“I’m ready when you are.”
“Who’s going to stand up for you?” she asked, realizing with sadness his own parents wouldn’t be able to be there for the happy day. “What about your brother?”
“Well, of course I want Matt there. His wife and kids, too. My nephews.”
Hearing his brother’s name, Lark yelped involuntarily. Trip raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“I’m such an idiot,” she confessed. “I thought you’d said your brother’s name was Mike. I’d better not screw that up at the wedding.”
“No, Matt,” he said, smiling and shaking his head. “There is one big obstacle, though: he’s terrified of flying.”
Lark’s heart sank. “We don’t have to have it in Hawaii.”
“Of course we do,” he said, squeezing her hand back. “Hawaii is perfect. I’ll work on Matt. Maybe his wife can help talk him into it. A couple of drinks and a sleeping pill might get him on the plane.”
“How did he handle flying to Florida for your cruise over Christmas?”
“He drove down, if you can believe it.”
Hearing running water, Lark pulled Trip along until they had reached a small, rocky stream flowing down the bottom of the canyon. Water in the desert. She slipped off her shoes, sat down on a smooth, flat stone, and plunked her feet in the cool shallows.
“I want the wedding to be outside,” she said. “Like really outside. In a forest, or at the base of a volcano, next to the ocean. Not at a resort. I don’t care if it’s really simple.”
Trip kept his shoes on. “We can bring a canopy and catering anywhere. Don’t worry about that.”
“And we’ll write our own vows. We don’t even have to write them. We can just say what we’re feeling in the moment.”
“Works for me.”
“But I do want music. Live musicians. Local is okay but not some cheap luau band.”
“I think Ed Sheeran owes me a favor,” he said.
Lark flicked water at him. “Ha!”
After her feet had dried, they continued on, climbing up a ridge and looking down on the canyon while they worked their way back to the trailhead. Without the shade, the sun felt hot even though the temperature was probably just under seventy degrees.
“We’ll get married in June,” he said suddenly. “Things should have calmed considerably down for me by then. I need to wrap up those projects before I can relax.”
“And after?” she asked.
“After what?”
“The wedding. Where do we live?”
His sneakers crunched gravel as he squinted off into the distance. “I assume my California girl doesn’t want to come to Chicago.”
Lark pictured the plastic shopping bag caught in the icy wind outside Trip’s apartment window and thought of the Chicagoans huddled into their coats right now, as the sun warmed her arms. “Well, it’s not my first choice, but it’s where you are.”
“Wherever you are is where I am, from now on.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
JESSICA
I wish I had done a better job confronting some hard truths.
—“How I Lied about My Name and Discovered My Truth,” a TED Talk by Jon M. Wright
When Holly suggested not only that they meet in person but that she “come out to the house,” Jessica’s first thought was no way in hell. She couldn’t imagine setting foot in the place without Jon, and even then, only in the distant future and for an extremely special occasion. Ava’s wedding, for example. But after a few nights of tossing and turning, picturing a meeting within earshot of enrapt Starbucks patrons—He’s not your husband anymore, he’s mine!—Jessica decided that, even if Holly was mentally ill, she had too many questions to leave them unanswered.
Jessica told both Jon and Marco she had a family situation to deal with and might be gone for a few days.
It wasn’t a complete lie.
As she drove down Merri Oaks Road and spotted the silver address numbers on the black mailbox, she thought about the airsickness bag she’d taken from the plane and tucked into her purse, just in case.
She pulled into the circular driveway and parked in front of the rambling, ivy-covered brick-and-stone mansion, thinking that for safety’s sake she should have told someone where she was going. But who? Only her mother knew she and Jon were together. No one knew they were married except for the minister in Cancún. As she exited her car and forced her legs to carry her up the brick walkway to the imposing front door, she felt like a horror-movie bimbo who, despite multiple warnings, insisted on marching headlong into mortal danger.
A home-wrecking bimbo at that.
She pressed the doorbell, half expecting an eerie creak and an ominous greeting by an elderly housekeeper whose wicked smile would foreshadow an unhappy fate. Instead, the door opened silently, and Jessica found herself face-to-face with Holly.
She’d been immaculately groomed, manicured, and coiffed the last two times they’d met. Today, Holly wore no makeup, and her blonde hair was limp, stringy, and in need of washing. Her jeans looked as though she’d just dried her hands on them, and her T-shirt, though certainly Michael Stars or some other designer, looked like it had been balled up in a dresser.
Jon’s descriptors jangled in Jessica’s head: manic . . . delusional . . . needs to be hospitalized . . .
On the other hand, Jessica knew she probably didn’t look much better. Even though she’d tried to make herself presentable by wearing nice slacks and an angora sweater, she had come straight from the airport. Worse, she’d barely slept in days and didn’t own enough concealer to mask the dark circles under her eyes.
“You have guts, coming here,” Holly said.
“I don’t feel very brave,” Jessica told her. “I’m scared out of my mind.”
“I guess that makes two of us.”
Had Holly not made that admission, Jessica might have turned around and run when Holly motioned her inside. Instead, she went hesitantly through the door and found herself in a traditional but charming entry hall full of custom millwork. It was almost as
