Holly couldn’t disagree. Harold had seemed somewhat miserable at the lobster boil the night before, though she’d pinned that down as part of his dour personality. So far he’d proven to be about as present for his wedding weekend as he had been for the tasting, which he’d skipped in favor of a tee time.
“Maybe she has cold feet,” Holly said. “Wedding jitters. You know, that sort of thing.”
“It’s a bigger problem. She’s stopped posting.”
“Linus, I really don’t care how her social media platforms are going…”
“No, I think it’s a sign. Look.”
He turned his phone toward Holly. On Sissy’s Instagram page was a series of posts and reels, which he scrolled through. “Here’s their arrival day. See? There’s the outside of the inn, then there’s her Prada sandal stepping out of her Porsche. Here’s oneof the cocktail hour on the patio and several of the oyster farm tour.” He paused. “Wow, Riley never smiles, does she?”
“Linus.”
“Sorry, my point is that the last post is from this morning at the spa.”
“So? They only just got back.”
“Look how the posts have changed in the last twenty-four hours.”
Holly squinted at the series of photos. “I see cocktails and ridiculous poses and duck faces. Isn’t that basically Instagram?”
Linus pointed. “The last two posts. Look.” There was one of the bridal brunch with the party smiling and raising their mimosas in a toast as Sissy stared blankly into the camera, her expression definitely leaning toward somber. The last post was of her at the spa in a silky white bathrobe, surrounded by her bridesmaids. “Everyone is laughing and chatting but her. She’s looking off into the distance, like a lost puppy.”
“Linus.”
“Well, it’s true. Sissy Sutton is all about fun. And that girl stopped having fun as soon as she got here.”
“Great.” Holly put her head in her hands. “This is going to go over like wildfire for us then, isn’t it? Influencer bride miserable at the Cranberry House on Cape Cod. Special rates if you want in on the misery!”
“This isn’t a reflection on us,” Linus insisted, “though I agree it’snotgreat publicity.”
“Enough. We have work to do. Deliver your beach bags and spritzes,” Holly told him, ignoring the look he gave her. “Maybe that will inspire a more celebratory post from our bride. Who knows, maybe you’ll be in it!”
Scowling, Linus hauled the beach totes over both shoulders and traipsed toward the French doors. “You say that like you care, but I know you don’t.”
The rest of the day was abuzz with activity. The rehearsal dinner would be held in Harvest at six o’clock. In addition to the bridal party they would be joined by other family and friends in town for the wedding. The groomsmen, who’d rented a beach house overlooking Hardings, had spent the day at Wequassett golf course and would be coming within the hour. The bridesmaids had come in off the beach and were upstairs getting ready. Mr. and Mrs. Sutton had arranged a cocktail hour to welcome everyone before dinner, and Sissy had scheduled nightcaps and s’mores by the firepits for after. Inside, the Cranberry hummed with preparations.
The florist Holly had commissioned was first to arrive with her team. “If this is just the rehearsal dinner, imagine the wedding,” Linus mused. Within hours Harvest was enchantingly transformed. Gauzy bunting with strings of twinkle lights draped elegantly from each corner of the room. The chandeliers were trimmed with delicate stalks of lavender entwined with seagrass. Greta had arranged for a single rectangular table to be set in the center of the room, dressed in creamy linens with one long burlap runner. Glass hurricane lanterns holding beeswax candles and wicker-wrapped vases filled with blue hydrangeas lined the runner. The effect was elegant and intimate and wholly romantic. “I think I’m being swept away,” Linus whispered, as he and Holly stood in the doorway.
It was everything Holly envisioned when she first toyed with the idea of hosting private events at the Cranberry. She felt the whole house sigh happily with her. “Let’s pray the night delivers,” she whispered back.
Nobody minded the flurry of photos throughout the evening; it felt necessary to capture the setting and embrace the moment.Casual Coastal Elegance, Sissy had specified on the thick linen invitations. Guests trickled in accordingly: there were blazers and crisp collars, lace dresses and linen suits, whale belts and deck shoes. The cocktail hour was leisurely and lovely; everyone spread out around the inn, just as Holly had hoped. There were grandparents in the parlor and kids on the porch; college friends sipping icy gin and tonics on the terrace. The Cranberry had opened the very best of herself to all of them, and the family members luxuriated in her embrace. This was what Holly had envisioned for the inn. She stole away to the library and called Francine. “You’re dying to come here tonight, admit it.”
“I may be dying, given my ripe old age, but I admit to no such thing.”
“Come on over, Franny. You can bring Bee if you promise to sneak in the delivery entrance.”
“So things are going well?”
Holly smiled to herself. “I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
Maybe it was the heavy scent of salt water in the air. Or the tiny uptick in profit they discovered when Holly and Linus reviewed the books in her office earlier that day. Maybe it was the sentimentality that swells within when it comes to weddings. Or maybe it was the slow-burn sunset streaking across the bay,smattering the Cranberry House with its pink afterglow. Whatever the reason, Holly felt lighter. And she could see it in her staff, too. Greta, despite her recent edginess, had resettled into a groove in her kitchen like a brooding hen on her nest. Linus was as chill as the icy cocktails the bartender was serving. Holly needed Francine to bear witness to it, too.
With the dinner hour approaching, Holly went upstairs to check on the bride. On the landing she was met by the bridesmaids, a bevy of pastel cocktail dresses coming down the steps mid-conversation. Holly had to hop out of their way.
Riley: “I get dibs on the best man. He went to Princeton with my brother.”
Peyton/Grayson: “But he was flirting with me at the firepit.”
