The Last Ordinary Day
The string lights along the Cape Bellamy Yacht Club veranda swayed with the evening wind, and somewhere beneath the laughter and the clink of champagne flutes, a band was murdering a Sinatra standard with more enthusiasm than skill. Mara Delacroix arrived twenty minutes late, her heels sinking slightly into the lawn as she crossed from the gravel lot, cursing under her breath at the dress she'd chosen — too tight in the shoulders, too loose everywhere else, exactly the kind of miscalculation Delia would have caught in about four seconds if Mara had bothered to send a photo beforehand.
She hadn't. That felt worth noting, though she didn't let herself dwell on it.
Inside, the reception hall smelled of brine and lilies, that particular Cape Bellamy combination that meant somebody's uncle had hauled the flower arrangements in on his lobster boat that morning to save on delivery fees. It was that kind of town — old money leaning against work boots, seersucker jackets next to Carhartts, everyone's family tangled up with everyone else's in ways that took a genealogist or a good bartender to sort out. Ellie Marchetti had married into the Wexford family, whose money went back to shipping…
