I rinse cilantro under cold water and chop it fine. The knife hits the board in a steady rhythm.
By noon the yard will be crowded. At dusk the fireworks will launch near Harbor Road, and half the town will gather on our grass before walking down together in a wave of laughter and beer bottles and sparklers.
Men will bring their woman. Because here in Northwick Cove, ménage is the norm and we’re the exception. The Turner brothers have Savannah, the Grayson brothers share Sheila, Diana is with three men, and Sam and Henry—who I thought were a gay couple—have added Judith to their relationship.
The three of them move through space like gravity bends around them. I noticed it at Thanksgiving. The way Sam’s hand settles at the small of Henry’s back without looking, like he knows exactly where he belongs. The way Henry’s gaze follows Judith when she moves, steady and focused, like he’s tracking something he doesn’t intend to lose.
Heat pools low in my belly before I can stop it.
I shift my weight, wiping my hands on the towel, but the feeling lingers. The memory sharpens instead of fading. Sam’s fingers spreading against Henry’s back. Henry leaning in just enough that Judith fits between them without breaking the line. The quiet certainty of it.
My thighs press together.
I draw in a slow breath, but it doesn’t settle anything. My skin feels too tight, too aware. I imagine Dan stepping into that space, another man’s hand on him the way Sam touches Henry—confident, claiming—and something deep inside me clenches, not in protest but in need.
I grip the edge of the counter, grounding myself against the sudden rush of it.
I tell myself I admire them. That’s all it is.
But the thought doesn’t hold.
The screen door bangs and Sam’s voice carries inside. “Mel! You have ice?”
I clear my throat and push away from the counter, forcing my hands to steady. “Look in the freezer in the shed!”
Boots on gravel. Laughter. The scrape of something heavy dragged into place. Dan’s lower voice responds, steady and calm.
I wipe my hands and step onto the back porch. The yard is already transforming.
Folding tables line the fence. The grill waits in its usual place. Red and blue bunting flutters from the porch rail, snapping in the light breeze. Pine Hollow’s tree line rises dark and protective to the north. To the east, if I angle my head just right, I can see the shimmer of the harbor past the houses on Harbor Road.
Northwick Cove is small enough you can walk from the Grayson farm to the docks and pass every layer of someone’s life along the way. The B&B. The shops on Main Street. MacAllister’s garage with its bay doors open. The clinic near Stoneridge.
Dan stands with Sam and Henry near the far table, string lights coiled in his hand. Sam’s salt and pepper hair is already wind-tossed. Henry’s sleeves are rolled up, muscles flexing as he tightens something with focused care.
They look good together.
Dan laughs at something Sam says, and the sound hits me low and unexpected. It’s been a while since I’ve heard that looseness in him. He glances toward the house and finds me watching.
For a split second, the noise around us dulls.
Then Mrs. Langley calls my name from the driveway, and the moment snaps like a pulled thread.
Chapter Three
Dan
The first hammer strike rattles up my arm and settles deep in my shoulder like an old argument I never finished. The vibration lingers longer than it used to. I rotate the joint once, loosen it, refuse to let it dictate the pace. The stake sinks another inch into the lawn. Red-white-and-blue bunting snaps in the morning breeze.
The air already smells like cut grass and distant charcoal. Pine Hollow stands dark beyond the rooftops. Somewhere toward Harbor Road, a truck backfires, echoing faintly.
I can feel Mel through the house the way I used to feel her across a crowded room. The kitchen window is open and the scent of brown sugar and spice drifts out in slow waves. I know exactly where she’s standing without looking. Left side of the counter. She always plants her feet when she’s concentrating.
I can tell her mood by the rhythm of her chopping.
Sam parks his truck crookedly two houses down. He steps out like the sun belongs to him. Henry follows, sleeves alreadypushed up, both moving without looking at each other and still never colliding.
They fall into step automatically.
