Harris. “Notwithstanding a beer or two for this one.”
“What about me?” Laurel whined.
Millay slung a shoulder around her friend and helped her to stand. “You’re cut off, lady. You and Bacchus got a bit too hot and heavy tonight.”
Harris took Laurel’s other arm, and together, he and Millay escorted her to Olivia’s Range Rover. Haviland jumped to his feet and gave Olivia an inquisitive look. She told him that they were going to work and he was out the door in a blur of black fur, undoubtedly envisioning bowls of butter-drenched seafood or cubes of choice beef steeped au jus.
After promising to meet Millay and Harris downtown, Olivia drove Laurel home in silence. When she and Haviland were alone, Olivia preferred to listen to an audiobook or to put all the windows down, inviting the whirl of the wind to fill the void within the Range Rover’s cabin. Now, the humming of the road moving beneath the tires seemed poignantly loud.
“Do you want to talk?” Olivia asked, desperately hoping Laurel wouldn’t take her up on the offer. She had enough on her mind without having to listen to her friend’s marital woes.
Laurel was quiet for so long that Olivia began to believe she’d be spared, but finally, her friend released a mournful sigh and pressed her cheek against the window glass, as though welcoming the coolness against her skin. “You can’t have it all, you know. The media makes it look like any woman can have well-adjusted kids and a happy marriage and a successful career, but that’s total crap. The most we can hope for is kids who won’t grow up to be serial killers, a marriage that exists out of habit, and a career where you take on more than you can handle because if you don’t, you look weak.”
“So which part of living an imperfect life bothers you the most?” Olivia glanced at her friend in the rear-view mirror.
Laurel’s voice quavered. “Not being a good mother. Nothing matters more to me than those boys.”
“And quitting your job? Will that make you a better mother?”
“I don’t know,” Laurel whispered after a lengthy pause.
Olivia could hear the pain in her friend’s voice but was unsure how to console her. After all, she had no experience juggling a family and a career. She’d never had to worry about her checkbook balance or raise children or hold the interest of any man for more than a few months. Yet she firmly believed that everyone deserved their share of happiness as long as they were working at fulfilling their dreams. Laurel was a fighter at heart, and Olivia disliked seeing the younger woman so deflated.
“As you may know, my mother worked at the local library,” she spoke softly and put one hand on Haviland’s neck, her eyes locked on the road. “Some of my fondest memories were of her packing our lunches each morning— hers for work and mine for school. I’d sit in the kitchen and watch her get ready for the day while I ate breakfast. I remember how carefully she’d iron her blouse and that her hair looked so professional pinned up away from her face. She’d hum as she got ready for work, and I knew she looked forward to it every day.” Olivia paused, reveling in the memory.
With the smoke gray road in front and a washed-out sky overhead, it was easy to become lost in the cozy scene. Olivia could almost smell the oatmeal cooking on the stovetop, hear the bustle of her mother’s skirt as she moved about the room, and feel the sunbeams coming in through the window over the sink, marbling the table with warmth. With her father at sea, these mornings with her mother were filled with a simple kind of peace, and Olivia held on tightly to the vision until the lights of town seemed to burn it away.
“The point I’m trying to make is that I noticed the pride my mother took in her work. She loved her job. It was important to her. It helped to define her. As her daughter, I took note of how she felt, and I wanted to grow up to be just like her—a working woman.” Olivia glanced back at Laurel. “I was proud of my mother, and your boys will be proud of you. If you slink off to the paper with the weight of the world on your shoulders, you’re teaching them that work is misery. Yet I’ve seen the glimmer in your eyes when you’re running down an exciting story, and the twins will see it too, if you’d only show it to them.” She turned down Laurel’s street. “You can be an inspiration to your children, Laurel. Frankly, I can’t imagine a better gift.”
Olivia pulled in front of Laurel’s charming Cape Cod–style home and put the Range Rover in park. She kept the engine running.
Laurel looked at the illuminated windows, which bathed the lawn and flagstone path with a soft white light, and put her hand on the door handle. She did not get out of the car. “Everything I love is in that house, so why don’t I want to go in?”
Pivoting in her seat, Olivia asked, “Because you feel that your love is not equally returned?”
Swallowing hard, Laurel nodded.
“Then tell that to the person who needs to hear it,” Olivia ordered. “No fairy godmother is going to swoop down and make your problems disappear. Get in there and go to work. You love your job? Fight for it. You love your husband? Fight for him. You want your family to be united? Unite it!”
Laurel opened the door. “Okay, okay, I will. But first, I’m going to have another glass of wine.”
And with that, she tripped up the walk and disappeared inside.
At The Bayside Crab House, it was clear that Millay and Julesy were hitting it off, despite their markedly different appearances. Julesy was tall and tan and towered above the petite Millay. Millay’s black hair was streaked with scarlet and her dark eyes were accentuated with a plum-colored shadow. Julesy was pretty and outgoing, like a daisy growing in a sun garden, while Millay was more of a rare orchid, blooming only at night beneath a swath of pallid moonlight.
The hostess had been instructed to obstruct the two stools at the end of the bar using stacks of plastic booster seats. When Cora and Boyd arrived, the items would be whisked away and the couple would be led straight to the bar, where Millay would immediately serve them a round of drinks. Harris would already be established on a stool to the right, reading away while nursing a beer and picking at a basket of fried calamari. Olivia had staked out a small table behind the newlywed’s assigned seats. She’d spread out a fan of paperwork and opened her laptop, but instead of focusing on the screen, she’d be watching the Vickers’ facial expressions and body language in the bar’s horizontal mirror.
Fortunately, the restaurant was packed by the time the couple arrived, looking haggard and cross from an afternoon spent in separate interviews with various members of the Oyster Bay Police Department.
Carrying out Olivia’s instructions flawlessly, the hostess added the newlyweds to the wait list and then made a big show of clearing off the pair of unoccupied barstools and introducing them to Millay.
“If your name isn’t called in the next thirty minutes, we’d be delighted to offer you a free appetizer platter. Many of our customers just end up eating dinner at the bar. If you choose to stay, Millay will provide you with place settings and excellent service.” The young woman issued her broadest smile, her face dimpling prettily. “Enjoy our selection of microbrews on tap, our signature cocktails, or pick from our extensive wine list.”
As soon as they sat down, Cora and Boyd showed subtle signs of relaxation. Millay set coasters in front of them and pointed out various drinks on the menu, and Olivia could see Boyd’s tense shoulders loosen a bit. Cora asked Millay if she’d recommend the Lemon Drop Martini and was given an answer that obviously pleased her.
“The Lemon Drop is totally delicious,” Millay said. “But my favorite is the Melontini because it’s
This earned Millay a small smile from Cora, who ordered a pair of cocktails and then looked at Boyd expectantly.
“I don’t suppose a boilermaker would be included in the special,” he grumbled.
Millay shrugged. “I don’t see why not. We’re a new business, so it’s our job to impress first-time customers.” She winked at Boyd. “Which beer would you prefer?”
Boyd made his choice and Millay poured the golden liquid from the tap into a pub glass, allowing a perfect crown of foam to form on the top. She set the glass in front of Boyd and then, instead of serving him a shot glass filled with whiskey, poured two fingers’ worth of Johnnie Walker into a tumbler. Her generosity clearly impressed the couple, and they exchanged looks of pleasant surprise while Millay’s back was turned. Within the next minute, she presented Cora with two martinis. The first glowed like liquid sunshine and was garnished with a sugar rim and a curl of lemon peel. The second, and the one Cora instantly reached for, was the soft pink of a watermelon. A pair
