“You went drinking somewhere,” Angie said. “And you don’t have any friends here. So you must have gone to a bar.”
“It’s none of your business, Nancy Drew,” Belinda said, and she headed upstairs.
Angie squeezed behind the wheel of Deacon’s truck and moved the seat way back. By the time she reached the bottom of the driveway, her phone started to beep. She turned onto Hoicks Hollow Road, and, since the speed limit was ten miles an hour and there was no one on the road, she checked her phone.
She gasped and pulled over.
There was a missed call from Joel Tersigni.
He had called at 2:05, nearly two hours earlier. Two o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. Dory didn’t work on weekends, so she would be home—or maybe at the boys’ lacrosse game. Or maybe Dory was still in possession of Joel’s phone, and it was Dory who had called. Maybe she had come across more texts or photos; maybe Joel had shared more intimate details. Angie wanted to call back—God, did she want to call back—but if Dory answered… No, Angie couldn’t risk it. Angie imagined drawing back the string of the bow, lining up the pin through the peep sight, and letting go. Wheeeeeeeeee! She imagined spearing both Joel and Dory through the heart. Kill shot.
She thought about JP in his hat and his sunglasses, with his easy smile and his passion for the outdoors. Would it be easier to love someone like JP, someone her own age, someone who had time to spend with her and an interest in showing her things? Someone who had been hurt himself and could teach her a thing or two about survival?
As she pulled into the parking lot of the Sconset Market, the smell of warm, freshly baked bread hit her. Angie loved bread. She and Deacon used to play a game called Final Meal. Their answers changed according to season and mood, but Angie always started with Parker House rolls and sweet butter. And Deacon always started with pizza.
The market was tiny and quaint, not unlike small-town markets elsewhere, except this one had a sophisticated selection of French cheese—Angie plucked out a soft, gooey Langres, which was difficult to find, even in New York. Angie got in a line forming at the register, where a straw basket was piled high with baguettes.
“Two please,” Angie said. “And the Langres.”
She paid the cashier and carried the warm loaves and the cheese out to the Chevy. As she started the ignition, she considered driving out to Coatue to find JP so that she could invite him to dinner. But then she decided against it. Laurel, Belinda, and Scarlett were going to sit down to eat together for the first time ever. No stranger should be subjected to that.
Back at the house, Angie pulled out the blue and white checked bistro tablecloth from the pantry and four matching napkins and three linen napkins that evoked the goldenrod crayon in Angie’s long-ago box of Crayolas. She set the table. The wide, shallow bowls in the cabinet were impractical for cereal but perfect for chowder, and Angie put a dinner plate underneath each; and, although none of the dishes matched, it still looked okay. Sort of. She shook her head, thinking about how extravagant Deacon had been when selecting dishes for the Board Room. Four of the nine courses had their own custom-made dishes, most of these one of a kind, purchased from individual artisans throughout the Northeast. The caviar sets cost more than $200 apiece. Deacon argued that for most people, dinner at the Board Room would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and he wanted every aspect of it to be inimitable, unforgettable.
Tonight would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience, Angie was pretty sure, but no one would care about the dishes.
She set out a wooden laminate bowl for shells and claimed two hideous candlesticks from the living room that were made out of industrial spools. They held candles that might once have been ivory colored but were now yellowing like teeth.
She set out silverware, which was also a bit of a hodgepodge. Angie and Deacon had joked that the Innsleys must have gone to a lot of potlucks and brought home utensils from each one.
Angie softened the butter, then sprinkled it with sea salt and garnished it with a sprig of tarragon from the farm.
Angie turned around to see Hayes, half his face mummified but his uncovered eye reasonably bright and focused, sort of hunched over and yet upright, hobbling into the kitchen. “Fancy,” he said, nodding at the butter.
“I’m just trying to make things as nice as I can,” Angie said.
He touched her back and gave her a kiss on the cheek with the undamaged half of his mouth. “Thank you. Do we have wine?”
At seven o’clock, they assembled on the deck for a proper cocktail hour. Angie had set out the bluefish pâté, crackers, grapes, the Langres, and a bowl of Goldfish for Ellery. Angie had also made Ellery a Shirley Temple, complete with three maraschino cherries.
“Maraschino” was going on the Stupid Word List, Angie decided. What did it even mean? Unnaturally red and sickly sweet? And yet Deacon had loved maraschino cherries. He’d developed a recipe for roasted-pineapple bread pudding with maraschino-cherry ice cream while he was at Raindance, but that was before ironic retro was cool, and Luther Davey made him take it off the menu.
Laurel wandered out in a white sundress; Buck followed in a pair of khaki shorts and a kelly-green polo shirt. They joined Hayes, who was hunkered down in one of the supremely uncomfortable deck chairs with a brimming glass of wine. He was cold, he said, freezing, despite the fact that it was the end of a sticky, hot day. He had bundled himself in a crocheted afghan that he’d pulled from a trunk in the living room; the afghan smelled strongly of old age.
“I think that used to be Clara’s blanket,” Angie said, but Hayes didn’t even crack a smile.
“Look at this spread!” Laurel said, helping herself to a cracker and an impressive hunk of the Langres.
Belinda sauntered out onto the deck in a flowing baby-blue one-shouldered number that wouldn’t have been out of place at the Met costume ball.
“Well,” Angie said, shaking her head, “it matches your toes.”
“Armani Privé,” Belinda said. “I bought it for awards season but didn’t end up wearing it. Where’s Scarlett?”
Laurel said, “She and Ellery went upstairs to nap a while ago. Should I wake them up?”
“Wake them up,” Angie said. “I made enough food for a marching band.”
“Let them sleep,” Belinda said.
“Mother,” Angie said. “This was meant to be a family dinner.”
“I’ll wake them up,” Laurel said.
Scarlett and Ellery stumbled into the kitchen just as Angie was ladling the chowder, spooning in the creamy broth, rich with smoky, sweet chorizo, translucent onions, and fragrant herbs. She put the same number of mussels and clams and just-opaque scallops into each bowl. Next, she pulled the panko-crusted goat cheese out of the oven. The disks were golden brown, and Angie knew they would be lusciously melty in the center, perfect against the peppery arugula and the firm, ripe peaches.
Ellery was whimpering, and Scarlett wasn’t much better, moaning and groaning as she collapsed in her chair. She set a tall can down by her plate. The can was amethyst purple, and in pink, girly cursive, it said Skinny4Life.
“I don’t want anything to eat,” Scarlett said. “I have this.”
“What is that?” Laurel asked. “Skinny4Life? Is that some kind of new diet product?”
Scarlett threw Laurel a withering look but didn’t answer. Angie couldn’t believe how rude Scarlett was being. When someone went to the trouble to make you a home-cooked dinner, you ate it. You didn’t show up with a can.
“Wine?” Angie asked, barely concealing her impatience.
Scarlett crossed her arms and shook her head. “No, thank you.”
“Well, I want wine,” Belinda called out.
You mean more wine, Angie thought.
“Angie, it looks beautiful,” Laurel said. “Thank you.”
“You outdid yourself, Ange,” Hayes said.
“Your father would be very proud,” Buck said.
A sob escaped from Scarlett. Laurel raised her glass. “Here’s to our chef.”
Angie lowered herself gingerly into her chair. She was afraid of something, but she wasn’t sure what. She touched her glass to Belinda’s glass, Laurel’s, Buck’s, and Hayes’s.