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I grin. Being the free spirit she is, Aunt Lady never got married and never had kids, preferring instead to travel the world with a string of boyfriends. Some long-term, some not so much.
Whatever the case, it’s always a good time when she brings a new man around. She has a taste for the fun ones, which means she also gets herself into trouble on occasion. I’ll never forget the time I had to bail her out of jail in Charleston after she and a smoking-hot Scandinavian actor fifteen years her junior were arrested for public indecency.
“I’m on it,” I say. “Love you, Granny.”
“FaceTime me later, all right? I want to check in on your mama.”
“Are you kidding? She’s happy as a clam here.”
Granny sighs. “Your daddy better stay busy with work, then. Love you, sugar.”
“Love you.”
My chest aches when I hang up and drop my phone back into the cup holder. I may have shit luck when it comes to men. But the women in my life? I hit the jackpot.
Poor Old Winny barely makes it up the last and biggest hill. On my right, the Atlantic glitters beneath a strengthening sun. The club comes into view, a gorgeous Cape-Cod style compound set atop a series of gently sloping dunes. Its cedar shake siding and clapboard decks make it look like it’s been here forever, when really it was built fifteen or so years ago. There’s a huge, Olympic-sized pool overlooking the ocean, along with a smaller one that’s set up as a splash pad for kids.
I smile when I see a familiar figure on the club’s ocean-front terrace. Goldie is pointing at something while a small army of people scribble furiously in notebooks.
She must be feeling better, because she’s clearly getting shit done.
I park Winny in the little lot beside the club and climb up the steps toward the terrace, scanning Mom’s membership card to get inside. I threw mine into the ocean on that awful ferry ride home ten years ago. Part of my vow to never come back.
But I am back, heart swelling at the view that stretches out before me when I climb the last step: cerulean pool, a flat stretch of beach, then the ocean. It’s a spot called Frying Pan Shoals. Riley told me there’s a bunch of shifting sandbars underneath the shallows here, making the water choppy and restless.
Exactly how I feel.
Goldie breaks out into the biggest, whitest smile when she sees me.
“Here she is! My maid of honor slash best friend slash emotional support animal.”
If only she knew how much of an animal I was last night.
Cringing inwardly, I paste on a smile. “Morning, y’all. Sorry I’m late. I, um, slept through my alarm?”
Goldie gives me a look. My face burns.
Later, I mouth.
Was it a sailor? She mouths back, eyes going wide with excitement.
I’m probably the color of a tomato by now.
I shake my head.
Goldie sighs. “Welp, there’s time yet.” She slips her arm through mine. “Anyway, let me introduce you to everyone. This is Marianne, our food and beverage guru . . .”
I shake hands with the club’s team, and Goldie quickly brings me up to speed on what I missed. The weather report is iffy for the weekend, with a fifty-percent chance of showers on Saturday. Because there’s no backup plan—the Club’s only ballroom is booked for another wedding that night—the ceremony will take place rain or shine in the outdoor pavilion by the beach. In the event of rain, Marianne and her team will bring in tents.
Goldie and Cooper were understandably bummed when only fifty guests were able to make the wedding. But that also means they’ll be able to fit everyone on the club’s fabulous terrace for the reception.
Goldie asks for my opinion on the layout. After reacquainting myself with the space, I’m quickly able to visualize the flow of the evening: with the band and dance floor at the back of the terrace, we’ll have plenty of room toward the front for the round tables Goldie requested for dinner so guests can move freely between the two spaces.
We decide to put the bar nearby on the deck, where we’ll also do cocktail hour so everyone gets A+ views of what we hope will be a glorious sunset. I advise Goldie to double up on passed hors d’oeuvres since they’re serving a boozy signature cocktail.
“And do y’all still have those cool bistro lights? I think I remember them strung over the pool for an event way back when,” I ask.
Goldie gasps. “That would be gorgeous! Also, pregnancy brain is real, y’all. I feel like I should’ve thought of that.”
“Good lighting is almost as important as having a good band.” I wink at my friend. “Almost.”
Marianne turns the page in her notebook. “Amen to that. And yes, we do still have them. Shouldn’t be a problem to get those up by Saturday.”
