“Give them time,” Holly decided. “Stay on the sidelines and assist.”
“With what?”
Holly sighed. “Whatever they need.”
“Like the Red Cross.”
“Kind of. And whatever we do, don’t mention Oliver.”
Paralysis set in by the second hour. Upstairs, freshly pressed suits hung in closets; the band had just landed at Chatham airport; and a mile up the road, two hundred oysters were soon to be shucked in a resort kitchen. The M.O.B. had taken to her bed. What exactly was the etiquette for upscale fresh hell? No one dared make the first move. The stylists awaited their discharge. Bridal bouquets were retired to the cooler. When the forgotten-about photographer swung through the front door, whistling happily, Linus intercepted him like a linebacker. Mr. Sutton retired to the Captain’s Suite to place calls. The rest of the Suttons languished on the parlor furniture. No one spoke.
Coffee was set out and croissants proffered. Linus slipped among Suttons dispensing boxes of tissues and administering snifters of bourbon like a battlefield nurse.
And then, like robots, the Suttons mobilized. Linus and Holly and even the housekeepers carried luggage downstairs en masse. Mrs. Sutton appeared in the lobby wearing dark sunglasses and a scarf. One by one, cars swung up to the front door. Holly and Linus stood sentinel as the Suttons exchanged weak hugs and strained goodbyes and slunk into their vehicles. In less than two hours, the Cranberry House was empty once more.
Holly went to the patio and stared out at the bay.
“Perfect day for a wedding,” someone said.
She spun around to find Harold lying flat on his back on a lounge.
“Harold.” She lowered herself onto the adjacent chair. “Is there anything I can do for you?” As grooms went, Harold had not been particularly endearing, but still.
“I need to go face the crowd,” he said, pulling himself up. “All two hundred and sixty-four of them. Or whoever’s dumb enough to have stuck around.”
Holly had been so distracted by the mess here that she’d completely forgotten about all the guests awaiting a wedding over at the resort.
“Let us at least drive you over,” she offered.
Harold shook his head. “I’ve got a groomsman coming.” He laughed wryly. “Though I guess he’s been demoted back tocollege roommatenow.”
“I’m very sorry, Harold.” Holly was sorry for all of it. For the canceled wedding. For the trail of cars that had just left the inn like a funeral procession and the wilting hydrangeas and the father-daughter dance that would never take place. What had happened was not one bit her fault, and yet if it were not for her, none of it would have been invited through the front door of the inn.Wedding events are high-stakes headaches, Francine had warned. How right she’d been.
By dinner hour the inn was empty, the old house sighing once more as another summer day came to a slow end. Everyone had been sent home. The dining room had been unceremoniously undecorated; the tulle draping and twinkle lights yanked from the ceiling, the chandelier flowers plucked off. The remains of brunch chucked out, the garbage bins hauled to the curb, any evidence of happily-ever-after eradicated. Linus, havingdiscovered one of the memento Nantucket baskets left behind in a guest room, had taken it home, clutching it like an abandoned infant. The Cranberry House was officially closed and the front door locked, something Holly had not done since opening day. It was her turn to lie flat on her back on a patio lounge chair.
It was where Francine found her, at work on her third chocolate croissant. The basket of remains sat at her feet.
“Pretty night, isn’t it?”
At the sound of her grandmother’s voice, Holly reared up. Already a lump was forming in her throat.
“Someone locked the front door by accident. I had to use my key.” Before Holly could begin to explain, her grandmother spied the basket of croissants. “Looks like you’re enjoying those. Have an extra?”
Holly wiped the chocolate off her bottom lip, and offered her one. Before she could begin to explain why the inn was locked and why she was out here single-handedly devouring a basket of pastries, Franny lowered herself onto the adjacent lounge.
“They must be dancing up a storm over at the resort.”
Oh, if Francine only knew the truth. Mr. Sutton’s last words on his way out still rang in her head:Obviously, we’ll be canceling the rest of our stay. As per the contract. The Cranberry House would not receive payment in full after all. “Franny, I have to tell you something.”
Her grandmother turned to her. “Me, too. May I go first?”
Reluctantly, Holly nodded.
“I came to apologize.”
“Whatever for?”
“For leaving so upset after the rehearsal dinner last night.”
