“Conor,” she said. “Do you ...”
He waited for her to finish the question, but she couldn’t, because the confusion she’d felt down at the harbor was still with her; she didn’tknow exactly what she wanted to ask. She looked into his eyes and steadied herself.
“Never mind. Everything’s fine,” she said.
“Better than fine,” he said.
She and Conor walked upstairs. Faith, the harpist who played in the lobby, was strumming “Love Story” by Taylor Swift. It made Kate feel better as she and Conor approached the Harbour Room. And as soon as she and Conor walked through the door, and she saw the beaming faces of so many people she loved, she forgot all about the weirdness she felt, and she smiled back—at the crowd and then at Conor. And she and Conor took their seats, and tomorrow they would be married, and everything was fine, better than fine.
2
Friday, July 2; 8:30 p.m.
Kate sat between Conor and Tom at the rehearsal dinner. Friends and family filled the long table. The chef had outdone himself, sending out hot buttered lobster dumplings, pan-seared day boat scallops, wild mushroom ravioli, a roasted rack of Australian lamb, and, fresh off the grill, harpooned Block Island swordfish.
At the very start of dinner, Brian had served his cocktail creation, with a mocktail version to those who preferred it without gin and champagne: St-Germain elderflower, lemon, clear honey, and one long, paper-thin twist of cucumber. He presented a glass to Kate first. The ingredients were local and fresh; the slice of cucumber, twisted around the inside of the glass, gave the drink an alluring pearlescence, a white opacity—like coastal fog.
“It’s delicious,” she said. “And now you have to tell me what it’s called. You said the name was part of the surprise.”
“That’s right,” Brian said. “Can’t you guess?”
She sipped again, thinking of the possibilities. But then he gestured toward the back of the room, where he had placed a large package wrapped in white paper and tied with a black grosgrain ribbon.
“The same as the title of the painting?” she asked in a low voice, so Conor wouldn’t hear.
He nodded, beaming.
She felt delighted. The painting that would be her wedding gift to Conor—James Suydam’s depiction of moonlight and the lighthouse through fog. It hinted at anticipation, of waiting, of the evening’s romantic mystery, and it had the most perfect title:Foggy Night. And now, looking at the cocktail, she saw exactly what Brian had been going for; he had absolutely captured the essence of the painting. It was so thoughtful, she grabbed his hand and squeezed.
“Foggy Night,” he said. “In honor of your wedding.”
Then he filled glasses for the entire table, and he and the waitstaff served them. Kate sat back, surveilling the table, feeling so happy. Conor and Tom’s aunt and uncle—Anne and Mike Reid—were speaking with Joe, Garrett, and Belinda. Mike was a retired Rhode Island Superior Court judge, and both Joe and Garrett had testified in cases before him.
“That’s a sight you don’t see every day,” Conor said, leaning close to Kate. “Cops socializing with the judiciary.”
“Looks as if they’re all enjoying themselves,” Kate said before sipping her drink.
“Uncle Mike loves holding forth,” Conor said. “He’s competing with Bernard for the most booming voice.”
Kate smiled. Bernard Lafond, CeCe’s father, had flown in from Los Angeles and was lamenting how hard it had been to take time off from shooting his hit series,Border Saints. The director had been furious, but as the star, Bernard got what he wanted. Bernard had brought a new girlfriend, Miranda, and she was leaning into him and laughing in all the right places.
Kate noticed Suzanne bustling around. She seemed to be making sure the guests had everything they needed. She spoke to the judge and his wife, then Belinda, Sam, and Hadley. Then Kate felt perplexed at this “hostess” she’d never met before. She’d have to ask Maeve exactly how Suzanne had come to work at her rehearsal dinner.
Toasts were made. Some were romantic, some were funny.
Bernard, with his shaggy white mane and actor’s theatricality, slugged down his cocktail and asked Brian to bring him a glass of his favorite burgundy. Brian obliged, and Bernard stood, cleared his throat, raised his glass of Gevrey-Chambertin, and said in his thick French accent, his deep actor’s voice:
“To our fine couple, Kate and Conor. Nothing less than this poem by William Butler Yeats will do to celebrate them:
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye ...”
He finished reciting the poem, bowed his head, and nodded in showy humility at the applause. Kate saw Conor looking not at Bernard, but at CeCe. Bernard was a mostly absent father. She knew that Conor disliked him for that reason—because he loved CeCe so much. CeCe was beaming, proud of her father.
Tom and Jackie stood together. Kate had expected a bantering, teasing toast from Tom, but instead she watched Conor’s brother’s eyes well up.
“Ah, Con,” he said. “I’ve watched you all through life, seen you solve the hardest cases, win medals and awards, rise through the ranks. You’re tops in all you do, but one thing has been missing.” He paused, put his arm around Jackie. “Love. Like what I have for Jackie. And now you’ve found Kate.” He looked at Kate. “Kate, we’ve loved you from the moment we met you. You’re our family, and we’re yours.”
