The cottage was exactly as I remembered it from my childhood summers. It was a two-story shingle-sided structure, the paint a faded sage green that blended perfectly into the dune grass.
I found the key under a ceramic frog. The lock turned with a heavy, satisfying click. Inside, the air was still and smelled of beeswax and old paper. Dust motes danced in the shafts of afternoon sun.
I sat in Grandma Nora’s floral armchair. For the first time in eight years, I didn’t feel the need to check my phone. I didn’t feel the phantom vibration of a text from Derek asking where his dry cleaning was.
The next few days were a blur of physical labor. I didn’t hire a cleaning service; I wanted to do it myself. I polished the hardwood floors until they glowed like copper. I scrubbed the windows until the ocean view was crystal clear. I spent hours in the garden, hacking away at dead branches. Every weed I pulled felt like an uprooted bad memory.
I found a photo of Derek and me on the mantle. It was from our honeymoon. We looked happy—or at least, we looked like we were posing for a magazine. I stared at it for a long time. Then, I calmly removed the photo from the frame. I didn’t tear it up. I just slid it into a drawer with the junk mail. I replaced it with a photo of Grandma Nora, laughing in her garden.
By the fourth evening, the house breathed again. I sat on the back porch with a glass of wine, watching the sunset.
I thought about the future. For the first time, the image wasn’t blurry. I saw myself drinking coffee in this garden. I saw myself sketching designs at the large oak table. And in none of those images was there a man in a suit checking his watch.
My life entered a rhythm. I stopped stop by the Daily Crumb, the local bakery, every morning. The walk to the studio took exactly fifteen minutes.
Work was intense but not frantic. We ate lunch together—Grayson, myself, and the two junior draftsmen. We didn’t eat at our desks. We sat on the pier and ate sandwiches, watching the ferries. We talked about load-bearing beams and vintage wallpaper, but also about books and the best way to cook artichokes.
I left at five. Not six, not seven, not whenever the boss decided to go home. At five, I walked home, watered my lavender, and sat on my porch.
But the past has a way of knocking on the door, usually electronically. It was a Tuesday evening, about three weeks after I’d started at the studio. I was sketching a concept for the Silver Tides Inn lobby when my iPad buzzed. A video call from Maya.
“Tell me you’re drinking something alcoholic,” Maya greeted me.
“Herbal tea,” I said, holding up my mug.
“Wild. Boredom has officially claimed you,” she teased, then leaned in close to the camera. “Okay, sit down. Wait. You’re sitting. Get ready. I have intel.”
“About what?”
“About the Royal Wedding,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Derek and Lana. It is spiraling, Tessa. I ran into a friend who works for the catering company they hired. Apparently, Derek upgraded the package. Again.”
“Upgraded how?”
“They’re flying in a string quartet from New York,” Maya said. “And get this: Lana decided she didn’t like the chairs at Cedarline Manor, so they’re renting 500 gold Chiavari chairs. Five hundred! They only have 200 confirmed guests. But she said the room has to look ‘full.’ And Derek is paying for all of it. He’s dropping deposits like he’s playing with Monopoly money.”
I listened, but the familiar sting of jealousy didn’t come. In the past, news of Derek spending money on another woman would have made me feel inadequate. Now, all I felt was a cold, mathematical confusion.
“He can’t afford that,” I said quietly. “I managed our finances for eight years, Maya. Derek makes a good living, but he spends it as fast as it comes in. He doesn’t have the liquidity for a wedding like that.”
“My thoughts exactly!” Maya exclaimed. “But he’s walking around town like he just sold a tech startup. He’s leasing a new Porsche. He’s talking about buying a summer house in the Hamptons. It’s manic. Tessa, it’s like he’s trying to prove something to the universe.”
“He’s trying to prove he won,” I said. “He thinks if the wedding is expensive enough, it justifies the affair.”
The countdown to the “wedding of the century” ended on a Saturday in June. In Harbor Ridge, it was a perfect day.
I spent the morning hanging laundry on the line, enjoying the snap of the fabric in the wind. I trimmed my lavender. I marinated two chickens with lemon and rosemary. I had invited the team from Aurora Nest over for dinner. We had just gotten approval for our renovation plans—a huge milestone.
Around 4:00 PM, my kitchen smelled like heaven. I was chopping vegetables when my phone chimed. A photo from Maya. Caption: It’s starting.
The photo showed the ballroom at Cedarline Manor. It was draped in white silk. The centerpieces were towering arrangements of white orchids and lilies. The lighting was purple and gold. It looked aggressive. Expensive.
Followed by another photo: Guests arriving. I’ve never seen so many tuxedos in daylight. It’s ridiculous.
I wiped my hands on my apron and texted back: Have a drink for me. Try the shrimp.
“Tessa!” a voice called from the front yard.
It was Grayson, walking up the path with a bottle of wine and a rustic loaf of bread. Leo and Sam, the draftsmen, trailed behind him. They tumbled into the kitchen, bringing a burst of energy. Grayson looked around, taking in the space. He looked at the exposed wooden beams, the old stone fireplace, and the way the late afternoon light hit the worn oak floor.
“This place…” Grayson said softly. “It’s incredible, Tessa. You can feel the history.”
“It has good bones,” I said, smiling at him.
As we settled in the living room, opening the wine, my phone buzzed again. And again. Maya was live-texting the ceremony.
“Here comes the bride. The dress is… a choice. Very poofy. She looks like a marshmallow that fell into a glitter factory.”
“Derek is crying. But like, theatrical crying. He keeps checking to see if the camera is on him.”
“The vows. Oh my god, Tessa. He just promised to ‘build an empire’ with her. Who even says that at a wedding?”
Then a message: “Do you want me to FaceTime you? I can hide the phone under a napkin. You have to see this to believe how silly they look.”
I looked at the phone. I looked at the small screen offering a window into a ballroom 500 miles away. I could see Derek standing there. Sweating in his expensive suit. Desperate for validation.
I looked up. Grayson was laughing at a story Leo was telling. The fire was crackling in the hearth. The light in the room was golden and real. Not purple and artificial.
“No,” I texted back. “I don’t need to see it. I’m busy cooking for people who respect me. Have fun.”
I put the phone on silent and dropped it into a drawer. I shut it with a firm click.
We ate at the large wooden table, passing around plates of roast chicken. We talked about the hotel project. We argued playfully about whether brass or nickel hardware was more historically accurate for the lobby. The laughter was genuine. The warmth was real.
