The Weekenders

 

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Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

 

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For Beth Fleishman, with a heart full of love and gratitude

 

Acknowledgments

Writing a novel can truly be a long day's journey into night, but the following folks lit up my days and illuminated the path by sharing their knowledge, wisdom, talents, and in some cases, their homes, with me.

To Dick and Jane Hansen of Atlanta, many thanks for allowing me to spend time in their beautiful home on Baldhead Island, North Carolina. Baldhead is NOT Belle Isle, but my fictional Belle Isle was certainly inspired by the beauty of Baldhead.

To Beth Fleishman, my sister from another mister, I must offer hugs and thanks for becoming both navigator, copilot, and all-around font of information yet again. Thanks, too, to Beth's husband, Richard Boyette, for additional help with legal research, and to Sharon Stokes for more of the same.

To Billy Howard and Laurie Shook, who allowed me invaluable writing sanctuary at their Sky High Cottage in the mountains near Highlands, North Carolina, thanks.

Kay Flowers Johnson gave me insight into the world of broadcast journalism. Anne Ksionzyk told me about parenting a child (or two!) with juvenile diabetes. The Rev. Patricia Templeton of St. Barnabas Episcopal Church in Atlanta advised on funeral protocol and scripture.

It's been fifteen years since I last committed (fictional) homicide, so when it came time to return to my mysterious roots, my Weymouth Seven sisters were invaluable in helping me get away with murder. As always, thanks to Margaret Maron, Bren Witchger, Alex Sokoloff, Diane Chamberlain, Sarah Shaber, and Katy Munger for their friendship, advice, and support.

Speaking of support, the talented, meticulous, and yes, paranoid-but-in-a-good-way Susan Goggins of Atlanta came to my rescue (again) to help with brainstorming and copy editing, and I will be forever in her debt.

I've been so blessed in my career to work with such an amazing team of publishing professionals. Stuart Krichevsky proved, once again, to be the best damn agent in the world, and the folks at SKLA, including Ross Harris, and David Gore always have my back. Thanks, guys!

I can't remember NOT having the always awesome Meghan Walker of Tandem Literary (aka Jersey Meg) on Team MKA. Here's hoping for many more launch day spray tans and massages.

And oh, the St. Martin's Press team at the Flatiron Building, how grateful I am for all you do for me and my books! Thank you, Sally Richardson. Thankyouthankyouthankyou, Jennifer Enderlin, for never giving up on me and always making my books better than I believed they could be. Thank you, Mike Storrings, for another enticing book jacket (and a new author photo that doesn't make me look like a real estate agent). Thank you, Tracy Guest, for giving me Jessica Lawrence, a dream of a publicist. Thank you, Brant Janeway and Karen Masnica, Jeff Dodes, Anne-Marie Talberg, Caitlin Dareff, and everybody at Macmillan Audio and Macmillan Library.

I owe my many loyal long-time readers a huge debt—for allowing me to pursue my lifelong dream of writing for a living. I promise, I never take you for granted. Thanks, y'all.

I may thank my family last, but I hope they know they always come first in my heart. Especially my starter husband, Tom Trocheck, who became first reader, sous chef, fire-maker, furniture builder, and research assistant this time—literally with one arm tied behind his back. Thanks, too, to the very able Katie Trocheck Abel and her crew, along with Andy Trocheck. I am nothing without my family's unending love and support.

 

1

Wendell Griggs was big on promises. Always had been. On their first date, he'd promised Riley Nolan she'd never want to date anybody else. When he'd presented her with her engagement ring—a three-carat diamond bigger than any of her girlfriends had—he'd promised it was the start of a life that would be big and rich and exciting. No doubt about it, her husband was a dreamer. And a schemer.

But lately, Wendell's promises meant nothing. Just talk. Hollow words meant to placate or stall. Nothing more. What was it her grandfather used to say?

“All hat, no cattle.”

Like today. Wendell had promised—sworn—he'd meet them at the ferry dock at Southpoint in time to make the last boat over to Belle Isle.

It was Memorial Day weekend, a tradition they'd established even before they'd gotten married, kicking off the season on the island where Riley's family had summered for the past hundred years.

And yet, here she stood. She brushed a stray lock of dark brown hair from her eyes and squinted down at the screen of her smartphone. Still nothing.

Her fingertips raced over the keys.

WHERE R U?

All caps. It was the texting equivalent of screaming. And that's how she felt, like screaming.

The late afternoon sun shimmered off the water's surface, and the light breeze whipping the surface of the river carried the faint scent of honeysuckle. It was the prettiest day in weeks, but Riley Nolan Griggs was oblivious to all of that.

She glanced again in the direction of the parking lot, willing his car to appear. The black Jeep CJ.
What a stupid car for a grown man.
Vehicles were streaming into the lot now, station wagons, big SUVs, all of them carrying people intent on making the last ferry of the day. All of them with the distinctive oval BI sticker connoting membership in the tribe of Belle Isle. Vehicles pulled to the curb in front of the ferry terminal to unload everything needed for another summer on the island. Passengers spilled from the cars, lugging coolers, wheeled suitcases, bicycles, leashed dogs, and fishing gear. Deckhands, most of them deeply tanned college boys in navy blue BI
-
logo golf shirts and baggy cargo shorts, scurried around the baggage area, loading all the freight into aluminum carts that would be rolled onto the ferry.

Women greeted each other with that peculiar high-pitched Southern squeal of delight. “Heeeeyyy!”
What did Wendell call it? Oh, yes.
“The mating call of the ivory-breasted Tri-Delt.”

It was six thirty. The boat would leave at seven on the dot. He knew that, knew how crazy it made her when he cut things this close. But there was no sign of the black Jeep. She checked to make sure she hadn't missed a call, and checked her e-mail too, but there was still no word from him.

Selfish bastard.
He was doing this to torture her, she was sure. Waiting until the last possible minute to make an appearance. She could already picture the moment. He'd stroll across the pavement, just as the
Carolina Queen
was blasting the “last call” horn, maybe make a quick dash before the deckhands pulled up the metal gangplank.

Her face reddened, her stomach twisted, and she felt the familiar acid taste in her mouth.

He'd promised. Sworn to her he would make the last ferry today, no matter what. Most importantly, he'd sworn it to Maggy. Even with things as crappy as they were between them, he didn't usually break a promise to their daughter.

“Heeeeyyyy, Riley!”

She turned. The woman was bearing down on her with laser-like intensity. She wore a pink-and-lime-green cotton Lilly Pulitzer shift and pink Jack Rogers sandals. Riley, trapped, managed a weak greeting in return.

“Oh, hey, Andrea.”

“It's so great to see you!” Andrea Payne gushed. “You look terrific. I swear, I wish I had your metabolism. Have you lost a ton of weight over the winter?”

Without waiting for a reply, Andrea wrapped her slender arms around Riley's neck and hugged her close. Too close. Riley was already tense and overheated, and the last thing she needed right now was a volley of nosy questions.

Riley managed to subtly loosen herself from Andrea's grasp. She took a step backward.

Andrea turned to her companion. “Melody, doesn't Riley look fantastic?”

Andrea's friend Melody Zimmerman dutifully nodded her head in agreement. “Fantastic.” She gestured at the handbag slung casually across Riley's shoulder. “Is that a Michael Kors? OMG, I love it so much.”

“Um, maybe,” Riley said, glancing at her bag. It was an oversize leather number in trendy turquoise, with a large, dangling gold-monogram charm that Riley secretly found just the tiniest bit gaudy. But she knew the gift had been expensive, and besides, it did hold a lot of stuff. “I mean, I'm not sure. Wendell gave it to me for my birthday last year.”

“It's adorbs!” Andrea pronounced. “Are y'all going to the full-moon party tonight? Is Maggy here, or did she decide to do summer camp this year? Where's Wendell?”

Riley deliberately sidestepped the issue of Wendell's whereabouts. “I haven't really been dieting. Maybe just eating healthy. And yes, Maggy's here. For now, anyway.” She looked around for an escape route and conveniently spotted her daughter weighted down with tote bags and a backpack, struggling to keep Mr. Banks, their unruly pug puppy, under control.

“Maggy, hold on. I'm coming!” Riley called out. “We'll catch up later, ladies.”

“You and Wendell
have
to come over for drinks, before the party,” Andrea burbled. “Right, Melody?”

“Absolutely!” Melody agreed, bobbing her head.

“I can't wait for you to see my new kitchen tonight,” Andrea said.

“OMG—she got an eight-burner Wolf range,” Melody said. “And a Sub-Zero fridge. It's my dream kitchen!”

“Oh geez,” Riley said, looking in the direction of the parking lot. “Sounds great. But I really need to go give Maggy a hand with that crazy dog of hers.”

Andrea tapped Riley's arm. “So, I won't take no for an answer. You're coming for drinks. Right?”

“We'd love to.”

*   *   *

“Said nobody, ever,” Riley muttered under her breath. She hurried away from the ferry dock, the soles of her rubber flip-flops slapping against the furnace-hot asphalt.

“Maggy!”

Her daughter had come to a dead stop in the middle of the parking lot and was tapping furiously on her cell phone, oblivious to the oncoming stream of cars, her mother, and Banks, who was squatting down on one of the carefully manicured landscape islands, amidst the grass and pink Knock Out roses, doing what puppies liked to do.