Prologue
The daffodils that were meant to brighten the room were already going limp in their vase and Zoey Jansen felt as if she were wilting, too. It was a sunny afternoon in mid-April, but the thermostat was set at seventy-four. Zoey’s sweater stuck to the small of her back and she wiped perspiration from her upper lip. Yet her great-aunt Sylvia, who was covered to her chest with a quilt, kept saying she was cold.
Zoey lifted the blankets only enough to gently place a freshly filled hot-water bottle into her aunt’s hands. “This should help warm you up.”
“Mmm,” Sylvia murmured drowsily, her eyes closed. “You’ve always been so good to me, Ivy. More like a sister than my own sisters.”
She thinks I’m my great-aunt Ivy.Zoey didn’t correct her mistake. Sylvia had been so restless the past several days that she didn’t want to rouse her if she was finally sleepy. As she started to withdraw her hand from beneath the blankets, Sylvia feebly grasped her fingers.
“Don’t go. I need—” her voice crackled. Assuming what Sylvia needed was a cool drink, Zoey reached for the water glass on the nightstand but her aunt tugged her hand again, pulling her closer. “I need to tell you something important.”
Zoey touched her shoulder to reassure her that she had her full attention. “What is it?”
“Mark doesn’t deserve this,” Sylvia uttered. “It’s not fair. I can’t let it happen.”
Mark—whose given name was Marcus—was Sylvia’s grandson. Ivy’s great-nephew. And Zoey’s cousin. His second wife had recently divorced him and Zoey figured that was what Sylvia meant was unfair. The old woman had always doted on her only grandchild, so Zoey understood it must have been upsetting for her to realize not every woman thought the sun rose and set on Marcus Winslow III. Struggling to say something that was honest yet kind, Zoey resorted to one of the platitudes she’d often heard Sylvia use.
“Sometimes, these things have a way of working out for the best for everyone.”Especially for his wife.
“No, no. That boy can only take so much.” Sylvia wiggled her head back and forth against the pillow, clearly agitated. “Enough is enough.”
Zoey gently pulled her hand free to smooth down her aunt’s flyaway hair, vaguely aware of how self-conscious Sylvia was about her appearance, even now, at eighty-four. “He can take it. He’s a lot stronger than you think.”Some might even say he’s a bully.
“What about Zoey? She’s such a dear girl. I’m concerned about her.”
“She’ll be fine. She’ll find another job soon.”
“What if she doesn’t? She’s lost all of her savings and she can’t pay her mortgage. Where will she live?”
Zoey’s breath caught. She had told her great-aunts she’d been laid off from her job as a librarian when the city closed the branch where she worked, but how had Sylvia found out that she’d lost her savings and was on the brink of losing her townhome? Zoey hadn’t wanted to burden her aunts by telling them that the guy she’d been seeing for the past year, a financial planner, had risked—andblown—all of her savings in a series of investments that turned out to be just shy of illegal. And she was too ashamed to admit she hadn’t even realized what he’d done until she tried to withdraw money from her depleted retirement funds to pay her mortgage.
Guessing that her aunt must have overheard her ranting about it on the phone to her friend, Lauren, she pleaded, “I know you’re worried about me, Aunt Sylvia, but Aunt Ivy can’t find out about that yet. She’ll get upset and stress is bad for her heart. When the time is right, I’ll talk to her about it. Meanwhile, please promise you won’t tell her.”
Upon hearing Zoey call heraunt,Sylvia opened her eyes and blinked in apparent surprise. Then she knitted her brows together, agreeing, “You’re right. It’ll be our secret.”
“Thank you.” As her aunt’s eyelids fell shut again, Zoey stood to leave.
But Sylvia added in a raspy voice, “For now, it’s best to let the past stay buried in the past… beneath the roses.”
What doesthatmean?Although her aunt’s health had been improving, Zoey wondered if she was feverish again. She leaned down and kissed her forehead. No, no fever…Yesterday, right before dozing off, she’d rambled on and on about dancing in the stars. When she woke, she had no recollection of having said anything and they concluded she’d been dreaming. Maybe she was only semi-awake now, too.
Zoey waited. When Sylvia didn’t say anything else, she straightened her posture and tiptoed across the room toward the heavy old door, slightly ajar. Aware it would creak if she opened it any farther, Zoey turned sideways to ease across the threshold. Before she left, she impulsively stopped to glance back at the bed and whisper, “I love you, Auntie. Sleep well.”
Chapter One
After escorting an elderly funeral guest to her car, Zoey Jansen paused on the sidewalk to appreciate the contrast of vibrant red, yellow and orange tulips against the white picket fence. Her aunt Sylvia had been an accomplished gardener and tulips were always her favorite spring flower. She had planted them around the perimeter of the yard and in abundant bunches in front of the stately sea-captain’s home her sister-in-law Ivy owned and where she herself had lived for most of her adult life.
It’s too bad she didn’t get to see them bloom this year, Zoey thought. She quickly dabbed the corner of her eye. She couldn’t start crying. Not yet. Maybe after all the mourners had left and the food had been put away and she’d made a kettle of tea and consoled her great-aunt Ivy. And after Zoey had persuaded her to go to bed early and then had sat beside her in the dark, chatting about nothing in particular until she drifted off to sleep, the way she’d done every night for the past week so her elderly relative wouldn’t feel so lonely. Maybe then Zoey would creep down the hall to her own room and allow herself to have a good cry. But not now.
As she unlatched the gate to follow the walkway to the front door, a burst of raucous laughter rose from the side of the house. What could possibly be so hilarious at a funeral reception? Worried that someone who’d had too much to drink might be about to drive home, Zoey changed course and continued down the sidewalk toward the brick driveway.
Scanning the area in front of the detached garage, which was once a carriage house, she saw four or five men, drinks in hand. Zoey had met a couple of them at the church; they were islanders who went to high school with Mark the year he stayed with Sylvia and Ivy after his father died. Apparently, when his buddies learned about the funeral, they took advantage of the opportunity to reunite with him. She’d overheard two of them planning a golf tournament for the next day while they worked their way down the buffet table, piling their plates high with shrimp and cocktail quiches and cheesecake. Now, they clustered around her square-jawed, golden-haired cousin, paying rapt attention as he dominated the conversation. That would explain the ruckus.
A sweetly pungent odor tickled her nose and she noticed Mr. Witherell, the town’s notorious eccentric, leaning on his cane and smoking a pipe in the back yard. Zoey hoped her great-aunt Ivy didn’t smell it; pipe tobacco reminded her of her long-departed father, and she was distraught enough already.
“Now that Sylvia’s deceased, it won’t be long before Ivy goes. She’s not going to be able to handle the loneliness.”
Mark was talking so loudly that Zoey could hear his appalling remark clear at the other end of the driveway. She set her jaw and made a beeline for him. Or as straight a beeline as she could make, given that her heels were blistered from her new shoes and the brick terrain was slightly uneven in spots.
