Want what you have, she’d quoted to Nell.
But Laura Danvers would have none of it. She was having a shower for Izzy and Sam whether the bride- and groom-to-be came or not.
In the end, it had been a compromise. Laura had agreed to call it a party—a celebration, the invitation said—the beginning of a glorious life together. And at the bottom, a discreet note, much to Laura’s chagrin and Izzy’s insistence: No gifts, please.
The Danvers lived in a newer Sea Harbor neighborhood, north of the downtown area. Laura and her banker husband, Elliott, had married right after their Duke University graduations, and he’d built the house for his bride soon after. It was spacious and sprawling, a perfect entertainment house, and the Danvers used it often for just that, giving equal time to parties and to playdates and birthday parties for their two young daughters. The home was up a long, winding road of equally fine residences, but the Danvers’ home was at the very top of the hill, at the end of the road.
“The pinnacle,” Birdie said, climbing the wide granite steps to the house with one hand on Ben’s arm. “A beautiful home. But why would anyone need so many rooms? They only have those two lovely little girls—” She looked up at the dozens of large windows in the contemporary styled home.
Ben simply smiled, and Nell did the same, refraining from reminding Birdie that she lived alone in the magnificent eightbedroom house her first husband, Sonny Favazza, had built for his bride many years before.
The night held a soft breeze, and the large front door was open wide to welcome it.
“The guests of honor are out on the deck; there’s a bar in the great room; make yourselves at home,” Laura said, welcoming them with hugs. “It’s a perfect night. And we all need a celebration, don’t you think?”
“And you’re the perfect person to make that happen,” Nell said. She meant it sincerely. Though younger than Izzy, Laura Danvers was following in her mother’s footsteps as a hostess with impeccable taste and the uncanny ability to make even the stuffiest corporate gathering fun.
But tonight’s party wouldn’t be peopled by bankers and CEOs. Tonight was reserved for all the people who had touched Izzy’s life since she had moved to Sea Harbor and opened the Seaside Knitting Studio—from artists and shopkeepers to bar owners, knitting customers, and band members. A hodgepodge of earthy people. All of whom loved Izzy Chambers and Sam Perry.
Jerry Thompson was near the bar, surrounded by a group of women pummeling him with conversation, with a bit of flirtation peppering their talk. A widower for two years now, Chief Thompson had risen to the top of the list of Sea Harbor’s eligible bachelors over the age of fifty. He threw Ben a “rescue me” look, and he and Birdie headed the chief’s way.
Nell looked beyond the open living space that included a bar and sparkling granite and stainless-steel kitchen. A great fireplace and soft, cushy furniture. A wall of doors opened up to a back stone patio, where she spotted Jake Risso talking with the Brewsters—Jane was wearing a long, flowing skirt. Nell suspected Jane had brought the skirt with her when she and Ham happened upon Sea Harbor in the’70s. They’d fallen in love with the seaside town and never returned to their more bohemian life in Berkeley, California. Ham’s beard was neatly trimmed, his jeans clean, and the sleeves of a crisp white shirt rolled partway up his arms. They stood near the edge of the patio looking down the hill, over treetops and houses and children’s play equipment, to a panoramic view of an endless sea.
Nell looked around at chatting, happy groups of friends, hoping she’d spot Andy Risso. He’d been on her mind all day, and she was concerned about him. She wondered if he had come with his dad. Pete Halloran was there—and Merry and Hank Jackson. Lots of his friends. Surely he’d show.
“I don’t think anyone knows if there’ll be a funeral,” she heard M.J. telling Merry and Hank Jackson. M.J.’s husband, Alex, stood next to her, just outside the patio doors.
“They haven’t been able to find her sister yet,” Alex explained.
“Tiffany had a sister?” Nell asked, coming up behind them.
M.J. nodded. “Sheila was older than Tiff. Tiffany told me her sister ran away from home when she was in her teens, but she called Tiffany often. They kept in close touch.”
“She mentioned Sheila to me once or twice,” Merry said. “She said her sister had a great job somewhere. Tiffany was proud of her.”
“Did she say where she lived?” M.J. asked.
Merry shook her head.
“They’re still looking for contact information,” M.J. said. “The police thought I’d have it, but we don’t ask for that kind of information from our staff. Maybe we should. The phone number would have been on Tiffany’s phone, but it’s missing.”
Father Lawrence Northcutt was standing next to Merry, his gray head leaning in to hear the conversation. The pastor of Our Lady of the Seas had lived in Sea Harbor longer than anyone could remember. He knew everyone in town, regardless of their spiritual beliefs, and his presence almost always brought a comforting hug with it. “Tiffany’s life was sometimes lonely after Sheila went off,” he said. “She’d come see me sometimes. Things weren’t easy at home. But you, M.J., you added good things to her life when you gave her that job. Working for you meant something to her. It made her think better of herself.”
He smiled at M.J. and patted Alex Arcado on the back. “You’ve a fine life partner, Alex.”
“M.J.’s a gem, Father; don’t I know it.” The fire chief’s shoulders were as broad as a Patriots offensive tackle, but his smile was as soft as a puppy dog. He and M.J. had been married twenty years, and Alex Arcado still looked like he’d just proposed to her and been surprised beyond belief when M.J. had said yes.
“It’s all so enormously sad,” Merry said. Hank wrapped his arm around her, nearly burying her in the curve of his large frame, as if to protect her from the sadness. She pulled away. “So sad,” she repeated.
Nell watched them, sensing the comfort Hank wanted to bring to Merry. And then she remembered back to that night at the Palate. That night Hank and Merry both had tried to comfort to Tiffany. She’d been upset. And they had tried to help her.
It was the day Tiffany had missed the meeting with Izzy about wedding day plans.
It was the day before she died.
Nell’s thoughts were tangled, jumping from one thing to the next. Then settling back into the simple, sad fact that Tiffany Ciccolo was dead now, and whatever was bothering her that night was no longer relevant. The randomness of life had stepped in and taken it away.
The tinkling of a fork on crystal called for silence, and a hush fell over the patio. Those inside gravitated toward the open patio doors while Laura and Elliott Danvers moved to an open space near several blooming hibiscus plants, as tall as Laura herself. She motioned for Sam and Izzy to join them. Nell could feel the blush creeping up Izzy’s neck to her face. She’d given many presentations in law school and had been in the limelight during her days in the courtroom, but it had all been in the line of duty; being singled out this way was difficult for Izzy.
But that was just fine, Nell thought. She needed to know how loved she was, and that was why all these people were here. Even if Laura’s speech might be longer than Izzy would like it to be.
But Laura surprised them. She asked everyone to lift a glass and said simply and sincerely, “To Izzy and Sam. Two people whose lives matter greatly to us. Two people who have touched each one of us in many ways. We love you both.”
And that was it.
People cheered and clapped, and some whistles pierced the air from back corners. It was perfect.
To Izzy and Sam.
To Sam and Izzy.
We love you.
Nell’s eyes were moist, even without the more sentimental toast she’d expected. It was as it should be. Laura Danvers got it right.
Izzy was at her side before she could pull a tissue from her bag. She looped one arm through Nell’s and the other through Ben’s. “Hey, you two.
I love you, you know,” she said softly. A squeeze to their arms accompanied her words. “Now, come with me. You need to join Sam and me in leading this hungry mob to the gorgeous buffet that Laura has spread out. She says we have to go first. I won’t go without you.”
Tables were set up on the patio and wide lawn, casual and lowkey, just as Laura had promised and just what Izzy loved. No fancy silver or delicate plates that might break.
Wildflowers in clay vases and hurricane lamps kept the brightly colored tablecloths from flapping in the evening breeze, and the food was deliciously simple. Fresh garden and pasta salads, piles of crab and shrimp with spicy dipping sauces. Lobster rolls from Gracie Santos’ Lazy Lobster and Soup Café. Ice-cold beer and mojitos. And a thick, moist chocolate cake for dessert. Hidden speakers sent a mix of vocals and instrumentals out across the air, coaxing bodies to sway and easing everyone into a celebratory evening.
“It’s a perfect party,” Nell said to Laura, walking up beside her.
The hostess was standing with Birdie near a teak table, sipping wine, people watching, and basking in the high, happy energy that filled her home. Behind them, the sound of the tide was musical, a perfect background for the evening.
Laura picked up a glass of wine from a passing server and handed it to Nell. “I’m so glad Izzy let me do this for her and Sam. I give parties for strangers all the time—all those people who bring business Elliott’s way. The president of this or that. Or the charity galas, which I love to do. But this—” She opened her arms wide, gesturing toward Pete and Willow, who were pulling Izzy and Sam up to dance, to Archie and Harriet Brandley, joining them in the next beat and quickly showing them up with some drastic twists and turns. And over near the bar, Chief Jerry Thompson, Gracie Santos, Jane and Ham Brewster, all laughing at a story that Harry Garozzo was embellishing with wild gestures. Laughter rose into the evening air like flames from the tiki candles that lined the yard. “This is just plain, happy fun with people I like so much. This is exactly what we all needed.”
“You’re absolutely right, Laura.”
“Tiffany Ciccolo’s death is awful. I don’t mean to belittle her at all—she was a sweet girl—but I hope that we can put this behind us soon.”
“Did you know her?” Birdie asked.
“I used to see her in the salon. And we were in the same high school class a thousand years ago. I didn’t know her much from school things, but we played basketball on a community-center team. But she was so shy that it almost doesn’t count.”
“You were in the same class?”
Laura nodded. “But it was a big class. I didn’t really know her.”
Ben came over and wrapped an arm around Nell’s shoulder. He pulled her close and swayed with her as Billy Joel crooned from the speakers. “My very own uptown gal,” he whispered into her hair.
Laura laughed. “You two. You should loan yourselves out to prewedding parties. Show people what it’ll be like in years to come.”
Ben’s deep chuckle joined Nell’s light one, but they held inside the words that ran through their heads. What it was like “in years to come” was an enormous bouillabaisse of things. One that needed continuous seasoning so it didn’t go flat. It was wading together through sometimes difficult times on your way to wherever. And rejoicing when you got there, then starting out again. The journey. It was all about the journey.
“Is Andy Risso here?” Nell asked, feeling in that instant that this might be the beginning of one of those difficult journeys. And she hoped the stream they’d be wading through would not be too deep—or too muddy.
Laura looked toward the dancing bodies near the bar, then beyond them to a quieter crowd. “I haven’t seen Andy. I left a message on his phone, but he didn’t call back. I was hoping he’d come. . . . I thought it’d be good for him, you know, because . . .”
Her husband, Elliott, caught her eye then, and Laura excused herself to say good-bye to some guests who had to leave early.
“Andy’s not coming.” The voice near Nell’s elbow was deep, gravelly, and familiar.
Jake Risso, Andy’s dad, moved closer, filling in Laura’s vacated spot. He set his beer down on the railing.
“I didn’t recognize you without your Gull Tavern T-shirt, Jake,” Nell said. “You’re looking good, all cleaned up like this.”
Jake’s laugh was tinged with years of breathing in tavern smoke—deep and rough. He looked down at his khaki slacks and knit shirt and shrugged. “Anything for our girl Izzy.”
“Is Andy minding the bar?” Ben said.
“Yeah. His choice. There were plenty of guys to do it. I thought he should come, you know, for Izzy and Sam. And I knew Pete and all would be here. I thought it’d be a good thing. Even that nice Laura Danvers. She called. She knows. . . .”
“Knows?”
“Oh, you know—how hard this is. All the cra—All the things it dredges up. I wish his mother were still alive. Marie’d know how to handle it better than a crusty old geezer like me.”
“You understand a lot, Jake. You’ve raised a fine young man.”
Jake rubbed his chin. He was younger than Nell by a few years, but losing his wife to illness when Andy was in college—that, and the hard work of running a bar—had taken a toll on the tavern owner. The lines in his face bore testimony to the more difficult years. Fishing, he told anyone who would listen; fishing was his salvation. Get him out in a boat by himself, with line and rod, some fresh bait, and a school of cod or striped bass nearby, and he was a happy man.
But tonight Jake Risso looked anything but happy.
“It’s tough, this girl dying like that.”
“Tiffany,” Birdie said.
He nodded. “Tiffany. Andy’s having trouble with it. It was different than it used to be with them. But now, this. Two of them, can you believe it?”
“Two of them?”
“Two girls. Women. When Andy was in high school a girl he cared about died.”
“Andy?” Birdie said. The lines in her face deepened as she peeled back the pages of her memory.
“The Markham Quarry,” Jake said, as if that was all the explanation it needed. An infamous place because of one awful night. “She drowned in the Markham Quarry. Pushed, maybe? But she couldn’t swim a stroke.”
A collective intake of air followed Jake’s words. Then, slowly, released.
A loose strand of yarn woven into place.
“Harmony Farrow,” Birdie said. Her voice was hushed, not reaching beyond their group. And it held surprise, though when they looked back on it later, it shouldn’t have. Only recently they’d talked about Harmony. And a boyfriend. Talked about a family that had suffered. But they all were involved in other things, such as knitting a wedding shawl. And sad thoughts of long-ago deaths were easily pushed aside.
“Yeah, that was her name,” Jake said. “She was Andy’s first real girlfriend. He loved that girl in a god-awful way. And then she was gone. Dead, just like that. It was graduation night—a big party at the school. But Andy didn’t come home that night, and Marie and I were worried sick. When he finally dragged in the next morning, he looked like death warmed over. He’d been out all night looking for Harmony, he told us.” He paused and took a swig of his beer.
When he continued, his voice had picked up some momentum as the memories flooded back, and the words were now pushed out on a wave of emotion. “They were always hanging out at our house, studying or fooling around. Marie liked it. Her terrific trio; that’s what she used to call ’em. She’d bake cookies, make lasagna and her special fried chicken for them. They were together a lot, except when Andy was at band practice or the others playing basketball. Harmony and Andy were so smart. Top of their class, those two. They studied a lot, marched to their own drummer. They liked who they were for the most part; at least those two did.”
“Marie called them a trio?” Ben said.
Nell pulled her light sweater closer against the sudden chill in the air.
“Yeah.
There were the lovebirds, Andy and Harmony. And Harmony’s friend. She was always around; Harmony’s shadow, we called her. The two girls; they were joined at the hip, Marie used to say. Joined at the hip. The beautiful Harmony and her quiet friend.”
Jake looked down at the flagstone patio floor. His words were muttered.
“Tiffany. Tiffany Ciccolo. And now she’s dead, too.”
Chapter 12
Tiffany and Harmony. Best friends.
Nell sat at a table on Coffee’s patio the next morning with a large latte in front of her, turning the words around in her head. She picked at her still-warm cinnamon roll. “It’s big enough for a family of four,” she’d told the young man behind the inside counter.
She had walked down to Coffee’s early to snag a table, knowing it would be packed. Summertime doubled Coffee’s devoted clientele, and on a breezy, sun-drenched Monday, everyone would be elbowing their way to the outside tables on the flagstone patio.
Nell checked her watch. Birdie would be there soon—as soon as Harold pumped up her bike tires and declared her safe to pedal down the hill. And hopefully before the cappuccino Nell had ordered for her had cooled off.
They had left the party the night before when the music went up a notch and Ben could no longer stifle his yawns. He and Birdie provided a united front and whisked Nell away from a spirited conversation with Mary Pisano, Izzy, and Sam.
“It’s time,” they said.
Chief Jerry Thompson followed them out, claiming his week was going to begin in a matter of hours and sleep was a necessity. It would be a long week for him, they all agreed, and the chief’s long face suggested not a pleasant one.
After Jerry had climbed into his car, Ben leaned in the open window and told him about the conversation they’d had with Jake.
Tiffany was Harmony Farrow’s best friend.... Did the chief know that?
The Wedding Shawl Page 9
