Chapter 33
April
One Day Until The Wedding
Goose bumps pebble my skin and my ankles wobble like a newborn lamb’s as I maneuver my stilettos down the metal dock.
My tallest heels were no doubt an impractical choice for an event taking place on a boat.
As was my outfit. Purchased five months ago in the frenzy of thinking I could sway Carter’s heart and on a particularly bad night of self-loathing, the dress stayed in the box, mostly forgotten, until I pulled it on tonight.
Silk fabric the blue color of a glacier skates along the curves of my body, leaving little to the imagination, little choice when it comes to undergarments, and little to shield me from the chill in the air.
In some last-minute wisdom, I grabbed a shawl from my closet, which I wrap around as much exposed skin as I can manage.
I’m late.
The boat’s lights reflect on the water at the end of the dock, soft waves bobbing against the pillars.
I’ll be lucky if I can wobble my way to the end before it undocks.
There’s a resounding clank each time one of my heels meets the metal planks.
Visions surface of them catching on the aluminum grooves, sending me flying into the freezing water and quite literally missing the boat.
And that’s it, ladies and gentlemen, the Coldwell curse remains unbroken due to a pair of highly impractical shoes.
I sneak one last look inside my purse. The cards, the stone, and Trip’s earring—as a precaution only—are tucked neatly in the folds of fabric. Well, here goes nothing.
The boat looked big from afar, but as I approach the end of the dock, it towers over me and everything else like a small building. Two workers are detaching the walkway leading from the dock to the yacht. I stick my fingers between my teeth and whistle to catch their attention.
“Sorry!” I give a wave and what I hope is a convincing smile. “Running late.”
They exchange a look but kindly help me up the ramp, and one of them checks my name on the guest list.
The chill on my skin dissipates as I make my way through the crowd of bodies occupying the main deck.
I shrug my shawl a little lower on my shoulders.
Servers in black tie carry trays in one hand, maneuvering through the guests with expert choreography.
Champagne flutes frosted with condensation and canapés that flood my nose with spices twirl past on serving trays.
My mouth waters and my stomach growls, but I have a job to do.
For some reason, I didn’t anticipate any difficulty locating the bride at her own rehearsal dinner. Aren’t these usually intimate affairs reserved for family and close friends? Stupid. There’s nothing usual in the slightest about this wedding.
Faces blur together. Crisp suits and broad shoulders, sparkling gems draped across collarbones.
Not a familiar face in sight. Their voices are loud—lots of clapping hands on backs, and coos while wrapping arms around one another.
It’s high school again, and I’m a mouse, scurrying underfoot and unseen.
Except, no. There’s no need to hide in the shadows. I deserve to be here just as much as anyone. Drawing my shoulders back, I walk with intention toward the interior of the boat.
Oak double doors with panes of glass swing open to reveal a wide ballroom bedecked in ornamental flowers and elaborate food stations. Shit, this must have cost a fortune.
My insides twist and my pulse is a steady drumbeat against my neck.
I scan the room for Carter or Sabrina. This doesn’t look like the party of two people who are calling off their wedding.
Maybe they haven’t told anyone. Maybe they have and they’re not even here.
So far, I’m not sure anyone in this crowd would even notice.
Except Sabrina needs to be here. I’m counting on it.
I retrieve a glass of champagne from a server who passes me and take a slow turn about the food stations. My face is placid but my antennae are up and ready to intercept any inkling of a radiant redhead or Prince Charming poster child.
And, well, spidey senses need to be fed. I pop a goat-cheese-stuffed date into my mouth, letting the drizzle of honey slide down the back of my tongue. I’m one second away from licking my fingers, but a voice stops me.
“Elizabeth!” Cynthia strides toward me with another willowy woman at her side. “I almost didn’t recognize you!”
The Carmichaels may own the largest diamond business in London, but Cynthia dressed the part of a diamond tonight. Her boatneck gown is entirely bejeweled, not a sliver of fabric visible. For wearing a dress that could easily weigh more than she does, Cynthia moves as though she’s wearing silk.
She leans in to give me a peck on the cheek. “The dress is stunning, dear. Happy you could make it.”
I throw a hand up to cover my mouth, chewing and swallowing the date like I’m being timed. “Cynthia. You look magnificent. And I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
She lays a manicured hand on my forearm. “Have you met my sister-in-law, Gwen?”
The lithe woman at her side in the slim-fit black dress offers me her hand. I ball my cocktail napkin in my fist, set down my champagne flute, and extend my arm.
“No, I haven’t. Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Her handshake is solid and warm.
My eyes travel to hers and I suck in a breath. Heat floods my cheeks and I try to cover my embarrassment by pulling my hand away and stifling a fake cough. Trip may resemble his father’s side, but that nose, the sharp angles and hard lines from jaw to forehead—this is his mother.
I drink her in, reveling in the small pieces of Trip that I catch in her movements, her facial expressions. God, I miss him. So much, I settle for pieces of his DNA in another human. A living human.
I fight off the wave of nausea accompanying the knowledge of what I must do tonight.
“Elizabeth is an old school friend of Carter’s. She’s been an invaluable part of all these wedding shenanigans.” Cynthia waves her hand toward the ceiling.
Gwen’s smile is warm and genuine. “Sorry to not have met you sooner. I’ve missed too many of the events leading up to this. I”—she turns to Cynthia for a moment, then back to me—“haven’t been feeling like myself.”
Her blue eyes turn glassy, and while they’re a different color, the emotion in them is like facing Trip’s last look at me all over again. I glance at the toe of my shoe before I can do something stupid.
What must Trip’s absence be like for her?
Trip changed my life these past months, but she raised him, has known him his entire life.
Then they didn’t speak for months before his accident.
If only there were some way to comfort her, reassure her he may be with us again soon.
Then again, there’s no guarantee breaking the curse will wake him from the coma.
Oh, screw it. This woman lost her husband and now thinks the same fate has come for her son.
There has to be some glimmer I can give her.
I reach out and clasp both of her hands. “I was sorry to hear about your son.”
Gwen smiles but looks at the floor. “He would want to be here.”
It’s a canned answer, but as much as I would expect her to give a total stranger.
I squeeze her palms once and lean in as close as I can to her ear. “He still listens to your jazz records.”
Her muscles tense under my fingers, then relax. I’m playing with fire.
“Carter and the boys are on the upper deck if you’re looking for him.” Cynthia interjects.
When I pull away from Gwen, her face is slightly stunned, but she gives nothing away.
“I need to speak with the bride, actually.” I tighten my grip on the shawl around my shoulders.
“Well, I suspect she’s still locked away in the master cabin. I don’t think she’s come out of there once tonight.”
“Thank you, Cynthia.”
I give her a peck on the cheek, which seems to throw her a bit off balance.
“Nice to meet you, Gwen,” I say to the floor, out of fear that meeting her eyes will cause me to act on further stupid impulses.
—
The door to the master cabin is locked, unsurprisingly. I bang my fist on the polished mahogany door.
“Sabrina, are you in there? It’s Libby.”
Either no one responds or the ambient noise from all sides of the boat drowns out her voice.
I tap my foot on the tile floor. There really isn’t time for this. Not to mention, I would relish the opportunity to take these shoes off.
I pound again, the wood muting my efforts to soft vibrations. “Sabrina!”
Popping open my clutch, I dig around in the lining. I’m certain there was one in here earlier….
“Aha!” I pull a bobby pin from the depths of the bag and maneuver it into the lock on the door, which, thankfully, is a good old-fashioned doorknob.
My tongue pressed between my teeth, I focus on getting the right leverage, on wiggling the end of the pin until that satisfying shift, that victorious click.
Before it comes, the door swings open and I lurch forward and take a couple of steps to regain my equilibrium.
Unfortunately, my heels have other plans, and in seconds, I’m sprawled across a plush carpet, looking up into two perplexed hazel eyes.
“What the bloody hell are you doing?” Sabrina’s eyebrows furrow together. She’s in full makeup and a white minidress with what appears to be a massive bow on the back. She extends an arm and I gladly take it.
“Maybe I should be the one asking”—I stand and smooth the front of my dress—“what the hell you’re doing.”
She swallows, glossed rosy lips forming a straight line. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What I mean is it’s your rehearsal dinner.” I wave an arm toward the door. “It’s practically a rager out there! And you’re in here…why?”
Sabrina lifts the bow from her backside and sits on a small bench in front of the vanity, slouching. “I don’t know.”
I barely hear the words but read her lips.
“Sabrina.” I move to kneel in front of her but on second thought undo the straps of my heels before sitting at her feet. “Are you still going through with the wedding?”
She sniffs, head tilted toward her lap. “I don’t want to.”
I’ve never seen Sabrina so meek, so unsure, and it terrifies me.
“I’m right here with you.” I squeeze her hand. “Whatever you decide to do.” I need to ask her, even though every cell in my body opposes it. “Is there still the other person?”
She nods and squeezes her eyes shut, trails of inky black mascara sliding down her cheeks.
“Oh, Sabs.” I stand and wrap my arms around her, holding her as her shoulders shake with muffled sobs.
“Listen.” I press my hands to the sides of her face.
“Don’t worry about a single person out there.
” I cock my head toward the door. “You do what you need to for yourself. We write our own fairy tales, okay?”
Her face is smeared with blush and eyeliner—a toddler’s first go at the beauty counter. No doubt hours of a makeup artist’s time wasted. But when her eyes meet mine, there’s an innocence and a clarity that make none of it matter.
“It’s a huge risk. What if they don’t feel the same way I do?”
“What do you have to lose?”
“I don’t even know that it’s possible.” She wipes away the black smudges below her eyes. “That logistically, this relationship can even happen.”
My chest tightens. Here it is. “It can.”
I unfasten the latch on my clutch and slide out the playing cards, pressing them into her hand.
Her auburn eyebrows lower and she pulls the cards apart, studying them individually. “One of the cards from my deck?”
“It’s one of the ones that’s missing. And the other—have you ever heard of the Coldwell curse?”
Her eyes are laser-focused on the cards, like she’s solving a riddle. “Maybe? One catches wind of these things, I guess.”
“Sabrina, I think this could be the key to getting the ending you want, but you need to do what I say.”
She looks up at me through long lashes. “Tell me.”
“Return these cards to your family’s deck that’s missing them. The green box with the gold detailing?”
“Of course. The one hidden in my dresser.”
“This is going to sound wild, but you have to trust me. It’s how we break the curse. How we ensure you get the love you deserve. A happy ever after for you and Tr—”
There’s a loud knock at the door and I startle, as though caught red-handed.
“Sabrina, darling?” A soft voice comes from the other side of the door.
“My mother,” Sabrina whispers.
“Take them.” I press the cards together in her hand and she slides them into her purse on the floor. Meeting her eyes, I squeeze her fingers, hoping she’ll hear the urgency in my tone. “Promise me you’ll do it.”
There’s a flicker of movement in her eyebrow, but she clasps my hands tighter. “I promise.”
“Are you in there, dear?” The voice becomes more insistent.
“One moment, Mum!” Sabrina turns to the mirror and with an expert hand, removes and reapplies the smudged makeup.
“What are you going to tell her?”
She glides a tube of lipstick over her lips and meets my eyes in the mirror. “That I’m writing my own ending.”