Chapter 10
Less than eight hours ago, our very own Mayor Woods thrust a request of crustacean proportions upon us, and now I’m standing on a cordoned-off beach watching sixteen women in designer sundresses prepare to wrestle lobsters like it’s some kind of initiation ritual.
An impromptu lobster boil. Right here at the cove. Leave it to Mackenzie to reach for the stars and expect Emmie and her staff to land one on her plate and all the plates of her friends, too.
The sun is sinking low over Cider Cove, turning the sky into layers of pink and orange and deep purple that would be romantic if I weren’t currently supervising what’s about to become a butter-based crime scene.
The beach smells like garlic and salt air and melted butter, and somewhere behind me I can hear the staff from the Country Cottage Café setting up the final touches on the longest farmhouse table I’ve ever seen.
White linen tablecloth, Mason jars stuffed with blue hydrangeas, and string lights overhead that are going to look magical in about twenty minutes when the sun finishes its dramatic exit.
Mackenzie got a city ordinance passed—because, of course, she did—to turn the cove into a private beach for the night, which means I had to give the inn staff strict instructions to reroute our actual paying guests to the public beach down the way.
Must be nice to be mayor. Less nice if you’re married to her, which my brother Huxley can attest to, though he’s currently enjoying a peaceful evening at home with baby Mack while I’m out here managing his wife’s social anxiety disguised as a party.
Jasper and Leo are back at our cottage with Ella and Elliot, and they both gave me deeply sympathetic looks when I left. The kind of looks that said better you than us and also, we’ll have pizza waiting when you get home.
“It looks like the entire Pilates Posse has arrived,” Georgie announces, appearing at my elbow in a kaftan covered in giant lobsters wearing beanies. “Should we be worried they’re going to start doing planks between courses?”
Mom is right behind her in white linen pants and a blazer with shoulder pads that could double as flotation devices. “Georgie, be nice,” she scolds.
“I am being nice. I didn’t say they looked like they needed the carbs.” Which they totally do. She nods my way with the thought.
They might, but that’s beside the point. We’re about to have dinner.
Mackenzie’s friends are scattered across the beach in various states of over-dressed panic. There’s a lot of cream linen, a lot of espadrilles that are sinking into the sand, and approximately zero people who look prepared to get butter on their hands.
Sloane is in a silk slip dress that probably can’t survive a light breeze.
Blaire is wearing heels—yes, actual heels—on a beach.
Tamsin is the only one in something practical, but even her workout gear looks as if it came with a personal shopper.
Kennedy is hovering near the back of the group in a floral sundress that’s nice but clearly not designer, and she’s got that look on her face that says she’s doing math in her head about whether she belongs here.
The pets have formed what appears to be a strategic alliance. Fish is perched on top of a cooler like a tiny furry CEO about to announce layoffs if she doesn’t get fed properly. Sherlock and Gatsby are positioned near the cooking station where Emmie’s staff is unloading pots of steaming seafood.
Cinnamon is sprawled in the sand looking exhausted by proximity to this much wealth and delicious dishes. And Biscuit Gravy, Candy, and Cane are sitting in a perfect triangle formation, their eyes tracking every piece of food with laser focus.
I can smell the butter from here, Sherlock moans with longing. This is going to be the best night of my life.
You said that about the yacht, Fish reminds him.
I was wrong then, he barks. I’m right now.
One of the friends I’m not familiar with—a tall blonde in head-to-toe white who’s definitely going to regret that choice—steps forward with a champagne flute raised.
“I’d like to make a toast,” she says, and everyone turns to look at her.
“To Brittany,” she continues, her voice carrying across the beach, “who always knew how to make an entrance. And apparently, an exit.”
There’s a beat of shocked silence, and then someone laughs. Then someone else. And suddenly the whole group is cackling away, and I’m watching Mackenzie’s face turn three different shades of red.
At least someone’s finally being honest about how ridiculous this is, Blaire thinks, and I catch her smirking behind her champagne flute.
Poor taste. But accurate, Sloane adds, her expression perfectly neutral even as her thoughts drip with acid.
“And to Mackenzie,” the blonde continues, clearly on a roll now, “who’s treating us to plastic bibs and paper plates. How charmingly... rustic. Cheers!”
The plates are not paper. Okay, so some of the little appetizer plates are, but still. Talk about a tough trust fund crowd.
Everyone drinks, and Mackenzie looks like she’s mentally calculating how long it would take a body to wash out to sea.
“That was Melissa,” Mom whispers to me. “She and Brittany used to date the same guy. There’s history.”
Of course, there is.
Macy waddles down the beach path hauling two overstuffed tote bags that look one seam away from catastrophic failure.
Bottles of hand soap jut out of one like weaponized toiletries, industrial-strength stain remover peeks from the other, and I’d bet money there are candle samples buried in there somewhere because my sister has never met a captive audience she didn’t try to upsell.
“I figured you’d need backup,” she says, dropping into an empty seat with a huff that says the walk nearly killed her. She starts unpacking her disaster preparedness kit—wet wipes, napkins, and some kind of miracle spray that claims it can remove blood, wine, and regret.
Sloane looks up from her untouched lobster and actually smiles. “Macy. How thoughtful.”
“I also brought samples of my new line,” Macy adds, already fishing out a small box like she’s been waiting for this exact opening. “It’s called Sweet Surprise, and before anyone asks—no, it doesn’t smell like anything noxious. I learned my lesson.”
“What does it smell like?” I ask, because someone has to.
“Chocolate chip cookies and sea salt caramel. Normal things. Things people actually want their houses to smell like.”
Smart pivot.
“WHERE IS THE STAFF?” Mackenzie’s voice cuts across the beach like a foghorn with a grudge. “Bizzy! I need the café staff down here NOW to help crack lobsters. These women can’t be expected to do manual labor. We’re getting hungry over here.”
I resist the urge to point out that cracking a lobster is not exactly coal mining, and instead wave at Emmie, who’s already mobilizing her team.
The staff arrives with enormous pots—and I mean enormous, the kind you could bathe in—and they start dumping steaming contents directly onto the table in a glorious cascade of seafood chaos.
Lobsters cascade out in a red-orange avalanche. Clams tumble after them like edible afterthoughts. Corn on the cob rolls across the white linen. Baby potatoes bounce and settle into formation.
It’s beautiful chaos—steam rising, garlic and butter perfuming the air, my mouth watering despite the fact that I’m watching a social disaster in real time.
And there are no utensils in sight.
“WHERE ARE THE FORKS?” Mackenzie’s shriek could shatter glass. I’m pretty sure three seagulls just fled to Canada.
The staff scatters like they’re under sniper fire, sprinting back to the café while Mackenzie’s friends stare at the seafood pile like it just threatened their families.
“We’re supposed to just... grab it?” Kennedy asks, looking genuinely distressed. “With our hands?”
Blaire’s horror is palpable.
The forks arrive in record time, Nessa practically sprinting across the sand with a basket of silverware, and everyone claims their weapons like knights arming for battle.
The bibs are sitting at each place setting, white paper with monogrammed script that probably cost more than they should have.
Nobody is touching them.
“I’m not wearing a bib,” Tamsin announces. “I’m thirty-three, not three.”
There’s a murmur of agreement around the table. Grown women, expensive outfits, nobody willing to admit they might need protection from flying butter.
Then someone—I think it’s Melissa, still riding her toast high—cracks into her first lobster.
The butter explosion is immediate and spectacular. It hits three people. Four, if you count Georgie, who’s technically collateral damage.
There’s a moment of stunned silence.
Then, without hesitation, everyone lunges for the bibs.
Watching grown women fight over lobster protection while trying to maintain their social superiority is exactly the chaos I needed today.
So much for sophistication, Sloane thinks, snapping her own bib on like she’s done this a thousand times. Though I suppose we’re all just animals when butter is involved.
There are no truer words.
The meal descends into beautiful carnage. Shells crack and fly. Butter goes airborne with alarming frequency. In fact, gel fingernails are flying, too. I’ve never seen more French manicures torpedoed about, not even in the nail salon.
Wine flows freely—rosé and craft beer and someone’s already on their third glass of champagne even though we’ve only been eating for ten minutes.
The pets have positioned themselves perfectly. Every time someone struggles with a particularly stubborn claw, a piece of lobster meat goes flying, and Sherlock’s there to catch it mid-air like he’s been training for this moment his entire life.
Which he has.
This is the best night of my life and I want to roll in it! Biscuit Gravy announces, snagging a clam that rolled off the table.
I’ve died and gone to seafood heaven, Sherlock adds, his face covered in butter.
Mom and Georgie are locked in a heated battle over proper lobster-handling technique.
“You’ve got to twist, not pull!” Georgie insists.
“I AM twisting!”