“Really, Harry, Simone’s got to be tired after the drive.”

“All the more reason she needs that drink.” Like a carpenter’s plane wrapped in velvet, he smoothed right over the rough bark. “Now you’ve got your whole family here to celebrate, sweets.”

The man had a grip and a will like iron, Simone thought, but the main reason she allowed him to pull her along—however petty—was Natalie’s blatant discomfort.

“What are we celebrating?”

“You didn’t tell her? Good Lord, Natalie.” Harry looked at Simone, added a wink. “She said yes.”

Simone felt her brain empty out for three solid seconds. “You’re engaged. To be married?”

“Which makes me the luckiest man in the world.”

She heard music now, and voices, as they started up the walk that would wind through the side garden to the backyard.

“Congratulations.”

How had it happened? she wondered. How had it happened that the sister who’d once slipped into her bed to whisper secrets hadn’t shared such vital, life-changing news? Such happy news that rated a party with elegant dresses and white tablecloths decked with white flowers, with uniformed servers carrying trays of drinks and pretty finger foods.

“This is wonderful. Exciting.”

You’re still so young, and so … pampered, Simone thought. Are you sure? Would you tell me?

Harry stopped a server, took three flutes of champagne. “To the wonderful and exciting,” he said after he passed them around.

“Absolutely. So have you set a date?”

“October—a year from this October,” Natalie said.

“I couldn’t talk her into the spring. I’ll wait. If you’ll excuse me a minute, I want to find my mother. She’d love to meet you, Simone. She’s especially admired the statue of Natalie, holding the scales of justice, you made her when she graduated law school. I’ll be right back.”

“You’re engaged. God, Nat, engaged! He’s gorgeous, and he seems like a terrific guy. I—”

“If you’d bothered to get to know him over the last two years, you’d know he is terrific.”

“I’m happy for you,” Simone said carefully. “He’s obviously crazy about you, and I’m happy for you. If I’d known about the party, I’d’ve come home sooner, and I’d have dressed appropriately. I’m going to leave, slip out before I embarrass you.”

“Simone!” CiCi’s cheerful shout cut through the music and conversations.

“Too late,” Natalie stated as their grandmother rushed across the patio, gypsy skirts flying.

“There’s my traveling girl!” She caught Simone in a fierce hug. “Look at you, all toned and tanned. Isn’t this a kick in the ass?” She caught Natalie into the hug. “Our baby girl’s hooked herself a fiancé. And he is yum-mee.”

She let out one of her big, beautiful laughs, squeezed them both. “Let’s drink ourselves a shit ton of champagne.”

“Mother.”

“Uh-oh.” Snickering, CiCi drew back. “Busted.” She shifted, hooked arms around her granddaughters’ waists, and grinned at her daughter. “Look who’s here, Tule.”

“So I see. Simone.” Lovely in silk shantung the color of crushed rose petals, Tulip leaned in to kiss Simone’s cheek. “We didn’t know you were back.”

“I just got back.”

“That explains it.” With her company smile seamless, her eyes sparking annoyance, Tulip turned to Natalie. “Sweetheart, why don’t you take your sister upstairs so she can freshen up? I’m sure you have something you can lend her to wear.”

“Don’t be such a buzzkill, Tulip.”

Tulip simply turned those sparking eyes on her mother. “This is Natalie’s day. I won’t have it spoiled.”

“I won’t spoil it. I won’t stay.” Simone handed her flute to Natalie. “Tell Harry I wasn’t feeling well.”

“I’ll come with you,” CiCi began.

“No. It’s Natalie’s day, and you should be here. I’ll see you later.”

“That was a dick move, Tulip,” CiCi said when Simone walked away. “And from the look on your face, Nat? Apple, tree. I’m ashamed of both of you.”

Simone had to hunt down the valet who’d parked her car, then wait while he retrieved her keys.

While she waited, her father strode briskly down the walkway.

Oh well, she thought, what was one more elbow in the gut?

Instead, he put his arms around her, drew her close. “Welcome home.”

The snipes and jabs hadn’t filled her throat with tears, but his gesture did.

“Thanks.”

“I only just heard you’d gotten back, then that you’d left. You need to come back out, honey. It’s a big day for Natalie.”

“That’s why I’m leaving. She doesn’t want me here.”

“That’s nonsense.”

“She made it clear. My unexpected arrival, in attire inappropriate for the occasion, embarrassed your wife and daughter.”

“You could have come home a bit earlier, worn the appropriate.”

“I would have if I’d known.”

“Natalie contacted you two weeks ago,” he began, then saw her face. Sighed. “I see. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, she indicated she had, otherwise, I’d have contacted you myself. Come back with me. I’ll have a word with her.”

“No, don’t, please. She doesn’t want me here, and I don’t want to be here.”

Sorrow clouded Ward’s eyes. “It hurts me to hear you say that.”

“I’m sorry. I wanted to come by, see you and Mom, to try to … turn some of it around. Some of it. I had a good summer. Productive, satisfying, illuminating. I wanted to tell you about it. And maybe you’d see I did the right thing, for me. Maybe you’d see that.”

“I have seen it,” he said quietly. “I’ve seen I was wrong. I clung to wanting to be right, and lost you. And losing you, it was easier to blame you than myself. Now my younger daughter’s going to be married. She’ll be a wife, and not just my little girl. It struck me that, with you, I wanted to be right more than I wanted you to be happy. It shames me to look that square in the face, but I have. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“Daddy.” She went into his arms, wept a little. “It’s my fault, too. It was easier to pull back, to stay away.”

“Let’s agree. I accept I’m not always right, and you don’t pull away from me.”

She nodded, rested her cheek on his chest. “It’s a good homecoming after all.”

“Come on back to the party. Be my date.”

“I can’t. Honestly, Nat bugs the crap out of me, but I don’t want to spoil her party. Maybe you could come out to the island sometime, and I’ll tell you about the trip, and show you some things I’m working on.”

“All right.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“So am I.”

Glad to be back, she thought, especially when she stood at the rail of the ferry and watched the island come closer.

CHAPTER TEN

CiCi’s house offered views of the bay, the ocean beyond, and the tumbled coastline of Tranquility Island, including the jut of rocky land on the far eastern point where the lighthouse perched.

When CiCi first settled on the island, the lighthouse had been a stark, uninspired white.

She’d fixed that.

Lobbying with the artists community, she’d convinced the island council, as well as the business and property owners, to kick things up. There had been doubters, of course, at the idea of a group of artists on ladders and scaffolds painting the slender lighthouse with sea flowers, shells, mermaids, sea fans, and coral.

But she’d been right.

Since its completion—and even during the work—tourists came to snap pictures, and other artists featured the now unique lighthouse in their seascapes. It was a rare visitor who left the island without one or more of the Light of Tranquility souvenirs sold in any number of village and beachside shops.

Every few years, the community refreshed the paint—and often added another flourish or two.

CiCi enjoyed looking down the coast, admiring that spear of color and creativity.

Her home stood west of the light, on a rise above another jut of the uneven coast. Big windows, stone terraces, graced its two stories—plus the converted attic with its little balcony, which made three. A generous patio skirted the water side, her favorite side, where in season she had dramatic pots of flowers and herbs soaking in the sun along with oversize chairs with brightly colored cushions and some painted tables.

More flowers and comfortable seating ranged along the wide terrace on the second floor. It also held a hot tub, which she used year-round, under a pergola where she often lounged—happily naked—with a glass of wine while watching the water and the boats that plied it.

She could enter her studio with its bay-facing wall of glass—designed and added after she’d bought the house—from the great room or the patio. She loved painting there when the water gleamed blue as a jewel, or when it went icy gray and thrashing in the grip of a winter storm.

She’d converted the attic—or Jasper Mink (who’d warmed her bed a time or two between his marriages) and his crew had converted it when Simone had gone to Italy.