Chapter Eleven
BY THE TIME THE SUN STARTS DIPPING IN THE SKY, I’VE PAINTED through my anxiety and am psyching myself up for another night out.
Tonight is The Wexlers’ annual full moon party.
The guest list is always impossibly exclusive.
Last year there were two pro-football players, one late-night talk show host, and one Oscar-level actress.
No one misses a Wexler party. They own a huge chunk of land at the end of the island, and their estate is a waterfront masterpiece that stretches from beachside to bayside.
The night is famous for its spectacle: two live bands, one set up on the sand for the midnight moment when everyone gathers barefoot beneath the rising moon.
At the stroke of twelve, the band begins playing “Dancing in the Moonlight,” resulting in half the party jumping into the ocean in all of their finery.
It’s the kind of party that ends up splashed across society columns the next morning, always captioned like a secret only insiders know about.
I’ve known Dinah Wexler since her family bought on the island over ten years ago.
To the outside world, she is the definition of a socialite—glamorous, unbothered, always a little ahead of the curve, a trait she clearly inherited from her mother.
But her boldness doesn’t stop at fashion or opinions.
It shows up in the way she loves people—loud, unwavering, and without apology.
By the time I step onto the Wexler estate, the party is in full swing.
From outside, the house is glowing, with light spilling from the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the manicured lawns and towering palms swaying in the breeze.
I’m relieved I chose my long, silky pale peach Johanna Ortiz dress.
It skims over me perfectly but doesn’t try too hard, and I won’t have to hold it down in the breeze coming off the water.
The spaghetti straps dip into a dramatically low cascading neckline, and I paired it with gold jewelry.
Music softly pulses through the air, making the whole place feel alive.
And Dinah’s right at the center of it all.
Perched on the edge of a sleek white sofa next to the nearly Olympic-sized pool, infinitely long legs crossed, appraising the crowd like she owns the place.
Which, to be fair, she kind of does. The second she spots me, her face lights up.
“Lucy! Finally.” She rises effortlessly, floating over in a short, ivory, crystal-embellished dress that catches the light with every step. I recognize it from Chanel’s latest collection. She sparkles like the party was thrown just to match her.
The first time I met Dinah was at a painfully dull dinner party.
I remember watching her across the table—espresso brown waves falling over her shoulders, a dress far too expensive for a teenager, and that restless, gleaming energy of someone already plotting her escape.
She toyed with the clasp on her Cartier bracelet like it was a ticking clock.
When she caught my eye, she smirked like we were already in on the same secret.
She leaned over her plate. “You look like someone who knows there’s a better party somewhere else.”
An hour later, there we were, slipping through the side gate of a beachfront wedding at the Ocean View Club.
“Confidence is key,” she’d whispered, gliding straight into the reception like the velvet rope had always been on her side. Nobody questioned it. Dinah has the kind of beauty and presence that bends reality just enough to make you believe you belong, too.
We danced barefoot in the sand. We flirted with boys. We got caught once, maybe twice, but Dinah batted her lashes and spun a lie about being the groom’s cousin’s house guest, effortlessly smoothing it over.
By the time we wandered back down the beach, the hem of my dress was damp with salt spray, and my cheeks ached from laughing.
“I’m never crashing another party without you,” Dinah had said, looping her arm through mine like we’d been best friends forever.
And now I’m lucky to call her one of my best friends.
For the last decade, she’s been in my corner no matter the miles between us, name dropping my art to her editor friend at Vogue, and more recently jumping on a flight after my Jack breakup with a martini shaker and matching silk, feather-trimmed pajamas.
Dinah doesn’t just show up, she upgrades the moment.
“I was about to send a search party,” Dinah teases, sweeping me into a hug.
“No way,” I laugh. “Like I’d miss this.”
Her eyes dance. “I almost did! I forgot to book my flight, but luckily I hopped on a friend’s jet this morning! Oh Lucy, I’ve missed you!”
Dinah snags a passing server, plucks two martinis from the tray, and hands me one. Her dark wavy hair cascades down her back, and her skin is golden, with a radiance that comes from weekly facials.
“To us. May we avoid any lurking crypto bros tonight.”
Dinah scans my face. “You’re flushed,” she continues after a beat. “Like you have a secret.”
I immediately blush, waving her off. “You’ve been back for five seconds and you’re already in detective mode?”
She winks. “Please. I’m fresh off Portugal, dodging yacht boys with commitment issues. I live for mysteries I can actually solve.”
I shake my head, but she cuts me off. “Actually, there’s someone I want you to meet tonight,” she says. “Tall. Charming, but not in a narcissistic way. A little broody, maybe book-ish?”
Before I can reply she declares loudly, “Oh, hi Jack.”
I turn and follow her gaze. He looks maddeningly handsome and perfectly composed, dress shirt unbuttoned just enough, that damned smile playing on his lips.
“Hi Dinah, Luce,” he says, coming to a stop in front of us.
Dinah arches a brow, her smile widening devilishly. “And here I was, assuming you’d forgotten all about us here on Harbour Island. How long have you been hiding, friend?”
Jack leans in for a bear hug. They’ve always traded barbs like currency but the affection beneath is unmistakable. “Long enough to accidentally overhear some matchmaking plans.” He glances at me with a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. My heart does a clumsy somersault.
Dinah doesn’t miss a beat. “Don’t be jealous, Jack. You had your chance. Chances.”
Jack takes it with a smile, but there’s a flicker beneath it, a sadness you’d miss if you didn’t know Jack well. And I do.
Dinah watches us for a beat, and I can feel her taking the temperature of the room before lifting her glass in a toast. “Well, I need to get some of these greetings out of the way, so if anyone needs me, I’ll be over there pretending to care about my dad’s little shipping boats.”
After Dinah walks away, Jack angles toward me and says, “Have you been painting at all?”
I exhale, grateful for the change of topic. “Yeah, a little. I’m trying to get into a groove. You’d probably laugh if you could hear me rambling while I sketch out studies.”
“I could always tell when you disappeared into it,” he laughs. “You’d start talking to the page instead of me. Like the sketch needed a pep talk.”
Something stirs low in my chest before I can stop it.
A flash of sun-warmed sand. My sketchbook balanced on my knees, the page rippling in the breeze.
Jack stretched out beside me on the beach, one arm bent behind his head, watching me instead of the water.
I remember the way he inched closer every few minutes, pretending not to.
The quiet heat of his thigh against mine.
His fingers brushing my ankle as if by accident, lingering just long enough to make it impossible to concentrate on the lines in front of me.
A server appears offering a tray of miniature conch fritters. Jack shifts, taking an easy step back, the space between us reappearing and somehow accentuating how close we were just seconds ago.
I glance around the room and spot my friend Thomas with a guy I don’t recognize near the bar, pulling off his signature open-shirt look like he’s still a teenager. He catches my eye, gives me a wink and a wave, equal parts affection and mischief.
Thomas has always been the glue, the instigator, the unofficial cruise director of our group. Seeing him here, laughing with someone new, makes the years collapse in on themselves.
Lazy Daisy, late afternoon. We’d spent the day helping Gran clean up the yard for one of her parties.
Thomas dragged speakers out to the porch.
Allie and I strung lanterns through the palms, and Jack quietly tackled Gran’s list of to-dos, including fixing the beach gate latch that she refused to replace.
By the time the sun went down, we’d all ended up around a small beach bonfire.
Blanket piles and rum punch. Thomas was playing a guitar terribly but with dramatic flair.
Allie and I tossed popcorn into the fire just to hear it crack, and Jack stood at the edge of it all, shadowed in firelight, coaxing Thomas into one more chorus.
I can’t remember exactly what Jack said to me that night, something teasing, but I remember how it made me feel. Giddy. Helpless and hopeful. We weren’t together then, but God I wanted to be.
Thomas’s laughter carries across the room and I smile. “God, he hasn’t changed.”
“Not one bit,” Jack says.
“Gran always loved Thomas’s stories about his love life. She said it was better than any soap opera.”
Jack laughs. “She loved when he’d come over.”
“Hey, you know that rickety gate latch you used to fix for her?”
He turns to me with a smirk. “The one she wouldn’t let me replace because ‘you don’t throw something away when you can fix it?’”
“That’s the one. Well, it’s broken again.”
An older man interrupts, clapping Jack’s shoulder and pulling him away. Jack gives me an apologetic smile, the kind that almost says stay, before turning toward the man.