By Nora Roberts

Homeport

The Reef

River’s End

Carolina Moon

The Villa

Midnight Bayou

Three Fates

Birthright

Northern Lights

Blue Smoke

Montana Sky

Angels Fall

High Noon

Divine Evil

Tribute

Sanctuary

Black Hills

The Search

Chasing Fire

The Witness

Whiskey Beach

The Collector

The Liar

The Obsession

Come Sundown

Shelter in Place

Under Currents

Hideaway

Legacy

Nightwork

The Born In Trilogy:

Born in Fire

Born in Ice

Born in Shame

The Bride Quartet:

Vision in White

A Bed of Roses

Savour the Moment

Happy Ever After

The Key Trilogy:

Key of Light

Key of Knowledge

Key of Valour

The Irish Trilogy:

Jewels of the Sun

Tears of the Moon

Heart of the Sea

Three Sisters Island Trilogy:

Dance upon the Air

Heaven and Earth

Face the Fire

The Sign of Seven Trilogy:

Blood Brothers

The Hollow

The Pagan Stone

Chesapeake Bay Quartet:

Sea Swept

Rising Tides

Inner Harbour

Chesapeake Blue

In the Garden Trilogy:

Blue Dahlia

Black Rose

Red Lily

The Circle Trilogy:

Morrigan’s Cross

Dance of the Gods

Valley of Silence

The Dream Trilogy:

Daring to Dream

Holding the Dream

Finding the Dream

The Inn Boonsboro Trilogy:

The Next Always

The Last Boyfriend

The Perfect Hope

The Cousins O’Dwyer Trilogy:

Dark Witch

Shadow Spell

Blood Magick

The Guardians Trilogy:

Stars of Fortune

Bay of Sighs

Island of Glass

The Chronicles of the One Trilogy:

Year One

Of Blood and Bone

The Rise of Magicks

The Dragon Heart Legacy Trilogy:

The Awakening

The Becoming

The Choice

Many of Nora Roberts’ other titles are now available in ebook and she is also the author of the In Death series using the pseudonym J.D. Robb.

NORA
ROBERTS

Inheritance

THE LOST BRIDE TRILOGY

Book One

Copyright

Published by Piatkus

ISBN: 978-0-34943-747-7

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © Nora Roberts, 2023

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

Piatkus

Little, Brown Book Group

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

www.littlebrown.co.uk

www.hachette.co.uk

For Benita

because I still hear your wonderful laugh

PART ONE

Betrayal

He was her man, but he done her wrong.

—“Frankie and Johnny”

Prologue

1806

I am a bride. I am a wife.

It thrills me to know my life began today, as today I am no longer Astrid Grandville.

I am Mrs. Collin Poole.

When we met, barely a year ago, I loved. I loved not just his handsome face, his fine figure, for his twin, Connor, has the same. I loved the smile in his deep green eyes, the tenor of his voice, the dogged intelligence of his mind.

I loved his fairness, his knowledge of the world, his quick laugh, his dedication to his family and the business they built.

He is a shipbuilder, my husband, as was his father before him. I knew Arthur Poole only briefly, but grieved for him when a fall from his horse took him from this world.

Now the brothers man the wheel of the business their father established.

But not today. Today is a holiday for all in Poole’s Bay, and in the home his father built there is music and dancing, food and wine, love and laughter.

On this wild cliff above the wide sea where Arthur built his sturdy stone castle, we make our home from this day, my beloved and I.

We will fill our home with children, children born of love. Perhaps we will create that first spark of light tonight. Our wedding night.

Arabelle, my dearest friend, a friend who will be a sister by law when she and Connor marry in the autumn, asked if I was nervous as I come—as she will in turn—to the marriage bed a maid.

No. Oh no, I am eager, eager to know what there is beyond the kisses that so heat my blood, so rouse my passions.

With my body I thee worship. I will keep my vows, one and all.

I look in the glass now in what will be our bedchamber, husband and wife, and see a woman so different from the girl she was.

I see the hair Collin calls sunlit silk worn up under a crown of roses with a short veil floating behind as my mother requested it. I see the white dress I worried so over. It floats as well, as I wanted, from the silk ribbon at its high waist.

I know I am not a beauty, whatever Collin tells me. But I am pleasing, especially today when the girl becomes a woman, and the bride becomes a wife.

I see the sparkle of the ring he gave me when he asked for my hand. When he said, I love you with all of my heart. My darling Astrid, I will never love another, but love you through all of my life, and love you even after death takes me.

Now that sparkle, that promise, that pledge is on my right hand, and the gold band, the circle that never ends, is on my left.

The woman I am becoming will love him throughout her life, and even after death takes her.

Now I must go back after this brief moment of quiet contemplation. Back to the music, the dancing, the celebration Collin insisted on to mark this day.

I will dance with my husband. I will embrace his family as my own, for so they are. As the pipers play, I will celebrate this first day of the long and happy life we will make together.

Or so I believed.

I turn to greet her as she comes into the room. I think she looks familiar, but before I can speak, she rushes toward me. I see the knife for an instant before she plunges it into me.

Oh, the pain! I will never forget it. The shock of it as the blade slices into my flesh, once, twice. And again, again.

I stagger back, unable to scream, unable to speak when she tosses the knife at my feet.

“You will never have him,” she says. “Die a bride, and know he’ll come to me. He will come to me, or by your blood on my tongue, bride after bride will join you in death.”

To my horror, she licked my blood off her finger. As I fall, she takes my wedding ring.

And this act is somehow worse than the pain.

“A marriage isn’t a marriage until it is consummated. Only a bride, forever lost. Be damned to you, Astrid Grandville.”

She leaves me there, dying on the floor near the marriage bed I will never share with my beloved. But my ring, my wedding ring. How can I leave this world without it?

The bloodstain spreads over the white of my wedding dress as that desperate need pushes me to my feet. In agony, I stagger to the door. My hands, slick with my own blood, are barely able to open it.

But I must find Collin. I must have my ring. With this ring I pledge thee. My sight dims; every breath is torment.

Someone screams, but the sound comes from another world. A world I am leaving.

I see him, only him as all else fades—the music, the pretty gowns and waistcoats, the faces blurring, the shouts going quiet.

He rushes to me, calling my name. He catches me in his strong arms as my legs give way.

I want to speak to him. My love, my life. But the circle, the promise of a long, happy life, was stolen.

I feel his tears on my face, and see the fear and the grief in those deep green eyes.

“Astrid, my love. Astrid. Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.”

As it all fades away, I speak my last words, give him my promise with my last breath.

“I never will.”

And I have not.

Chapter One

PRESENT DAY

Planning a wedding equaled insanity. Sonya decided that once you’d accepted that as incontrovertible fact, you could just get on with it.

If she had her way, she’d ditch the whole crazy circus. She’d buy a fabulous dress she could actually wear again, have family and close friends over for a backyard wedding. A short, sweet ceremony, then bust it all open for the best party ever.

No fancy, no formal, no fraught and fuss. And all the fun.

But Brandon wanted all the fancy and formal and fuss.

So she had a fabulous dress—that had cost the equivalent of two months’ mortgage, and she’d wear it for a matter of hours before she had it cleaned and boxed away.

They’d booked a fancy Back Bay hotel for a guest list that crept over three hundred and might come close to four before the invites went out.

She’d designed the invitations—she earned her living as a graphic designer, after all. Then again, so did Brandon, so he’d had input there. Maybe the invitations had crept up to more formal than she’d envisioned, but they were gorgeous.

They’d done the Save the Date deal months before, and spent the best part of a day with a photographer for engagement photos.

She’d wanted to tap a friend to take some candid shots, casual, fun shots. And had to admit she’d resented his absolute veto there. Still, the photos were lovely.

Sophisticated. A sleek, sophisticated ad for the perfect, happy, upwardly mobile couple.

They’d spent what seemed like days going over the menu—plated and formal, of course. Then cake. She liked cake—she’d go to the ground believing something was intrinsically wrong with anyone who didn’t like cake.

But Jesus, who knew building a wedding cake—flavors, filling, icing, design, tiers, topper—could become a study in frustration?

She did now.

And that didn’t count the groom’s cake. Or the petits fours with their initials in gold on the top.

Add the flowers, the music, seating charts, colors, themes, and despite the efficient and incredibly patient wedding planner, it all boiled down to nightmare.

She couldn’t wait until it was over and done.

And that probably made her an aberration.

Weren’t brides supposed to want the fuss and bother? Didn’t a bride want her wedding day to be special, unique, a fairy tale?

She did want it to be special, unique, and she very much wanted the happy ever after.

But.

And those buts had been coming fast over the last few weeks. But it didn’t feel like her day, her special, unique, gloriously exciting day. At all. Somehow, it had slipped right out of her control. When she reminded herself it was Brandon’s wedding day, too, and he should have some say, it struck her he had all the say.

None of it reflected her vision or her wishes. It clearly reflected all of his.

And if their vision and wishes were so dramatically different, didn’t that mean they just weren’t suited?

If she dwelled on that, she worried. Like she worried when they spent three Saturdays house hunting and he pushed for the sleek, contemporary McMansion and she wanted the rambling old house with character.

But.

If she didn’t dwell on it, if she remembered the last eighteen months of being a couple, she couldn’t find anything to worry about.

A wedding day was just one day, and why shouldn’t Brandon have the fuss he wanted? A house? It’s what you put inside it that counted. They’d find a compromise, and make it a home.

Wedding jitters, she told herself. The Big Reality was setting in. And she had proof—literally—in the wedding invitation proof in her bag.

Accepting jitters, she canceled an appointment with the florist—couldn’t face it—and headed home.

She’d have a couple of quiet hours. Brandon had some groom thing to deal with, so she’d have the place to herself until he got home.

She decreed when he did, they’d open a bottle of wine, go over the wedding invitation proof, finalize that, then finalize the ever-growing guest list. Order the invitations, and be done with it—since he’d hired a calligrapher to address them.

Something she could’ve done, but hey, she wouldn’t complain about not addressing a couple hundred invitations.

She pushed through Boston’s Saturday traffic with the windows down and the music up. In eight weeks, she thought, the color would have exploded with fall—her favorite season. And all this would be behind her.

She was twenty-eight, closing in fast on twenty-nine and the end of another decade. She was ready to settle down, start a family. And in eight weeks, she’d marry the man she loved.

Brandon Wise—smart, talented, romantic. A man who’d taken it slow and easy when she’d been cautious about starting a relationship with a coworker.

He’d won her over—and she’d enjoyed being won over.

They rarely fought. He was incredibly sweet to her mother, and that mattered. He enjoyed the company of her friends, and she enjoyed the company of his.

Sure, she could think of a lot of ways they diverged. He’d go to a cocktail party, dinner party, art opening—name the social event—every night. And she needed to spread those things out, hold on to the quiet-at-home times.

He had more shoes than she did—and she liked shoes.

When he talked about buying a house, he talked about grounds crews, and she imagined mowing the grass and planting a garden.

But who wanted to marry and live with a clone?

Differences added variety.

By the time she parked, she regretted canceling the appointment with the florist. She should’ve taken care of it. Flowers, like cake, should make you happy.

She’d make up for it by tossing something together for dinner.

A ploy to head off a let’s-eat-out suggestion? she considered as she walked to her side of the duplex. Maybe, but he’d come home to a meal in progress, a bottle of wine, and that was a good deal.

They’d eat, drink, and finalize that damn guest list.

A big check mark in the done column would lift a weight.

Weight lifted, they could spend Saturday night naked in bed.

She heard music when she opened the door and stepped into the foyer. And saw, a few feet ahead as the foyer gave way to the living room, a woman’s shoe.

A red stiletto.

She set her purse on the entrance table, dropped her keys in the bowl she kept there. And slowly bent down to pick up the shoe.

Its mate lay on its side near the turn toward the bedroom, along with a white, full-skirted, strapless dress.

Music flowed out of the bedroom, a quiet, sexy score punctuated by a woman’s breathless cries and moans.

Brandon liked having music on during sex, she thought dully. He made a point of it.

She’d found it endearing. Once.

Since they hadn’t bothered to shut the bedroom door, she stepped over the discarded dress, kicked the man’s shirt and trousers out of the way.

Who knew, she thought, that love could snuff out like a candle in a stiff breeze? And leave no trace. None at all.

She watched her fiancé’s ass grind as he thrust into the woman under him. The woman whose legs were wrapped around his waist as she called out his name.

She looked down at the shoe still in her hand, looked at that naked, cheating ass.

When she flung it, when it struck, she thought: Oh yeah, that’ll leave a mark.

He reared up, scrambled around. The woman managed a quick shriek and tried to drag up the rumpled sheet.

“Sonya.”

“Shut the fuck up,” she snapped at him. “Jesus Christ, Tracie, you’re my cousin. You’re part of the bridal party.”

Sobbing, Tracie dragged harder at the sheets.

“Sonya, listen—”

“I said shut the fuck up. I’m in the middle of a goddamn cliché. Get dressed, get out. Both of you.”

“I’m sorry.” Still sobbing, Tracie snatched at the bra and panties on the floor. “I’m so—”

“Don’t speak to me. Don’t ever speak to me again. If your mother wasn’t my aunt, and someone I’m very fond of, I’d kick your slut ass here and now. Keep your mouth shut and get out of my house.”

Tracie grabbed the dress on the run, dragging it over her head, sans underwear, as she went. She didn’t bother with the shoes.

She didn’t shut the door behind her.

“Sonya. I have no excuse. I slipped, I—”

“I see. You slipped, and your clothes just tossed themselves around the room while you fell naked on my cousin. Get out, Brandon. You can get out naked or pull on some clothes first. But get out of my house.”

“Ours,” he began.

“My name’s on the mortgage.”

“Sweetheart—”

“You’d seriously dare call me that? Try it again, and I swear to God you’ll leave bleeding. I said get out.”

He dragged on khakis. “We need to talk. You just need to calm down so I— Where are you going?”

“To get my phone.” She walked to her purse, took it out. “To call the police so they can remove you from my home.”

“Now, Sonya.” The way he said it took on that you’re-just-adorable tone. “You’re not going to call the cops.”

She stood, phone in hand, studying him. Gym fit, dark blond hair tousled from another woman’s hands. The smooth, handsome face, the killer blue eyes.

“If you really believe I won’t, you don’t know me at all.” She picked his keys out of the bowl, removed the key to the house, tossed the rest out the door. “Get out.”

“I need shoes.”

She opened the coat closet, pulled out a pair of his slides, tossed them at him. “Make do, and go, or I start screaming and calling nine-one-one.”

He bent, picked up the slides, slipped them on. “We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down.”

“When it comes to you, to this? Consider that the far side of never.”

She slammed the door behind him, turned the security bolt.

And waited for the tears, the despair, the misery. None of it, she decided, could burn through the rage.

She looked at the phone in her hand again.

Taking deep breaths, she walked to the sofa, sat. She started to send a text, realized she couldn’t manage it the way her hands shook.

She called instead.

“Hey!”

“Cleo, can you come over? I really need you to come over now.”

“Wedding crisis?”

“You could say. Please.”

Amusement turned to concern. “You okay?”

“Not really, no. Can you come?”

“Sure. I’m on my way. Whatever it is, Sonya, we’ll fix it. Give me ten.”

I fixed it already, Sonya thought, and set the phone down.

On her second glass of wine, Cleo circled the living room. Long legs in tiny white shorts covered the ground. She had her mass of curling burnt-honey hair bundled back in weekend-at-home mode.

Her jungle-cat eyes flashed.

The more incensed she became, the more the traces of her Louisiana childhood flowed over the heat. And the calmer Sonya felt. This, Sonya decided, was love.

“That bastard. That lying, cheating, sonofabitching bastard. And Tracie? I don’t even have words slimy enough. Your own cousin! And that—that miserable, big-titted slut was helping me plan your wedding shower.”

“She ugly cried.”

“Not enough. Not close to enough. Oh, oh, she’s going to hear from me. You’d better believe she’s going to feel my wrath. Two-faced whore-bitch.”

“I love you, Cleo Fabares. You’re the best.”

“Oh, baby.” Dropping back down on the couch, Cleo set her wine aside to pull Sonya into a fierce embrace. “I’m sorry. I’m just so sorry.”

“I know.”

“What do you want to do?” Cleo pulled back, looked at Sonya with her long-lidded tawny eyes. “Tell me what you want, and it’s done. Murder? Decapitation? Castration?”

For the first time since she’d walked in the door, Sonya smiled. “Would you use your great-grandfather Harurto’s samurai sword?”

“With pleasure.”

“Let’s keep that in reserve.”

“Why aren’t you screaming? Why aren’t you kicking something? I want to kick something. I want to kick Brandon in the balls. First, I want to go buy a pair of combat boots so I can wear them while I kick him in the balls. Then I want to go buy brass knuckles so I can wear them when I punch Tracie in the face.

“But that’s just me,” she added, and picked up her wine again. “What do you want to do?”

“I’m doing it. I’m sitting here drinking wine and watching my best friend get pissed off and outraged for me.” Sonya took Cleo’s free hand. “She ugly cried; I didn’t.”

“If you need to, I’ve got a shoulder right here.”

“I don’t. I’m not sure what that says about me. It was like walking into a scene in a movie. The clueless bride-to-be discovers her fiancé and one of her bridesmaids naked in bed.”

“You’re not clueless.”

“Well, I was about this, so … Beyoncé’s ‘Video Phone’ was playing.”

“Come on.”

“Seriously.”

Cleo struggled against the laugh. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. When I think … If I hadn’t canceled that appointment, if I hadn’t walked in on them—”

Now Sonya pushed up to circle the room, and her legs in running-Saturday-errands cropped jeans ate up the floor. She gestured with her wineglass with one hand, shoved the other through her hair.

And dragged out the tie that held her maple-syrup-brown hair out of its long, straight tail.

“That’s what gets me, Cleo. Really, fucking gets me. I’d have gone through with it. I’d have married the cheating asshole. And I’d’ve married him his way, and that kills me. The hotel ballroom he wanted, the big, slick production of it he wanted, the stupid five-tier wedding cake with the fondant and gold sugar design he wanted.

“How the hell did I let myself get lost in there?”

“Looks like you’re found now. I liked him. I actually liked him, and that kills me. Maybe I thought the wedding was over-the-top, for you, but hell, it’s the day, right? So why not? But—and before I get to the but, let me say it’s good to see you found your rage again.”

“Oh, never lost that. I just liked seeing yours take over awhile.”

“Okay. But. You did cancel the appointment, you did walk in on them. And you’re not going to marry the asshole. The fates looked out for you.”

“If fate looked out for me, I’d have told him to get lost a long time ago.”

“You need more wine.”

“Oh, I’m going to get it. And a lot of it.”

Sonya pressed her fingers to her eyes, not against tears, but sheer frustration.

“Cleo, I have to cancel everything. The hotel, the photographer, the videographer, the cake, the flowers. Jesus, the stupid string quartet I never wanted, the band. I’m going to lose the deposits. Damn it, I just picked up the proof for the invitations. When I think of the hours and hours I worked on that design.”

“Keep it. We’ll put a curse on it, bury it and a pair of his boxers under a full moon. And every time he thinks about roping another woman in, he’ll get a chronic case of jock itch.”

“That’s your Creole granny talking.”

“Bien sûr. I’ll help you cancel everything, and maybe we can sweet-talk some of the deposits back. And you bill the bastard for half of the rest. I never liked that you laid all the money out.”

After huffing out a breath, Cleo slugged back more wine.

“And when I think about that, and I really look? I realize I didn’t like him as much as I kept telling myself I did.”

“He was paying for the rehearsal dinner, the honeymoon. Doesn’t matter. Lesson learned. I could really use some help with the cancellations. Oh God, the registry.”

Because it jittered, Sonya pressed a hand to her stomach.

“We just finalized the gift registry. And we had appointments tomorrow to look at two houses.”

“What we’re going to do is drink more wine. We’ll order pizza. You’ll lend me something to sleep in, and we’ll go over everything that needs to be done.”

“You’re going to stay?”

“Whenever my best friend, my college roomie, my partner in crime and sister of the heart finds her fiancé in bed with her cousin, I spend the night.”

For the first time, Sonya felt tears sting her eyes. But not from sorrow or pain, from sheer gratitude.

“Thanks. Just the thought of dealing with all this makes me want to crawl in a hole. No,” she corrected. “It makes me want to bury Brandon in one. I—” She broke off at the knock on the door, glanced over. “You don’t think …”

Cleo’s tiger eyes flashed. “Let me answer. I wish I had those combat boots, but a knee in the balls works.”

Chapter Two

But when Cleo yanked open the door, prepared for battle, Sonya’s mother, Winter, rushed in. She squeezed Cleo’s hand first, then went straight to her daughter.

“Honey, baby, I’m so sorry.” She wrapped Sonya tight, swayed. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry. He’s not worth it.” Turning her head, she pressed her lips to Sonya’s cheek. “I know you love him, but—”

“I don’t. I stopped. I don’t know if it’s supposed to work like that, but I stopped.”

“I don’t know either.” Winter drew back, cupped her daughter’s face, studied it. “But if it’s true, I’m glad. Anybody who hurts my girl doesn’t deserve love. I’m so glad you’re here, Cleo.” She reached back for Cleo’s hand.

“How do you know about it?” Sonya asked.

“Tracie—who will hear from me—went straight to her mother. Blubbering. Can I get in on that wine?”

“I’ll get you a glass,” Cleo said.

“Summer called me—after she’d mopped Tracie up and read her the riot act. Sonya, you know Summer loves you, so I hope you don’t blame her. She’s equal parts furious, mortified, and devastated.”

“I don’t blame her. Of course I don’t. Tracie’s an adult. An adult slut.”

“She—Tracie—claims it just happened. Thanks, sweetie,” she said when Cleo handed her a glass of wine. “What bullshit. Landing in bed with your cousin’s fiancé doesn’t just happen. And in your cousin’s house? In your cousin’s bed?”

“Red stilettos, a low-cut white dress, and sexy underwear. Just happened, my ass. She’s welcome to him.”

“I can promise you he won’t be welcome in my sister’s house. Now, I’m going to go strip those sheets off your bed.”

“I already did. I did that after I called Cleo. I thought about burning them, but they’re really good sheets. I’m going to send them out for laundering because I’m not going to wash them myself. Then I’ll donate them.”

Winter grabbed her into another hug, swayed with it.

“That’s my girl. You’re really all right?”

“I’m really mad. I’m so damn mad, and furious with myself for not seeing what he was.”

“I didn’t see it. I think I’m a pretty good judge of character, and I didn’t see it. You know what they say about hindsight. I can look back and say, oh sure, that, and that and there. I should’ve known. What good does that do?

“I’m going to sit.”

And she did.

“I was so worried I’d find you heartbroken that I didn’t have room to let the anger out. Now that I know you’re not? The hell with him.”

“The hell with him,” Cleo echoed, and walked over to tap her glass to Winter’s.

“Okay.” Sonya did the same. “The hell with him.”

“You need to change the locks.”

“I took his key, Mom.”

“Change them anyway. Where do you think he’ll go?”

“Don’t know.” Sonya toasted again. “Don’t care.”

“No, really. I’ve got another bottle of wine in the car. And boxes the nice young man at the liquor store gave me. We can use them to pack up his things—clean sweep. And I’ll take them to him.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Oh, my only child, I insist.” Iced fury came into her mother’s changeable hazel eyes. “He’d probably go to Jerry’s, wouldn’t he? Best man, close friend. I can go by on my way home and dump them.”

“I love you, Winter.” Cleo sat beside her, snuggled in. “I love my mama, and I love you. Sonya and I hit the mama lottery. Maybe when we’re packing up his crap, some of those cashmere sweaters he’s so fond of end up with little pulls and snags. And it would be a shame if a couple of his fine leather jackets somehow ran into something sharp.”

“Girlfriends are the best friends,” Winter said. “We could do that, or we could let that go knowing he lost the best thing he could’ve had in his life. I’m betting he knows it.”

“I still want to bury a pair of his boxers under a full moon. Curse him with chronic jock itch.”

Winter smiled. “That seems fair. Let’s go get those boxes.”

They packed. His two tablets, his laptop, the Alexa. His collection of watches, cuff links. Shoes. So many shoes.

Sonya remembered his luggage—Globe-Trotter, of course—so they packed those pieces with shirts, jackets, sweaters, suits, sportswear.

They boxed up toiletries.

“He’s got more skin and hair products than I do.” Cleo held up an unopened package of moisturizer. “Do you know what this brand costs? And he’s got an unopened spare?”

“Keep it,” Sonya told her. “Hell, take anything you want.”

“Only if it’s unopened. Anything else has his cooties in it. Are you sure you don’t want it?”

“Absolutely. I don’t want any of it.”

“Then I’ll take it. Winter, how about we split anything that’s still sealed. We’ve got eye gel—and eye masks—serum. I had a sample of this serum once, and it’s great. I’m making a pile.”

Winter just nodded, stepped back, hands on hips. She’d used one of Sonya’s hair ties to pull her chin-length hair—nearly the same shade as her daughter’s—back in a stubby tail. Her eyes, hazel to Sonya’s deep green, scanned the now loaded bathroom counter.

“We’re going to need more boxes.”

“Screw boxes,” Sonya decided. “I have trash bags. He has so much stuff! Where am I in this? Why didn’t I notice I have half the space he did? He had the entire closet in the spare room, and more than half in the main bedroom closet. And somehow he took over the desk in the spare room for work, and I ended up using the dining room table.”

“Erosion happens gradually.” Winter rubbed Sonya’s shoulders. “A rock’s strong, but it doesn’t notice how the water’s wearing it away.”

“You look so much alike,” Cleo murmured. “The shape of your faces—that heart shape, your hair color. That peaches and cream skin that tells me I need this high-dollar skin care more than either of you.”

“You have gorgeous skin,” Winter told her. “Gold dust on caramel, a gift from your wonderfully diverse ancestry. My girl has her father’s eyes.”

Winter gave Sonya a quick hug. “He’d have kicked Brandon’s ass. I don’t think I’d have tried to stop him. Andrew MacTavish was a gentle man, but when roused?” She gave Sonya another squeeze. “Stand back.”

Then she nodded. “Trash bags. Yeah, seems fair. More than.”

“I’ll get them. And order the pizza,” Cleo offered. “We’re closing in on done.”

“She’s a treasure,” Winter said when Cleo went out.

“I know. She says the fates saw to it we were roommates in college.”

“What do you say?”

“Luck of the draw—really lucky for me.”

“For both of you. Your art, your work, didn’t hurt. Now she’s an illustrator, you’re a graphic designer. I’m proud of both of you.”

“I need to go into work Monday. So will he. I should never have gotten involved with someone at work.”

“Stop.” Winter turned her around. “Don’t let what he did, what he is shake who you are or what you do. You loved him enough to plan a life with him. You thought he loved you enough to do the same.”

“I was wrong.”

“You were wrong,” Winter agreed. “The mistake wasn’t in loving someone. He wasn’t faithful, and you ended it. You know what I haven’t heard from you? What did I do wrong? Why wasn’t I enough? What did he see in her he didn’t in me?”

“I—Mom—”

“You know why I haven’t heard that? Because you’re too smart to fall in that ditch. You know this isn’t about you. It’s about him. His character. You believed in him. He proved you wrong. That’s all there is to it. So clean sweep, close the book, lock the door. Change the locks,” she amended, “then lock the door.”

“I’ll call a locksmith tomorrow. He’ll corner me—or try to—at work on Monday.”

“And you’ll deal with it.”

“I’ll deal with it.” She shut her eyes. “I’m embarrassed.”

“Of course you are. Anyone would be, even when it’s not their embarrassment. So, Sonya Grace MacTavish, make it his embarrassment.”

She kissed Sonya’s forehead. “That—especially to someone like Brandon? It’s more painful than chronic jock itch.”

They ate pizza, and while Sonya and Cleo drank more wine, Winter switched off to iced tea. Together, they made a plan. Then they carted boxes, suitcases, and Hefty bags out to the car.

On the second trip, her neighbor stepped out of her side of the duplex.

“Do you all need some help with that? Bill’s home. He’d give you a hand.”

Winter sent her a winning smile. “Thanks, Donna. If he wouldn’t mind. We’ve got a couple more loads.”

“No problem. Bill! Come give Sonya a hand.” She put a hand on her hip, a woman with three grown children who’d downsized with her husband and had moved into the duplex just over a year before.

A nice couple, Sonya thought, neighborly but not pushy. Important qualities, in her view, when you shared a common wall.

Bill came out in a Red Sox T-shirt and cargo shorts that showed off his knobby knees.

“Moving out on us?” He grinned when he said it, making it a joke.

Sonya figured she’d had just enough wine.

“I’m booting Brandon out, or I already did after I found him naked in bed with my cousin Tracie.”

Inside his scruffy goatee, Bill’s mouth dropped open. On the other hand, his wife Donna’s mouth thinned.

“Is that the blonde with the big boobs?”

“Why, yes, it is. You might have seen her run out of the house a few hours ago barefoot and holding her underwear.”

“No, and I’m sorry I missed it. I’m sorry it happened. But I’m going to tell you I’ve seen her come around twice before when you weren’t home. I thought they were working on some surprise for you, for the wedding maybe. But … I won’t lie. I wondered.”

“Twice before today?”

“That I saw. Last Saturday when I was washing windows, and it must’ve been about three weeks ago. I’d taken some cookies to Marlene’s across the street. Her little boy’s fond of my snickerdoodles. I was just leaving to come home. So, yeah, that’s Saturday again, three weeks back.”

“We went to the salon,” Cleo said, “for you to try out styles for the wedding, and shoe shopping for wedding shoes.”

“I remember,” Sonya murmured.

“I’m sorry it happened,” Donna said again. “But I’m glad you found out sooner than later. Bill, go on and get the rest of that douchebag’s stuff out of Sonya’s house.

“Anything else we can help you with,” she added, “you just ask.”

“At least three times,” Sonya said when they’d loaded the last of it. “Now I have to get rid of the bed. Maybe the couch. They might’ve used the couch. Or God knows where else.”

“No, you don’t. I’m going to white sage the whole place.”

She looked at Cleo. “Seriously?”

“Deadly. I might have some in my purse. Otherwise, I’ll run home and get some. We are clearing him out, and her. And anyone else he might’ve banged in there. Sorry, Son, but maybe.”

“Yeah.” Though it made her a little sick, she nodded. “Maybe.”

Now she needed to get tested, she realized, and that added to the humiliation. She’d need to get tested, just in case.

“Now I wish we’d sliced up those leather jackets. And I’m going to have another conversation with Summer. But first, I’m dumping all of his things at Jerry’s, whether he’s there or not.”

Winter grabbed Sonya in another hug, a fierce one. “We’re going to consider this a narrow and welcome escape.”

“If he’s there,” Cleo said, “can you kick him in the balls?”

“I might just. I’ll be here tomorrow. We’ll start making those calls.”

“Thanks.”

When Winter drove away, Cleo put an arm around Sonya’s shoulders.

“More wine?”

“Oh yeah. Can we bury Tracie’s slut shoes with Brandon’s boxers? Give her chronic yeast infections?”

“Now you’re talking.”

On Monday morning, Sonya dressed carefully. The red suit helped her feel powerful, in control. She spent time working her hair into a sleek twist, and that made her feel cool and detached.

She’d felt the opposite on Sunday when Brandon texted her—four times, before she’d listened to Cleo and her mother and blocked his number.

We have to talk. We can’t throw everything away because I made a terrible mistake. You know I love you. We have to talk. You have to let me explain.

Every text had coiled up her anger. And the anger made her feel weak and stupid.

Today, she had to face him. She needed to feel powerful and cool and detached.

When she’d chosen jewelry—bold—and perfected her makeup, she went out to where Cleo sat, half dozing over coffee.

“Well?”

Sonya turned a circle.

“And that’s a wow. Killer look, Son. A ‘here’s what you’ll never tap again, asshole’ look.”

“That’s what I aimed for.”

“Direct hit. Listen, I’m going to take the spare key and your wedding binder. I’ll start canceling what we couldn’t reach on a Sunday.”

“Cleo, you’ve already given me Saturday and all day yesterday.”

“And I go nowhere until the locksmith comes today to change those locks, then I’m taking the binder and the key home with me. I’m in a good place on my project to take a few hours. So I’ll finish the rest of the calls. I’m guessing since there were alterations, you can’t just return the wedding dress.”

“No-return policy. Mom paid for that ridiculously expensive dress, Cleo.”

“I know. But I bet this isn’t the first time they’ve had this happen. So I’ll call, ask them for advice. Consignment shop, eBay, who knows, maybe they have someone who’ll buy it at a discount. I’m going to handle the dress for you, and what else I can. And you know you’d do the same for me.”

“I would. And when this is behind us, I’m taking you for a weekend. A spa weekend. Mom, too. Yours if she can fly up. Girls’ trip in lieu of honeymoon.”

“I’m all in for that. Are you ready to go kick balls?”

“They’re not combat boots, but they’ll do.”

As she drove through the madness of Boston morning commute traffic, Sonya reviewed her plan. In theory, it seemed simple.

She’d ask for a few minutes to speak with either of the co-owners of By Design—and keep that simple, too.

She’d called off the wedding after realizing she and Brandon weren’t suited, and weren’t ready for marriage. No further details necessary.

Due to the stress of that decision, she’d request, for the next few months, at least, she and Brandon not be assigned to the same project.

Brandon had seniority. While she’d worked at By Design for seven years, including an internship, he had nearly ten in. But they’d both climbed up the ranks, had their own offices, often headed projects, put their own teams together.

He specialized in advertising—billboards, television, and internet ads. And he was good, she couldn’t deny it. He was very, very good. The dickhead.

Though digital art—websites, banners, social media—comprised the bulk of her work, she also designed visuals for companies and individuals. Created looks—consistency—in logos, business cards, letterheads, those websites, physical and digital signs.

Still, it was a small, privately owned company—exactly the kind of company she’d hoped to work for—and she and Brandon often worked on different parts of the same project.

She’d just ask for some breathing room. And promise to maintain a courteous, professional relationship with Brandon in the workplace.

Simple, she thought. Reasonable and clean.

Of course, in a small, privately owned company, there would be gossip. She’d handle it. In fact—despite Cleo’s objections—she’d take the blame.

Simpler, cleaner to say she’d realized she wasn’t ready, that she and Brandon had different goals in life. His being to screw her cousin, but no point in mentioning that.

And in a few weeks, the talk would die out, replaced by some other drama.

She could wait until then.

Meanwhile, she had no doubt Brandon would find some way to corner her. So she’d meet that head-on. She’d make it clear to him, in private, face-to-face, that they were done. And she’d do that calmly, dispassionately.

He’d hate the calm and dispassion, she thought, and smiled as she pulled into the employee parking of the two-story refurbished factory that housed By Design.

She went in the side door, straight into what she thought of as the Nesting Area. She’d started there, right out of college, at one of the workstations. And most who’d man those stations now, working on assignments, assisting designers, hoping to make their own mark, would be as green and eager as she’d been.

Some would move up, some would move out, others would take a leap and strike out on their own.

She’d moved up, happy with the rhythm and tone of her workplace. From production artist to graphic designer and now senior graphic designer.

She’d come in early deliberately, and walked straight through to her office.

Not big, not grand, but it had a window, and she’d put her treasured African violet, Xena, in that stream of southern exposure. It rewarded her with pretty pink blossoms and glossy green leaves.

She set her briefcase on her desk, glanced at her mood board.

She routinely created a physical as well as digital mood board for a project. The digital—easy to share, to change. But the physical meant she could stand, shift, study from different angles.

And this one, laying out the plan, the visual for a start-up company, just worked.

Baby Mine, founded by crafty sisters, created handmade baby clothes—no charge for personalization if desired. For preemies—specific to the needs of infants in the NICU—and up to eighteen months.

For the logo, she’d drawn an infant in an old-fashioned cradle with a mobile overhead spelling out the company name in softly rounded fonts, in quiet pastels.

Soft, sweet—that’s what a parent wanted for their baby.

The website visual followed that tone, adding in the easy care, the lovingly handcrafted accessories, photos not just of the products but of babies wearing the products, or parents using the blankets, the burp cloths.

Various social media posts would increase those visuals, consistently. And a fresh and, again, consistent, look for the sisters’ blog.

And now that they’d moved their little company out of their homes and into an actual workshop, she’d carried that design into the physical space.

A few finishing touches, and they’d be off and running.

She’d so much rather sit down and work on those finishing touches than air her personal business with her bosses.

But it had to be done.

She started out. She heard voices now, artists coming into the Nesting Area, or hitting the break room for coffee before they settled in.

She walked up the metal stairs to the second floor. It held the directors’ offices—art, design, creative—and their assistants’ work areas, the presentation room where designers pitched their concepts and completed work to the directors, the owners’ offices, a second, snazzier break room.

Since Laine Cohen had hired her, she went there first, knocked.

“Come!”

When she opened the door, she saw Laine, hair a sharp, angled wedge of mahogany hair, bright blue readers dangling from the silver chain around her neck, at her desk. Her partner sat on the corner of her L-shaped workstation.

The window behind her offered a view of the Boston Common on a perfect summer day. Posters of designs created in-house lined her walls. She rotated them every few months.

Sonya currently had one displayed. So did Brandon.

And she saw, when Laine and Matt Berry looked at her, they already knew.

Matt, slim in chinos and a pink polo, slid off the desk. As usual, he had his glossy blond hair pulled back in a tail. A gold hoop winked in his left ear.

“I wonder if I could have a couple of minutes,” Sonya began.

“Of course, of course.” Matt gestured her in. “Close the door, have a seat. How are you, Sonya?”

“I’m all right, thanks. I—”

“Laine and I were just talking about you taking a few days off.”

So Brandon had beaten her to it, she thought. And in his way.

“I appreciate that, but I don’t need time off. I hope to finalize the Baby Mine account today, and I hope to present some initial designs on the Kettering account by the end of the day.”

The quiet sympathy in Matt’s eyes, the speculation in Laine’s had Sonya tossing the plan out the window.

“I take it you heard we’ve called off the wedding.”

“Brandon called me last night.” All sympathy and comfort, Matt rubbed her arm. “He’s upset, of course, but he feels—I agree—you just need a little space, a little time. Planning a wedding is beyond stressful. I can still remember snapping and snarling at Wayne when we were planning ours.”

“He contacted you, our boss, on a Sunday night, to tell you I was stressed over wedding planning?”

“We’re not just bosses. We’re family here. We hope everyone here knows our door is always open if there’s a problem. Isn’t that right, Laine?”

“Of course. And yes, weddings are stressful to plan. I helped plan my daughter’s last year, so I know. I’ve also seen you handle all manner of stress, Sonya. So I was surprised when Matt told me you’d had a kind of crisis over the wedding details.”

“I had a crisis?” Your mistake, Brandon, she thought, trying to draw me as hysterical. On to Plan B, designed on the spot. “I guess you could call it that.”

“And nothing to be ashamed of,” Matt assured her. “You take a break, pamper yourself a little. I’m sure you and Brandon will work this all out.”

“That’s not going to happen. I had this crisis, since we’re calling it that, when I got home unexpectedly early Saturday afternoon and found Brandon in bed with my cousin. Imagine my surprise. And imagine my additional surprise when I learned that wasn’t the first time.

“So there’s not going to be a wedding. I don’t need or want time off. I came in this morning with no intention of telling you the embarrassing details of my decision, but to let you know I’d changed my mind regarding the wedding. And to ask if, because the situation would be awkward for a time, Brandon and I aren’t assigned to the same project.”

“I— Are you sure about the … the circumstances?”

“Oh please, Matt.” Laine gave him an eye roll. “I think Sonya’s sure what she saw with her own eyes. I’m very sorry to hear it.”

“Yes. God. I’m sorry. Do you want some tea? I can get you some tea.”

“No, thanks. Thank you. I’m fine. I really am. I know it’s awkward, but I give you my word I’ll behave professionally in the workplace.”

“We’ll hold you to that word,” Laine said. “And we’ll expect the same from Brandon. You recently finished a project together.”

“Two weeks ago. We don’t have any mutual projects right now.”

“We’ll keep it that way, for now. Sonya, if you want a day or two, to decompress, and to handle what I know must be a slew of cancellations, notifications, you can certainly have that time.”

Laine lifted her hands. “And any help we can offer.”

“Thank you, really. I’ve got help with the details, and I’d honestly rather work. I’m sorry to bring all this in to you.”

“Workplace romances.” Laine smiled a little. “Who hasn’t been there? The door is open, Sonya, if you decide you need that time.”

“I appreciate it.” She rose. “I’m going to get to work.”

It didn’t surprise her to find Brandon waiting between the office and the stairs.

“We need to talk.”

When he reached for her arm, she stepped back. “Don’t put your hands on me.”

“We’re not having this discussion out here.” He gestured toward the door of the presentation room. “I prefer to keep my personal business private.”

“Then you shouldn’t have called Matt last night and lied to him.” But she walked through the door.

“I certainly didn’t lie.” He shut the door with a snap. “I told him you’d called off the wedding. You were upset and stressed.”

“You failed to mention why.”

He had the grace—or the wit, she thought—to look shamed and sorrowful.

“Listen, Sonya, nobody feels worse about what happened than I do. I made a terrible mistake, and I hurt you. I was weak, stupid. I panicked.”

She smiled, oh so pleasantly. “I thought you slipped.”

“Please.” He reached for her again.

“Touch me, and you’ll be up on charges of harassment and inappropriate behavior in the workplace. Try it and see.”

“I know you’re hurt, you’re angry. You have every right to be. What I did … a moment’s weakness. That panic. The wedding, all the details, the decisions, it all started to weigh on me, and I panicked. Then Tracie shows up, and she, well, she came on to me. Hard. And I … I just gave in.”

He pressed a hand to his heart. “I’m begging you to forgive me. To give me another chance to prove to you how much you mean to me.”

“You slipped, you panicked, you gave in. And had sex with my cousin in the bed we shared while I was out picking up the proof for our wedding invitations. And I only know you had sex with my cousin in the bed we shared because I canceled the appointment with the wedding florist.”

“It was a horrible mistake, sweetheart. I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Please forgive me. It was one horrible mistake. She means nothing to me. You mean everything. It was just sex.”

She looked at him, really looked, and saw so far beyond the golden good looks. And because she saw the cheat, the liar, it made her a little sick all over again.

“I’m amazed you think this could work. I’m amazed you think I’m just that stupid.”

“I’m asking for forgiveness.” Shame and sorrow made a quick turn into indignant.

“How can you be so cold, so unforgiving? You sent your mother to Jerry’s, for God’s sake, with all my belongings. You put my things in trash bags, like we had nothing together.”

“I ran out of boxes and suitcases.”

“You went running to your mother with our personal business. That’s pathetic.”

“No, actually, Tracie went running to hers—who happens to be my mother’s sister. But regardless, you got your things back, and we’re done.”

“It’s no wonder I gave in to someone warm, someone passionate when you’re so fucking cold.”

“Lucky escape for both of us then, isn’t it? Going forward, since you tried your end run with Matt, I’ve told them all of it. Not my intention, which was to simply let them know I’d called off the wedding. But I refuse to let you dump this on me. I’ve given my word I’ll behave professionally with you, and they expect you to do the same.”

Indignation snapped back, of the righteous sort.

“You couldn’t wait to smear me to the bosses. I was human. Tracie ambushed me, she was all over me, and I was human.”

“That one time? How about the Saturday before? Or two weeks before that? Was it just being human when the two of you romped around naked then, too?”

“You spied on me? That’s how you handle problems, issues? By spying on me? That’s contemptible.”

“I didn’t have to. You and Tracie didn’t cover your tracks very well. We’re done. I just want to get on with my life, and I suggest you get on with yours.”

“If you think you’ll get away with spreading this around the company—”

“I don’t intend to talk about any of this. Your mileage may vary. I’ve canceled the venue, the band, and so on. All of it. I’ll send you a bill for half the nonrefundable deposits.”

“Good luck getting a dime out of me.”

“I figured that. I’ll just write it off as a bad investment. Now get out of my way. I’m going to work.”

“You’re not wearing the ring I put on your finger. I want it back.”

When she smiled, when she smiled and meant it, it felt so damn good.

“Let me echo your good luck sentiment there. Legally, it’s mine. I’m selling it and donating the money to a women’s shelter. You need to move, Brandon, or I call Laine’s office and report you.”

He stepped aside.

“You’ll be sorry for this,” he told her when she opened it.

“No, I won’t. But I am sorry I wasted over a year of my life on someone like you.”

She considered it done, finished, closed.

And she spent what she deemed a productive day finalizing the designs for the Baby Mine account. She moved forward on the Kettering account, creating her mood boards, sharing them and her pitch with her design director.

She noticed the looks—especially the ones who pretended not to look. She noticed the awkward pauses in conversations when she walked in or by.

She suspected Brandon of doing exactly what he’d accused her of planning to do. He’d twist the story, lay blame on her head, outright lie.

She wouldn’t let it matter. And it would all die down in a week or two.

She made it through a week, then two, then a month. And another two weeks.

Every time she thought it had died down, he managed to resurrect it all again.

She caught wind of a rumor she’d cheated on him. Another went around that their wedding planner had dubbed her Bitch Bride from Hell.

He covered his tracks there, as he hadn’t with her cousin, and the rumors seemed to pop up out of nowhere. And they lingered.

Someone keyed her car.

She came in one morning to find a design she’d worked on wiped off her computer, and her backup corrupted.

She spent fifteen straight hours reconstructing it, and when she finally left the office that night, she had four flat tires.

Knowing he was behind it meant nothing. She couldn’t prove it. But she’d had enough.

The next morning, she knocked on Laine’s door.

“I’m sorry. I need to talk to you.”

“Come sit. You look tired.”

“I am tired. I worked until midnight. The Happy Pet account. The design I’d worked on, had nearly completed, was gone. Wiped off my computer. My backup was corrupted. It wasn’t user error, Laine. I think you know I’m more careful than that. I reconstructed it—maybe even improved it—and when I went out to my car, I had four flats.”

“Oh Jesus, Sonya.”

“I know you hear the rumors that come and go. Most people don’t believe them. But there are always a few. I could handle that. I have been handling that. But this was my work, a lot of hard work. If I hadn’t been able to replicate it in a timely fashion, we might have lost the account. My tires weren’t slashed. Someone let the air out. Regardless, I had to take an Uber home and arrange for a garage to deal with the tires.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll talk to Brandon, believe me.”

“Please don’t. I can’t prove any of this is on him, and I won’t. He’ll be shocked, appalled. Why, he’s moved on. Isn’t he dating other women?”

She shrugged. “But it won’t stop as long as we both work here.”

“Sonya, I can’t fire Brandon over the possibility—I’m going to make that probability—he had some part in this.”

“I’m not asking you to. I don’t expect you to. I know he does exceptional work.”

“He does. So do you. It’s time for a full staff meeting.”

“No, Laine, it’s time for me to resign. I thought I could weather this. But I dread coming to work now. I loved working here, and now I dread it.”

“We’ll find a way to fix this, Sonya. You know we value you.”

“I do know, but I don’t want you to fix it. You and Matt? You’ve built such a good company, and I’ll always be grateful to have been part of it. I just can’t work here anymore, so I’m giving you my two weeks’. Longer if you need it, but Gina Tallo? She’s ready. She could move up. I could work with her for those two weeks. But I need to go, for me, Laine. I need to go.”

Laine sat back. “This sucks. It just sucks.”

“It really does. But, Laine, I’m so unhappy. I don’t want to be unhappy in my work. I don’t want to get up every morning and have a hole in the pit of my stomach because I have to go to work. I have to move on.”

“To a competitor. I’m going to hate that, but Matt and I will give you bright and shiny references. We don’t want you to be unhappy, and I’m furious you’ve been made to feel unhappy.”

“I think this is what’s best for me. But I don’t plan on going to a competitor, at least for now. I’m going to freelance. I need the time, the space. And I need to see what I can do on my own.”

Head back, Laine stared up at the ceiling. “We’re going to lose accounts. I’m going to hate that.”

“I won’t go after By Design accounts.”

“Then you’re stupid. Don’t be stupid. Take the Baby Mine account, they’re going places. It’s a gift,” Laine said before Sonya could think of anything to say. “Not much of a gift, seeing as they came to you—you—on a recommendation of another account you worked on. I’m telling you that’s your account, and Matt will agree with me.”

“Thank you. Really, it’s more than I could ask.”

“You’re right about Gina. We’ve had our eye on her. She needs a little more polish, and we’ll see she gets it. Now, listen to me—on a personal level, as I’ve got a daughter about your age. You’ve got two weeks’ vacation you haven’t used for a honeymoon you can celebrate not going on. Take it. Take today to clear up any projects to the point they can be passed on. Then walk out of here, and be happy.”

“I can’t leave you in the lurch.”

“You won’t be. Or hell, damn right you will be, whether you leave today or in two weeks. You’re a talented woman with a solid work ethic. But Matt and I will handle your projects—we still know how it’s done. And we’ll give Gina the polish she needs. And we’ll miss the hell out of you.”

Laine waved a hand in the air. “No crying. You’ll start me up. Finish out the day. And keep in touch.”

“I will. I owe you and Matt so much.”

“Pay us back. Make us proud.”

When Sonya went out, Laine sat back again, stared at the ceiling again.

And after a long sigh, said, “Fuck.”