Sisters of Nantucket (The Lobster Shack #1)

1. Meredith

MEREDITH

In the darkness, it’s impossible to tell where the sea ends and the sky begins—an unusually cloudy evening considering how much the June skies like to showcase their stars to the summer crowds.

But maybe, like its namesake tucked beneath my shoulder, my sister June is just tired of revealing her most cherished qualities to undeserving tourists.

That’s why, when June says, “I’m never sleeping with a tourist again,” I don’t immediately laugh in her face. Instead, I ask, “What qualifies as a tourist?”

“Three weeks or less.”

“So, four weeks is fine?”

“Four weeks is a month; it’s basically half a summer.” If her features could be seen in the darkness, the crinkling lines along her brow would be apparent. “And who would I be if I didn’t have my summer boys?”

“Significantly less depressed come September,” I counter.

If the sky had been lighter, we might have seen the mansions scattered across the harbor that remained empty for half the year.

“I’ll be back in New York come September. Depression can’t catch me there.”

“I guess that makes you a summer girl, too, then.”

She hits me in the shoulder. “I’ll be back here as soon as I graduate. That hardly counts.”

The thought, unfair as it is, warms me. New York is a land of opportunity, especially for someone as talented as my sister, who clearly deserves to be nurtured in an environment that can support her skill with a paintbrush.

Nantucket, despite its coziness, familiarity, and quiet, starless emptiness, wouldn’t know what to do with her—if my sister’s latest dating disaster is anything to go by.

It’s selfish of me to want her to be here, but I can’t deny the happiness it brings me to know that our family will once more be complete for an entire summer.

“Just wait until it’s your turn to be a summer girl.” She says it like it’s a fact.

I blink up at the dark sky. “Boston is closer than New York. I’ll be back every weekend.”

“Makes it sound like you’re a child of divorce.” June sighs, digging her fork into the fleshy center of the pie resting between us. “I suppose if I had to share custody of you with anyone, I’m glad it’s Harvard Law.”

“Mom and Dad are getting divorced?”

We turn in surprised unison toward our little sister’s silent approach.

Sophie’s comforter is wrapped precariously around her shoulders, beach-blond hair still shining despite the limited moonlight.

She had her highlights done for a photo shoot in town; Marlene Abrams will have her picture in the boutique catalog by the end of the month.

I say, “You should be in bed!” just as June says, “Of course not, dummy.”

Sophie rolls her eyes, ignoring us both in favor of forcing herself into the non-existent slot between us, almost upending the pie in the process.

She nudges me. “Gimme your spoon.”

I hand it over, even as I protest, “Why me?”

“June’s heartbroken. I wouldn’t do that to her.”

“I’m not heartbroken.” June points her own spoon at Sophie in emphasis.

Sophie balks. “Then why did you ask me to sneak the pie out for you?”

There’s no stopping the scandalized gasp that escapes my mouth. “You told me you did it!”

This late in the year, the cranberry supply begins to run low and won’t be replenished until the end of summer.

So, stealing the pie from the fridge at the Shack becomes more like Mission: Impossible with each passing week.

Especially when the locals start complaining to my dad, and he gets annoyed that they prefer his wife’s baking over his lobsters.

June lets out a heavy sigh. “Mom’s still mad about last time. She’s been watching me like a hawk, Mer.”

“Then maybe you should stop dating so many a-holes.”

“Sophie!” June and I admonish in unison.

“What? I’m fourteen, not four.”

With a look, June pushes against Sophie’s right side as I push into her left, squishing her between us until she yields in a flood of giggles. In the aftermath, we help ourselves to the corners of Sophie’s comforter and fall into a peaceful silence.

“We’ll always do this, won’t we?” Sophie asks after a while, her voice softer now.

I nudge her slightly so I can steal the spoon back. “Already planning to break a few hearts?”

“No, I mean be together. At least for every summer.”

June and I share a soft glance over her head.

“Every summer,” I promise. “Even when you’re off in Hollywood and I’m locking up criminals and June is?—”

“Happily married to the love of her life.” A dreamy sound dances in June’s voice. “Who, by the way, isn’t an idiot and is totally rich enough to buy me the lighthouse on Tom Nevers so I can paint on my days off from working at the Shack.”

I’m very glad she can’t see me rolling my eyes. “Not unless Dad fires you for stealing Mom’s pie.”

“He wouldn’t do that to us.”

I smile at that as I drape an arm around Sophie, letting her snuggle into my side properly.

Mom will give her an earful for getting her comforter all sandy again.

But in this moment, surrounded by warmth and void and sisterhood and the promise of a perfect summer, I let all those worries wash away with the surf.

“We’ll always be here, Sophie. You, me, and June against the world.”

June 2025 – Present day

I wake up alone on the couch, grasping at the comfort of the fading dream. But its warmth disappears too quickly, leaving me emptier than I’ve felt in a long time. An impressive feat, considering I fell asleep on the couch again.

I roll my neck with a grimace as the knots twinge and complain.

It’s another rough day. Too many notices written, too many rejection emails, and too many calls from unknown numbers demanding my attention. Plus, a fridge and bed that are both too empty equals the perfect setup for too many episodes of a sitcom I don’t even remember the name of.

The summer sun streams into my Boston apartment, indifferent to whether I’m awake yet.

At least the first phone call has the patience to wait until I’ve poured my coffee.

“Yeah, I’m going to court this afternoon,” I say, tucking the phone into my neck.

“This should have been done yesterday.”

I grit my teeth against the headache already blooming behind my eyes. “Yesterday was Sunday.”

“We had someone there waiting for you.”

Of course they did. At this stage of the divorce proceedings, Perez and Faulter don’t even bother hiding how many favors the local government owes them. Getting an underpaid intern to keep the doors open on the weekend is easy.

“Like I said…” I bite out. “I’ll be there this afternoon.” I hang up before they can chew me out again, ignoring the growing pile of unopened mail at my door as I head outside.

Probate and Family Court is, thankfully, quick. Everything is already filed, so there are only a few documents left to sign.

Mark doesn’t bother to show up.

Not that I expect him to, not with his father having Carmen Isha and William Faulter on payroll to handle the dirty work.

Still, it’s unsettling to see their professional detachment now, after they happily sat at my table for Thanksgiving last year.

But I was never na?ve enough to think they were anything more than Mark’s friends.

Even when we were colleagues, it was just small talk—water-cooler smiles and surface-level comments on the weather.

“Good luck, Meredith,” Carmen offers as we part ways on the sidewalk. That was a very nice way of saying have a nice life. Maybe all those shared coffees in the breakroom bought me that much, at least.

Will, on the other hand, is already on his phone, and I suppress the urge to turn my wave into a two-fingered salute.

The lesson here isn’t that you shouldn’t marry a lawyer.

No, the lesson is not to marry a lawyer whose father owns the firm you both work at—without signing a prenup.

Especially when that lawyer insists on pushing for no-fault, even though it was clearly his fault that you caught him hooking up in the breakroom with his PA of three years.

Suddenly, those coffee chats with Carmen feel even more insignificant.

It’s my fault for thinking I could compete. Especially when his dad has a reputation to uphold, and I saw it—a promise is too flimsy to qualify as evidence, no matter how convincingly I presented my case. After all, I am just a probate lawyer.

Mark, however, is ruthlessly efficient. That’s why I fell for him in the first place.

I take a deep breath of semi-fresh Boston air and try to feel…something. You’d think now, I’d feel lighter. There’s nothing left to do now for a hundred and twenty days, then it will truly be over.

However, the humiliation has already dug its claws in too deep.

I close my eyes before the burning behind them becomes overwhelming.

What I wouldn’t give for a comforting void and a stolen slice of pie right now.

The thought shatters through me more than the shrill sound of my phone ringing in my pocket. I take a second to compose myself before answering. “Hello?”

“Hey, baby.” Her soft voice stops me in my tracks.

Maybe it’s some cruel twist of fate that this happens now, of all days—when I’d just been thinking about her, dreaming about her.

Maybe some deep maternal instinct tells her that today is the day to break fifteen years of silence.

Maybe she found out, somehow, what a colossal disappointment her eldest daughter has become.

I shake out of my surprise quickly. “Is everything okay? You’ve never?—”

“Did you get my letter?”

Or maybe it’s something else entirely.

“No. Maybe…” I think back to the pile of unopened mail at my door and grimace. “I’ve been busy. Why? What’s going on?”

“I need you home for a couple of weeks.”

I suddenly realize that I’m standing in the middle of the street. People are passing by, going about their lives, completely unaware that I can’t breathe. A thousand questions race through my mind. Why? How? Why?

Finally, the thoughts settle on the most pressing one. “Is Richard there?”

She pauses for a second before saying, “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

Technically, she didn’t ask, but that’s neither here nor there.

I ignore that thought and press for more information, almost desperately. “Has he done something?”

“Meredith. Please.” Her voice is sharp.

Mom is never sharp. Even when her pies get stolen, her anger is nowhere to be found. The tone immediately triggers a chorus of alarm bells in my head. She seems to realize it, too, because her next words are softer, sweeter.

“We can go sailing, can’t we? It’s about time we take Mark up to Great Point. The Jeep still works, though you’ll probably need to fiddle with the ignition. I’d ask Roland, but he’s getting fragile these days, and Lord knows he’d try to do it anyway.”

She says something else, but I’m too stuck on the comment about Mark.

She doesn’t know.

If she does, this is a much sicker joke than I thought.

“I don’t think Mark can get time off work,” I say carefully, waiting for her reaction.

“Then I’ll have you all to myself.” Her response is instant and sunny, as if there’s nothing else in the world she could possibly want.

My heart aches at the sound of it.

“Mer?”

I snap back to reality and take another breath, trying to steady myself before I break down in the middle of town. “I need a little more to go on, Mom. Are you sick or something?”

There’s a considerable pause, and then she says, “It’s the Shack, baby. Things haven’t been good for a while.”

It’s the worst kind of balm for my anxiety—the weight of summer, memories, and my dad, Aiden Holloway. Bright smiles and dark eyes that match mine perfectly, squinting at the horizon as we ride over sunrise-drenched waves. A king in his domain, even if only for a moment.

“I could use a lawyer to make sense of all this paperwork,” she adds.

And just like that, the air crashes back into my lungs.

“You’re selling it?” My voice sounds hollow, even to me.

“I know your father wouldn’t have wanted?—”

There was never a choice, really. From the second I picked up the phone, I knew what I would do.

“I can get the ferry over tomorrow morning.”