She stared into the oval cheval glass next to the bedroom door as she listened to the footsteps on the stairs. She had no idea what they would say. She hoped it was him, not her. If it was him, he would put his arms around her from behind, turn her around, kiss her, and tell her she was his, that she could never leave him, leavethem. The moment was electric, more frightening than exciting, and she closed her eyes, steeling herself for his embrace.
The touch felt like a caress, like the gentle tickle of a fingertip tracing her throat. It didn’t hurt, but it startled her, and she opened her eyes and looked in the mirrored glass. It struck her, how odd it was to see the white wedding dress turning crimson. Red spray pulsed out of her neck in time with her heartbeat, and she lifted her hand to try to stop it.
Her gaze in the mirror met the familiar face, and she gasped because it wasn’t him at all. She saw the curved blade. She saw rage in those eyes she knew and loved better than anyone else in the world.
Her hand cupped her throat; the blood felt warm. The dress was scarlet now. She fell to her knees, then toppled over. She lay in a patch of sunlight streaming through the open window. She stared at the wall. She remembered how they could hear the train whistles and the ferry horns from their street; she remembered holding his hand.
It’s true, she thought: At the end, your life flashes before your eyes.
Her voice was garbled, but she said a name out loud anyway. It was a name full of love and protection and devotion. She whispered it through her own blood as she died.
“Conor.”
1
The Night Before the Wedding
Friday, July 2; 5:30 p.m.
When it came down to considering venues for Kate Woodward’s wedding to Conor Reid, there had been only one choice: the Ocean House. Conor had proposed to Kate the winter before last, right here on a snowy terrace overlooking East Beach, during a record-breaking blizzard. As if to balance the meteorological scales, this weekend’s weather was as perfect as summer in Watch Hill could deliver.
Kate hadn’t seen Conor since right after breakfast, when he had left to go golfing with Tom and a few friends. The rehearsal dinner was at 7:00 p.m., just an hour and a half from now. She had thought he would be back hours ago, but there was no sign of him.
Friends and family who hadn’t checked in yet had started to arrive, so she thought maybe he had run into one of them. She changed into the pale-blue shift she would wear to dinner, and she walked through the hotel, looking for him, starting in the Club Room.
This room embraced guests with its warmth, its wooden walls lacquered to resemble a yacht’s interior, banquettes flanked with red leather chairs, a welcoming fireplace, and museum-quality art in gilded frames. The French doors opened onto a wide terrace, and Kate felt thecool sea breeze wafting in. Brian Goldrick—tall, with close-cropped white hair and a warm glint in his blue eyes—stood behind the bar. He greeted her.
“It’s starting,” he said, smiling. “The wedding weekend.”
“I can’t believe it’s finally here,” she said.
“We’re all set for tonight,” he said.
“Thank you so much, Brian,” she said. She and Conor had chosen the Harbour Room, just across the hall, for their rehearsal dinner. They had gotten to know Brian over the years, and they always loved seeing him. He had told her that he was creating a signature cocktail just for them, as a wedding gift.
“I hope Conor gets back soon,” she said. “He has to change for dinner.”
“He came in with his brother a little while ago,” Brian said.
“He did?” she asked, taken aback that Conor had returned from golf and come here instead of finding her upstairs.
“They tried out my concoction. Would you like me to make you one?”
“No, I want to be surprised. Do you have a name for it?” she asked, unsettled about Conor.
“That’s going to be therealsurprise,” he said with a wicked smile. “I’ll tell you at the dinner.”
“I can’t wait,” Kate said, and she walked across the room and stood in front of a painting. “You still have it up?”
“Yes,” he said. “But don’t worry, it will be all wrapped and ready in time for the party.”
As the owner of the Woodward-Lathrop Gallery in Black Hall, Connecticut, Kate always studied the art wherever she went. The Ocean House had a first-rate permanent collection; there were also temporary exhibitions of works on loan from an excellent gallery in town.
She gazed at a stunning luminist painting by James Suydam, done in 1860. It was a night scene of East Beach and the Watch Hilllighthouse. The moon glowed eerily through white fog, casting a silver web on the dark sea, barely illuminating the shadowed beach path.
“Did you notice if Conor looked at it when he came in?” Kate asked.
“I didn’t,” Brian said.
