“Yeah?” Marc lifted his chin. “Better than the Berkshires?”
Cush grinned. “Let’s just say that the regulations down there are much more flexible.”
“Did you get the other thing done?”
“I did.”
“Okay then. Business trip before the end of the year?”
“You know it.” Cush clapped his hands together. “I’ll bring my clubs. You bring your wallet for all the rounds you’ll lose.” Then he hooked his arm around Marc’s shoulders and led him away, calling over his shoulder, “Jillian, you don’t mind if I steal your husband for a second?”
Jill lifted her hands in mock surrender and watched them cross the lawn, leaving her alone with Nadia.
Nadia was Cush’s second wife, and they’d been married just over a year. She carried herself with an easy elegance that Jill envied. Nadia had had a successful career as a model before marrying Cush. Because she’d come into the marriage with money of her own, she did exactly as she pleased. Nadia hadn’t known Dianne, but Jill hoped that even if she had, she and Nadia might still be friends. There was something genuine in Nadia that put Jill at ease.
Nadia rolled her eyes at their retreat, her long silver earrings dancing against her dark skin. “Put those two together and they’re like little boys on the playground.”
The women watched the men cross the yard then Jill returned her attention to Nadia. “Did you have a good time in Freeport too?”
“Not especially, no.” Nadia’s lifted a flute of champagne from a passing waiter’s tray.
“Really? Why not?”
Nadia’s expression flickered just before she changed the subject. “For one thing, when we returned, Cush was served. It seems that his ex-wife Angela is dragging him back into court—that put him in a mood.”
“Why would she do that? What happened?”
“No idea.” Nadia sipped her drink. “The curse of the second wife is never to ask questions about the first wife, so I don’t.” She lowered her voice. “But I do overhear things.”
“Really?” Jill had heard whispers of husbands traveling out of the country, to Freeport specifically, just before a divorce settlement. She had a theory that those men were hiding assets, but she didn’t know for sure. It wouldn’t be a stretch to imagine Cush doing it too.
“Who goes to Freeport in August? I’ll tell you: the heat was unbearable.” Nadia brought the champagne to her lips and sipped. Her diamond tennis bracelet glinted in the late afternoon sun as she gestured toward the pool. “What’s happening over there?”
Jill followed Nadia’s gaze to a quiet corner of the pool house, where Brittney stood and where Marc and Cush were headed. Brittney looked different than she had earlier, more relaxed. She’d put her hair up in a messy bun and one long tendril rested on her ample cleavage. Her lipstick seemed brighter, too—a different shade of red, more vibrant. She looked up and smiled as she waited for Marc to approach.
“No idea.”
“You’d better watch that,” Nadia warned. “This is how things get ugly.”
“I think she’s about to be fired.”
“Yeah?”
“Makes sense. Dewberry Beach hasn’t sold and she’s in charge of selling it.”
Nadia eyed her with a critical gaze. “She doesn’t look that worried.”
Five
Two weeks after Marc’s party, Jill had good news of her own. To celebrate, she was attempting to recreate Aunt Sarah’s magnificent stuffed shells from memory. But it wasn’t going well. The dish that Aunt Sarah could whip up in a few minutes had taken Jill most of the day and even now she wasn’t sure she’d gotten the recipe right.
She peered into the pot, at the red sauce that was far more complicated that she remembered. Jill had driven to the fancy organic market across town for the last of the summer tomatoes because Aunt Sarah always used Jersey tomatoes. Jill had heated the pan and added a healthy pour of olive oil, just like Aunt Sarah always had. And when the oil shimmered, Jill had added the chopped tomatoes, diced onions and fresh oregano all at once. But she hadn’t expected the ingredients to pop and burn like they did. Or the smoke alarm to go off so quickly.
It took three attempts and a second trip to the store, but the effort had paid off. Now, the aroma of softened onions and rich garlic threaded the air, and Jill was transported to summers in Aunt Sarah’s tiny kitchen. Clad in an apron and standing on a chair, Jill’s job had been to add ingredients when instructed, but it was always Aunt Sarah who’d provided the magic. Later, Aunt Sarah, Uncle Barney, all the cousins and their friends would gather around the table and dinner would become a free-for-all of conversation, interruptions, and, eventually, an epic battle waged over the last meatball.
Those were the best memories of her life—summers at Aunt Sarah’s beach house.
Even if Aunt Sarah would have been disappointed with how long it had taken Jill to recreate her red sauce, she’d celebrate the occasion. Mrs. Brockhurst’s personal secretary had telephoned earlier that morning. Mrs. Brockhurst wanted to meet with Jill to discuss ideas for the upcoming family Christmas portrait. Jill managed a cool “of course,” as if that sort of thing happened every day, and they’d arranged a date. But the moment she’d hung up, Jill had shrieked with glee. Her moment had come. And it was this news that she planned to share with Marc tonight before he left for the Berkshire property. The new project had ramped up quickly and Marc now spent much of the work week at the construction trailer on site.
Jill listened as the front door opened, then closed. A few seconds later she heard Marc toss his keys onto the foyer table.
He entered the kitchen with a stack of mail. He must have noticed the delicious smell because his expression changed from concentration to bemusement.
“What’s all this?” He lifted a brow in query.
“I happen to be cooking,” Jill announced happily as she leaned
