“Why Greece?”
Tara laughs, holding up her hands. “One at a time. We fell in love with it on our last trip. And Marcus has always wanted to make wine.”
Whitney lifts her glass. “To Tara and her Greek vineyard. May your grapes be bountiful and your wine always flow.”
We toast, the glasses clinking softly.
I look around at them—these women, these friendships—and feel a swell of something warm and familiar. Comfort, maybe. Or something close enough to it.
The sun slips beneath the horizon, leaving the sky streaked in pink and violet.
“Another perfect evening at Tigertail Beach,” I say.
Whitney smiles, slow and knowing. “Here’s to many more.”
And as we sit there, sipping our drinks and basking in the fading light, I know that no matter where life takes us, these moments, these friendships, will always be our anchor.
Chapter Four
“Babe—” Bennett’s voice is urgent when he comes up behind me two days later.
“Hey!” I spin, dropping the latest art catalog from my favorite New York gallery into my lap. “You’re home early. What’s up?” I stand and wrap my arms around him.
“You didn’t hear?” he murmurs against my ear.
“Hear what?” I pull back, my smile fading as I catch the look on his face.
Bennett presses his lips into a thin line. His eyes flick past me, out to the wide stretch of ocean beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. “It’s Whit?—”
“I just talked to her a few hours ago. We’re meeting for dinner later?—”
“Babe—” His eyes fill, his head shaking slowly, like the words won’t come.
A cold weight settles in my chest. “What?” My voice thins. “What’s going on? Why are you home early?”
“Something bad happened.”
The words land between us, heavy and final.
I can’t speak. I just stand there, waiting.
“Whitney and Phillip were out on their boat?—”
“I know, I talked to her?—”
“There was an explosion.”
His hands hover near my arms, like he’s bracing for impact.
The room tilts. My fingers grip his forearms. “No.”
He nods. “I got a call from a friend at the marina.” He guides me back to the lounger, easing me down. “Phillip’s fine. Barely a scratch.”
I don’t want to ask.
But I do.
“What about Whitney?”
