Chapter Eight
“LUCE?” DAWN’S VOICE FLOATS UP THE STAIRS.
“Up here,” I call, hearing the front door slam shut. I’m standing in front of my closet, wrapped in a towel, considering the dress in my hands.
She appears a moment later, her box braids twisted into a loose knot, looking effortlessly cool in a sheer black dress.
“Tell me you’ve finally narrowed it down,” she says, flopping onto my bed.
I level her with a look. “Does this seem narrowed down?”
Dawn’s eyes flick over the chaos of clothing draped across the chair, the closet door, the bed. “So…no.”
She crosses her legs, leaning back like she has all night. “We’ve got time. You just need to find the one that says, ‘effortlessly gorgeous,’ and ‘no, I’m not new here.’”
I laugh. “That’s a lot of work for one dress.”
“It’s the Farrows’ summer party,” she says, like that’s a universally understood concept. “Everyone who’s back on the island will be there.”
I nod, sipping from my glass of water. “I know.”
She studies me for a second too long, then grins. “Okay, now tell me why you’re glowing. What have I missed?”
I try to keep my face neutral, but my mouth betrays me. I’m already smiling.
“I hung out with Noah all day yesterday.”
Dawn sits upright. “Like…all day?”
“Breakfast, then the beach, then pickleball, maybe a kiss. Yep.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh my God! And how are we feeling about him now?”
I laugh, tugging a silky green Doen dress off the hanger. “It was really fun. He’s so easy to be around. I mean, you met him. He’s just cool.”
Dawn leans forward. “You like him.”
I hold up the green dress between us like a shield. “No comment.”
“But yeah. I like him.” I squeal, curling my hands up to my neck.
She grins. “Well damn. Looks like we’re entering a new era.”
“Maybe. It just…it doesn’t feel like a thing I have to figure out. It just is.”
Dawn resumes leaning back on her hands, satisfied. “Good. You deserve easy. You deserve fun.”
I smile, holding up the dress. “You think I should wear this one?”
She tilts her head, considering. “It’s hot. But try that white one with the open back.”
I pull the white dress from where it’s been hanging on the back of the closet door and hold it up. “Okay, this could actually be the one.”
“Yeah she is,” Dawn says, beaming. “Is Allie riding with us?”
“No, she’s gotta put Felix down first.”
The drive to the party is quick as we wind softly through narrow, palm-lined roads.
When we pull up, the Farrows’ house is like a movie set, soft light spilling through open shuttered windows and doors, lanterns strung from tree to tree, flickering gently in the breeze.
Music drifts from the coral stone terraces, threaded with laughter and the clink of glassware.
The Farrows always host the first real party of the summer.
Their daughter, Sloane, is one of those friends who’s more like chosen family after endless summers diving off boats together.
The first time I met her was on the beach when we were both nine.
I had seen her around the island before but was too shy to say hello.
I was walking down the beach on a quest for shells, and Sloane had set up a table on the beach in front of her house selling beaded jewelry that she’d made that summer.
By that afternoon I was helping her make bracelets.
Now Sloane is an art dealer in New York with clients all over the world.
Inside, the party buzzes with unmistakable Harbour Island energy: partly glamorous, partly relaxed, zinging with the quiet thrill of summer officially beginning.
Familiar faces float through the rooms in resort wear.
Friends catch up like no time has passed.
It’s the kind of crowd that knows each other’s stories but still leans in like they’re hearing them for the first time.
Dawn and I make our way through the comfortable mix of locals, returning second homeowners, and the occasional too-famous-to-stare-at celebrity.
The island has a way of leveling the playing field.
We snag two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and are halfway through the great room, scanning for Sloane, when I hear my name.
“Lucy. Darling Dawn.”
I turn to find Mrs. Farrow, elegant as ever in a gold, silk embroidered caftan, bangles sliding up her arm, gliding toward us with a welcoming smile.
“Hi, Mrs. Farrow,” I say, leaning in for a cheek kiss.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart. You and that flawless complexion, I swear you get more luminous as the years tick by,” she says with a wink. “Dawn, thank you again for saving me this morning with this dress.”
“You hardly needed saving, Mrs. Farrow. But you know I always love dressing you.”
“You do look beautiful. As is this party,” I say, looking around at the servers weaving through the crowd in crisp linen, the women in pale pink shift dresses, the men in matching shirts and white trousers, graceful despite their polished pace. “It gets more impressive every year.”
The Farrows’ estate stretches along the beach, its whitewashed walls glowing against the night.
French doors open to the breeze, revealing a great room lined with white coral stone and towering palms in blue-and-white urns.
Hundreds of candles flicker in hurricane glass, mirrored by the reflection of the pool outside, a sheet of turquoise framed by bougainvillea and white umbrellas that still haven’t been folded, even as night settles in.
Somewhere near the veranda, a jazz trio winds through an island version of “Dream a Little Dream of Me.”
She waves a hand, brushing off the compliment, though she’s clearly pleased. “We love this party. It’s not really summer until everyone’s under this roof with a glass in hand. Are your parents here this year?”
I shake my head. “Not this summer. They’re in Europe, a long-postponed trip. I think Mom wanted to do something different this year.”
“Well, good for them,” she says, a flicker of understanding crossing her face. “It must feel a little strange, being here on your own.”
“Oh, don’t worry about our Lucy,” Dawn says, nudging me. “She won’t be lonely for long.”
Mrs. Farrow laughs, patting my arm. “Ah yes, where is that handsome Jack? I haven’t had the pleasure of seeing him yet this evening.”
The assumption shouldn’t surprise me, but it still cuts deeper than it should.
“Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t seen him.”
Mrs. Farrow frowns but recovers with a gracious smile. “Well, we’re so glad you’re both here tonight.”
I thank her, genuinely touched, before she’s swept away by a friend tapping her shoulder, eager to introduce her to their houseguests.
Dawn is caught up talking to someone I don’t recognize, so I take a moment to get my bearings and scan the party.
No sign of Jack. But across the terrace, framed by a flickering cluster of candles, I spot Sloane, effortlessly holding court like the party showed up just for her.
She catches my eye mid-sentence and breaks into a relieved grin, gliding toward me with her arms already open.
Sloane has that kind of classic beauty that sneaks up on you: refined, a little mischievous, the sort that makes people turn their heads twice trying to figure out what exactly they’re drawn to.
Full mouth, sharp cheekbones, eyes the color of wet sand after the tide pulls back.
Her hair, a glossy shade of honey brown, falls in loose waves that always look perfectly lived-in, like she just came from a swim and somehow her hair dried into a blowout.
There’s an ease to her that feels unpracticed, every glance, every laugh landing just right, but underneath it, she’s always reading the room.
“Lucy, oh my God, you look insanely hot,” she squeals, pulling me into a hug before stepping back, taking me in. “Seriously, you’re a vision. I’m obsessed with this dress.”
I laugh. “You can borrow it anytime. Like the old days.”
“You mean the days when we used to swap outfits behind your grandmother’s back and pray we didn’t stain anything?”
“Exactly those days,” I say, grinning. “But also, you look amazing and infuriatingly effortless, as always.”
She waves a glossy manicured hand. “Stop, you’ll make me blush. But keep going.” I loop my arm through hers as she begins weaving us through the terrace crowd.
“You have to catch me up,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially. “What’s going on with your life? Are you dating anyone fun? How’s the new studio?”
We find a quieter spot tucked beneath a swaying palm and fall into conversation like no time has passed.
We trade updates, her art gallery clients, my art progress, and how quiet the Lazy Daisy feels this summer.
Sloane shifts her body toward me, blocking out the rest of the party.
There’s something about being with her, like my mess is already halfway untangled just by landing in her orbit.
“God, I’ve missed this,” I say, finally.
She presses her arm against mine and lifts her glass in a soft toast. “We’ll always find our way back.”
I catch myself smiling at my glass when movement across the terrace pulls my focus. It’s subtle, just a few heads turning, a couple women straightening or flicking their hair.
Jack strides in over the tiled floor, nodding to a few guys as he passes, wearing a crisp white button-down and that irresistible smile, the one that always made my stomach somersault.
With a bottle of wine tucked under his arm, he greets Mr. Farrow with the kind of hug that says, everyone here knows me, and they like me. And they do. They always have.
Sloane follows my gaze and doesn’t bother hiding her sigh. “Well, well, well. Would you look at him.”
I raise my glass to take another sip, half-shielding myself behind it. “He’s late.”
“Interesting that you noticed,” she murmurs, tilting her head. “He’s also somehow…even hotter? And very much alone. Want to disappear? Want me to disappear? Just tell me what to do.”
“No,” I say, hurriedly. “We’re friends. It’s good.”