs of weakness around his mother.

He turned into his old driveway, passing under ten evenly spaced, perfectly pruned maple trees. Rolling to a stop beside the brick walkway, he cut the engine and stepped out of the truck. A curtain moved in one of the downstairs windows as he walked up to the door and knocked.

He waited, listening to the sound of her footsteps getting closer.

When the door swung open, his mother took one look at him and her expression turned stone cold. “You’re not welcome here.”

“It’s not a social call.”

She tried to close the door in his face, but he’d been expecting it, and stopped the heavy mahogany panel with his palm.

“What do you want?” she asked coldly.

“To talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Then you can listen.” He pushed the door open the rest of the way and walked past her into the house. “Because I have a few things to say to you.”

His childhood home looked exactly the same—the cold gray interior, the white leather furniture, the polished marble floors and glass tables. The windows were shut, the air set to sixty-eight degrees, just as it had always been, even though the weather outside was perfect and everyone else had their windows open to let in the fresh air.

Two steps into the living room, he froze when he saw the pictures.

Of Hayden.

Everywhere.

Jesus.

Hayden blowing out the candles on his third birthday cake. Hayden learning how to ride a bicycle. Hayden winning first prize at the school science fair. Hayden posing with his prom date on the front steps. Hayden graduating from high school.

There were no pictures of Hayden in his uniform, after he’d joined the Navy at eighteen. And there were no pictures of Colin, not even in the background of any of the shots.

Colin looked back at his mother.

She regarded him coolly, her arms crossed over her chest. “Do the pictures make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” he lied.

“They should.”

Every muscle in his body clenched, walling off the grief. He tried not to think too much about Hayden. He’d never thought too much about the scrawny kid who had followed him everywhere, like a shadow, when they were growing up. By the time his brother had finally earned his respect, and a tentative bond had begun to form between them, it had been too late.

Five years had passed. Five years, three months, and seventeen days since Hayden’s P-3C Orion had been shot down in Iraq.

His mother had cut him out of her life that day, the final resounding click in a door that had begun to swing shut a long time before that. It was hard to believe that this woman, this stranger, had ever loved him. But she had. At least for the first eight years of his life.