3. Tripp
Chapter 3
Tripp
T he Taylor house is a sprawling federal colonial with polished details. From the ivory siding to the copper gutters and black shutters, it’s the picture of New England charm. It’s also a far cry from the fishing cottage I grew up in, but the Taylors never made me feel anything but comfortable all the same.
The place will be packed. Everyone in town loves events hosted by the Taylor family. Wes and I were inseparable growing up, and his parents, Ruth and Howard, brought me into their family with open arms. My parents had been deemed unfit before I reached the age of two, and I was swiftly signed over to my grandfather, moving from Boston to Foxport as a small child. I had never wanted for anything; Pops was fair and caring. He loved this town and taught me to love it too. Even after he passed, I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. Foxport is home. And besides Pops, the Taylors were the next closest thing I had to family.
Parking on the street, I reach over to my passenger seat and grab the cigars and chocolates resting there. Wes had texted me earlier today asking me to pick up the cigars and I’d happily obliged. It was tradition for Wes, Howard, and me to sneak away for cigars during big moments. The chocolates I’d gotten earlier this week, knowing the intended recipient would welcome a distraction in all the merriment.
I follow the driveway on foot, passing under the porte cochere and being thrust into the celebration at hand. The driveway ends at an oversized garage and carriage house at the edge of the yard. Turning towards the house, I take in the manicured lawn and stone patio where a crowd has formed. Pig already roasting in the corner of the yard, Howard is up on the patio getting ready to hold court.
“Can I have everyone’s attention, please,” he booms into the evening. A tall, lean man, Howard exudes confidence and ease. With Wes, his near twin, at his left, and Ruth, his elegant wife, on his right, they draw everyone’s eye. But one member of their family is not up in the spotlight.
My eyes scan the yard. I notice a few friends but not the person I’m looking for.
And then there she is. Her perfectly coiled hair is half pulled back in an ivory bow. The bow matches her sweater that sits tastefully cropped, the hem skimming the top of her little plaid skirt. Beautiful, poised, and ever the wallflower. Even at her own family’s party.
Ivy
“What have I missed?”
I feel heat travel through me at the deep, familiar voice. His breath is warm on the shell of my ear, his presence at my back so close that I can feel the collar of his jacket catch in my hair. My insides turn molten, as is usual when Tripp is involved.
Turning, I glance upwards from the hint of a five o’clock shadow he manages to always maintain and meet his captivatingly warm brown eyes. I’m acutely aware of the way the smile lines around his eyes deepen as we make eye contact and the way my friends have noticed his arrival and taken a few steps away, providing me a subtle amount of space with Tripp amongst the crowd. They know all too well how long I’ve harbored a crush on my brother’s best friend.
“Nothing, really. You’re lucky. You made it just in time for my dad to give his welcome remarks. You know he’s going to ask you what you thought of his speech,” I reply in a murmur.
“Why aren’t you up there with them?”
I only scoff in response. Tripp’s question wasn’t serious. He’s found me ducking away in the corner of gatherings our whole lives. If only I could duck away from my feelings when he takes the time to find me.
“I brought you something,” Tripp whispers. Still standing behind me, he reaches around my shoulder and hands me a dainty, ballerina pink parcel. No one else has ever noticed my utter obsession with sea salt dark chocolates from La Petite Confiserie, a small shop an hour up the coast. Or, at the very least, no one else has ever gotten them for me. Tripp makes sure I have a box for any of my celebrations.
“What’s this for?” I ask, peeking inside the box. It’s not like the celebration is for me tonight. My mouth is already watering though, and I take out a square as he responds.
“They’re where I get the cigars for Wes, and I figured you’d like them.” He says it so casually, like this gesture isn’t achingly thoughtful. I slide the chocolate into my mouth and smile contently back at him.
We aren’t doing a very good job of listening to my father’s remarks. And before I know it, a round of “welcome home Wes” rises from the crowd.
“Tripp! You get the Davidoffs?” my brother asks as my family approaches. I take a step away from the sheriff, suddenly nervous about the lack of space between us. Wes hasn’t realized my eons-long crush yet, and I’m determined to keep it that way.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, Tripp withdraws two cigars. Wes tilts his head in question, but our father smiles knowingly.
“Ah, a good sheriff through and through,” he says, taking the cigars from Tripp and handing one to Wes. My mother, Wes, and I exchange a confused look. With a chuckle, Dad explains. “It’s illegal for law enforcement to smoke tobacco products in Massachusetts.”
“No one would know,” Wes counters.
“Tripp isn’t that kind of boy,” Ruth pipes in.
Discussing Tripp’s upstanding character is doing strange things to my heart, a tightening feeling building in my chest. Suddenly, I’m fourteen again and my parents are holding an elaborate dinner for Tripp being named lacrosse captain. He’s always been charming and honorable, enough to give me false hope.
“I’ll still come with you,” Tripp reassures my brother. The three men make their way across the yard to the club chairs outside the carriage house.
Alone with my mother now, she tilts her head at the box of chocolates in my hand. “Where did you get those… what are they, candies?” she asks curiously. Of course, Ruth Taylor notices that I didn’t have these before she walked away earlier. She notices everything.
“Just chocolate.” I try to sound as casual as Tripp did when he gave them to me, holding the box out in offering to her.
“These look very nice,” she says, accepting one. Her gaze traveling over my shoulder, Mom motions for me to close the box. “Let me hide those; your friends will wipe out the box.” She takes the chocolates as I turn to find Poppy, Wren, and Stevie reappearing at my side.
“How happy are you that Wes is home?” Wren asks Mom.
“It’s just the best feeling, having all my kids here. All of you, together and happy,” Mom says with a pat on Wren’s arm beside her. In my mom’s eyes, Wes and I aren’t her only kids. Our friends fall into that category too. “Oh, excuse me, some of Howard’s clients just arrived.”
We watch her elegant frame drift through the party, her dress floating delicately with each step. As soon as the crowd closes around her once again, Poppy throws an arm over my shoulder and points to the bar. There’s that glint in her eye that I’ve come to equally love and fear, never knowing what will come next.
“I say we snag a bottle or two and head to the carriage house,” she suggests.
“I second,” Wren nods.
Growing up, the four of us would have sleepovers in the carriage house. We’d make popcorn and dump way too many M&M’s in it, then rewatch Clueless and recite every line.
Now it’s a man cave. My brother’s home when he’s not abroad.
“Sorry, Wes has taken it over,” I inform them. “What about the garden?”
Making our way to the bar, Stevie, Wren, and I huddle to the side and watch Poppy reach over the bar and flash a brilliant smile to the bartender. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but the tilt of her lips makes it clear she’s flirting. She returns to us triumphantly with two bottles of champagne and a handful of flutes.
Off the far side of the house, a gravel path weaves through the hedges, lit with warm white string lights. Eventually, the hedges open to a small pond. Along the water’s edge are a pair of carved marble seats.
Settling in, Poppy opens a bottle and fills the flutes for the three of us before taking a swig straight from the green glass.
“What’s it like being the only girl in the room when Tripp Forester looks at you?” she asks deviously as she brings the bottle back down from her lips.
“He doesn’t look at me like that,” I mutter, feeling heat creep across my face. “He’s just a nice guy. And we’re friendlier than most because of Wes.”
“Most guys don’t even notice their friend’s sister,” Stevie points out.
Desperate to make the butterflies dissipate, I think of a way to change the subject. Then I remember seeing a certain guest at the party tonight. I turn to Poppy, feigning innocence. “Have you talked to Hayden tonight?”
“I have no reason to talk to that overgrown child,” she rolls her eyes.
Wren and I exchange a look as Stevie asks, “How’d the meeting with Fitzy go today?”
“Good, I think. My argument is solid. But Hayden’s meeting was after mine so I couldn’t get a read on how Fitzy thought he did.”
“Do you ever think about what you would do other than opening a bakery?” I ask, all heads swiveling to me in surprise.
“Not really, this is my dream,” Poppy replies simply. Her confidence sparks a hint of jealousy in me. Why can’t I be so sure of my path?
“Do you think I should have followed through with New York?” I blurt out.
Wren’s watching me closely, a question forming in her eyes. She’s putting together the timing of my question. “Wes’s travels are giving you doubts again,” she comments.
“Something like that,” I murmur.
“It’s okay to make a change when your original plan isn’t what you want anymore,” Stevie says softly. “And that’s all you did.”
“And Fitzy practically begged you to take the first ever revitalization gift,” Wren adds. “That’s such a cool thing to be proud of.”
The revitalization gift she’s referring to is seed money. Recently, our mayor started a fund that he pulls from annually to help revitalize commerce in town. He gifts it to anyone he thinks is making an important contribution to Foxport.
“That’s true,” I concede, watching two figures approaching in the dark.
Tucking her blonde hair away from her face, Stevie leans forward and squints towards them. Her expression brightens with realization, making it clear who is approaching. It must be Beckett, her closest friend outside of us three, who is currently in town from Boston to celebrate my brother’s return. And it’s a safe bet that his older brother—the Hayden we were just discussing—is the other figure.
“Of freaking course,” Poppy mutters, taking another swig from the bottle as the brothers approach.
Hayden arches an eyebrow at her, fire in his blue eyes. “Classy as ever, Pop. I saw you practically throwing yourself at the bartender for those bottles.”
“Bite me.”
“And so charming too. Tell me, does this little attitude have anything to do with you feeling worried I’ll win the bid?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Baywatch,” Poppy replies, throwing back the champagne bottle and finishing it off.
“Howard mentioned seeing you all head out here. I hope this is okay?” Beckett asks nervously, looking between his brother and our fiery friend.
“It’s definitely fine,” Stevie assures him, shooting a warning look in Poppy’s direction.
“Ivy, he also asked us to send you back to the roast,” Hayden adds apologetically.
I stand and straighten my skirt. More than likely, there’s someone from my father’s law firm I’m to meet. Beckett and Hayden part, giving me space to head back down the path. If I’m lucky, Wes and Tripp will be there to carry the conversation.