26. Juliette
— ? —
Juliette
The Christmas Stroll is everything an island holiday celebration should be: twinkle lights strung between the lampposts, wreaths on every door, the smell of hot cider and pine needles drifting through the cold December air.
And wool. So much wool.
The entire island has turned out in their finest winter wear, pearls and cashmere and boots that have never seen actual mud. The tree stands in the center of the square, unlit, waiting for the ceremonial switch-flip that marks the official start of the holiday season.
I find a spot near the hardware store, close enough to see but far enough back that I can breathe.
Helen finds me anyway, because Helen finds everyone. She’s got a thermos of cocoa and a folding chair she has no intention of sitting in, and she plants both beside me like garrison equipment.
“Big crowd,” she observes, in the voice of a woman who has watched this island’s every Stroll for forty years and can read the barometric pressure of gossip.
“Biggest I’ve seen. And nobody’s looking at the tree.
” She hands me the cocoa cup without asking.
“Drink that. Whatever’s coming, you’ll want your hands around something warm. ”
“You’re lurking.”
The square has been transforming all afternoon into the postcard it spends the rest of the year threatening to be.
Garlands on every lamppost. The big spruce standing dark and patient at the center, wired and waiting.
Kids in pom-pom hats orbiting the cocoa table at escape velocity, and the church choir warming up somewhere behind the gazebo in ragged, cheerful bursts.
My island. My first Stroll as an islander instead of a summer name. Under any other circumstances, I’d be enjoying this down to my boots.
Rosie appears at my elbow with two cups of cider, her cheeks pink from the cold.
“I’m observing from a strategic distance.”
“That’s lurking with better vocabulary.” She hands me a cup. “Drink. You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re gray. Actual gray. Like newsprint.”
The cider is too hot and too sweet and exactly what I need. I wrap both hands around the cup and let the warmth seep into my frozen fingers.
“She’s been setting up for an hour,” Rosie says, nodding toward the tree. “Eleanor. Whatever she’s planning, it’s tonight.”
I follow her gaze.
Eleanor is holding court near the platform, Nicole at her side like a perfectly accessorized weapon.
They’re both dressed in cream and gold, coordinated in a way that suggests this outfit planning started months ago.
Every few minutes, someone approaches to pay tribute, and Eleanor accepts their greetings with the gracious condescension of a queen acknowledging her subjects.
Eleanor is in the long camel coat, the one for outdoor victories, and she’s working the crowd in slow radial sweeps - a hand here, a laugh there, positioning bodies for a photograph only she has seen.
Nicole’s coat is white. At a tree lighting.
A woman does not wear white to a tree lighting unless she’s planning to be looked at for reasons the tree can’t provide.
“White,” Rosie says, following my eyes. “In December. On brick.”
“She’s dressed for the announcement.”
“She’s dressed for a christening she hasn’t been invited to yet.” Rosie sips her cider, gaze level. “Hold your cocoa. Watch how this island votes.”
Subjects. That’s exactly what we are to her. Chess pieces on a board she’s been arranging since before I knew the game existed.
“Has she looked over here?”
“Twice.” Rosie sips her cider. “The second time she smiled.”
“That’s not good.”
“That’s terrifying, actually. But you knew that already.”
Zachary is nowhere to be seen.
I scan the crowd again, looking for broad shoulders and dark hair and the particular way he holds himself when he’s preparing for a fight. Nothing. Just clusters of the island’s finest, clutching their ciders and their social positions with equal fervor.
“He’ll be here,” Rosie says quietly.
“You don’t know that.”
“I know he’s been sleeping on your couch since the fire. I know he looks at you like you’re the only real thing in a room full of furniture. I know-”
“He’s looked at me like that before. And then he’s looked at his mother, and whatever he saw in her face mattered more.”
The words come out harsher than I intended. Rosie doesn’t flinch.
“That was before,” she says. “Before the fire. Before he rebuilt your shop with his own hands. Before he told Walt to go fuck himself in front of three contractors.”
“He said that?”
“Walt tried to lowball a supply order. Your husband used language I didn’t know he possessed.” She grins. “It was beautiful. I wish I’d recorded it.”
Your husband. The phrase catches somewhere in my chest.
“What if he doesn’t show? What if he changed his mind? What if this whole plan was just another version of the same thing he’s been doing for years - promising big gestures and then managing his way out of them?”
“Then you’ll know.” Rosie’s voice is calm. “And you’ll move on. But I don’t think that’s what’s going to happen.”
“Why not?”
“Because that man has spent the last three months proving he’s not who he used to be. And because-” She nods toward the edge of the square. “He’s here.”
I follow her gaze.
Zachary is walking toward the tree, and he’s not alone. Edward is beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and there’s something about the way they’re moving - purposeful, united - that makes my heart beat faster.
He brought his father.
Edward Dean, who has spent forty years choosing Eleanor’s comfort over everything else.
Edward Dean, who watched his wife exile his daughter-in-law to the far end of tables and said nothing.
Edward Dean, who is now walking through a crowd of his wife’s closest friends like he’s marching into battle.
Eleanor sees them too.
Her expression shifts from confident to confused to something that might be the first stirrings of alarm. Nicole leans in to whisper something, and Eleanor’s hand comes up in a sharp gesture. Not now.
“Holy shit,” Rosie breathes.
“Yeah.”
“Is that - is Edward wearing his wedding ring on the wrong hand?”
I look closer. She’s right. The gold band is on his right hand instead of his left.
Oh.
“That’s a message,” I say quietly.
“That’s a fucking declaration of war is what it is.”
The crowd is starting to notice. Heads turn. Whispers travel. Mrs. Pemberton clutches her husband’s arm and leans in, her eyes tracking Edward and Zachary’s progress through the square.
Eleanor says something to Nicole, low and urgent, and Nicole nods once before stepping away from the platform. She cuts through the crowd with purpose, heading directly for Zachary.
My stomach drops.
“Easy,” Rosie murmurs. “Just watch.”
Nicole reaches them near the gazebo. She positions herself in front of Zachary, blocking his path, and says something I can’t hear from this distance.
Zachary doesn’t slow down.
He sidesteps her without breaking stride, without acknowledging her existence, and keeps walking toward the tree. Edward does the same.
Nicole’s face goes rigid with something that looks almost like shock.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t explain himself. He didn’t try to manage her feelings.
My hands are shaking. The cider sloshes against the sides of the cup.
“Breathe,” Rosie says.
“I’m breathing.”
“You’re forgetting to breathe. There’s a difference.”
Eleanor is watching her son approach, and for the first time since I’ve known her, she looks uncertain. It’s a small thing, a tightness around her eyes that most people would miss, but I’ve spent six years studying this woman’s face for signs of danger.
She’s afraid.
Good.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” Eleanor’s voice rings out, and the crowd goes quiet. “Before we begin tonight’s festivities, I have a special announcement to share.”
She’s doing it now. Before Zachary can reach her. Before he can say whatever he’s come to say. She’s going to take control of the narrative the way she always does.
“As many of you know, the Dean family has been part of this island community for generations. We’ve weathered storms and celebrated triumphs together, and it is in that spirit of community that I-”
“Mother.”
Zachary’s voice cuts through hers like a blade.
He’s reached the platform. He doesn’t step up onto it - just stops at the edge, looking up at her with an expression I’ve never seen before.
Calm. Absolutely, terrifyingly calm.
“I believe I have an announcement of my own.”
Eleanor’s face goes rigid. “Darling, this isn’t the time-”
“It’s exactly the time.” He holds out his hand to me across the crowd. “Juliette. Come here.”
Everyone turns to look at me.
My feet are frozen to the ground. Rosie gives me a small push.
“Go,” she whispers. “This is it.”
I walk through the crowd, and it parts to let me through. The silence is absolute. Every eye tracks my progress, and their attention lands on me like a physical thing.
Helen’s hand touches my shoulder as I pass - one pump, garrison to soldier.
Walt steps back to clear my line without being asked.
Somewhere to my left, Mrs. Pemberton whispers “that’s the wife” in the tone people use for “that’s the throne,” and my boots sound very loud on the frozen brick, and I keep my chin up the way you do when the whole cold square is checking whether you’ll drop it.
When I reach Zachary, he takes my hand. His fingers are cold but steady.
“Stay with me,” he murmurs. “Please.”
I nod once.
He turns back to face the crowd, but he doesn’t let go of my hand.
“Most of you know my wife, Juliette.” His voice carries across the silent square.
“Some of you have met her at my mother’s events, where she was usually seated as far from the family as possible.
Some of you have seen her at the shop on Bishop Street, which she’s been rebuilding after a fire that nearly killed her. ”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Mrs. Pemberton puts a hand to her throat.
“What you don’t know is what tonight was supposed to be.”
He doesn’t say it to the crowd.
He says it to Nicole.