Chapter Four Marigold
Marigold woke up but resisted opening her eyes. Today was her last full day as a single woman, and she wanted to savor every second. The moment her eyelids fluttered open, the countdown would begin.
Don’t be ridiculous, she chided herself.
She wasn’t on death row. She didn’t even have cold feet.
She wanted to marry Jonathan. He was the best man she’d ever met.
Marigold rolled over and buried her face in her pillow, conjuring her favorite images from the previous night: Lulu beaming with pride and love as she watched the festivities; Jonathan snapping into doctor mode when Bill’s aunt Jessie fainted during dessert.
Was it weird to be turned on by the sight of her fiancé tending to an eighty-four-year-old woman with low blood pressure?
Whatever. She’d deserved a little pick-me-up after Olivia’s “tribute.” Marigold knew that the toast reflected much worse on her sister than it did on her, but it still hadn’t felt great to sit there while seventy-five people tried not to think about her missing undergarments.
She got out of bed, pulled on the pajama shorts she’d wriggled out of in the night, and padded downstairs barefoot.
Everyone else in her family wore slippers or flip-flops, depending on the season, to protect their feet from the ancient floorboards.
But Marigold never worried about splinters, one of her many so-called quirks that drove Olivia crazy.
She poured herself a cup of coffee, then went to join her mother on the porch where Lulu was drawing with watercolor pencils, a sketch pad balanced on her lap.
Marigold lowered herself into a creaky wicker rocking chair, then leaned over for a better look.
Lulu had drawn a variety of birds, all incredibly realistic, save for their human accessories.
The blue jay wore a top hat; the robin clutched an ornate walking stick; and a large swan smoothed the skirt of her high-necked Victorian wedding dress.
“Oh, wow,” Marigold said. “They’re gorgeous.
I wish they were coming to the wedding instead of Jonathan’s cousins.
” It made her happy to see her mother drawing again—the chemo generally made her too sick to do more than listen to audiobooks and nap.
The wedding festivities were clearly a source of artistic inspiration.
A sound grabbed her attention, and she looked up to see Olivia crunching up the gravel drive, red-faced from her run.
“Morning, hon!” Lulu called. “Everything okay at the inn?” Olivia had apologized to them both at the end of the night—and then sent about a dozen more apology texts to the family group chat—but it still irked Marigold to hear their mother greet her so warmly.
Olivia came to a stop and held up a one second finger as she leaned over to catch her breath.
Marigold rolled her eyes. Her sister regularly ran half marathons.
There was no way three miles would’ve left her winded.
Olivia couldn’t resist playing the martyr; she seemed happiest when showing off her capacity for pain, whether bringing a stack of legal documents to the beach, ordering a plain chicken breast at a restaurant famous for pasta, or getting up before dawn to run.
Olivia’s phone must’ve buzzed, because she pulled it out and said, “Hello?” in a normal voice, miraculously no longer gasping for breath.
“Yes, she’s right here… No, I have no idea why she never answers her phone…
Bruce, stop, you’re not supposed to share privileged attorney/client information…
I know she’s my sister, but it’s still not professional…
Okay, hold on…” Olivia trudged up the porch steps and shoved her phone at Marigold. “It’s Bruce.”
Bruce was their family’s Maine lawyer, the one they used for things like boat permits and work visas for their summer staff. Why would he be calling today?
“Hi, Bruce,” Marigold said. “How are you? How’s Lucy?” Bruce and his wife bred dairy goats; Lucy was their current cherished prizewinner and there were no fewer than three framed photos of her in Bruce’s office.
“We’re all fine,” he said in his Down-Easter accent. “Listen, I’m calling about your marriage license.”
Marigold frowned. It was highly unusual for Bruce to skip the small talk. “Jonathan and I are picking it up from the registrar today.”
“She doesn’t have her marriage license yet?!” Olivia hissed to Lulu, correctly interpreting Marigold’s side of the conversation. “This is ridiculous, even for her.”
Seriously? Marigold mouthed, then made a you’re still on thin ice face.
“There’s been a slight setback,” Bruce continued. “My paralegal was preparing your paperwork and discovered that, well…” He lowered his voice. “It appears that you’re already married.”
Marigold jerked the phone from her ear as if scalded. “That’s not possible,” she said in the most relaxed, cheerful voice she could muster despite the panic mounting in her chest. She headed into the house, aware of Lulu’s and Olivia’s eyes on her.
“Jessica performed a standard search using your social security number and found a certificate of marriage between you and a gentleman named… hold on a sec… Hugo Berlanger?”
The name knocked the air from her chest, and she grabbed on to the back of an armchair for balance. “Hugo Berlanger,” she repeated in a daze.
“Does it… ring a bell?” Bruce asked.
Hugo Berlanger. The name didn’t sound right coming from Bruce—it felt like he was quoting from Marigold’s own dreams. She’d barely heard anyone say Hugo’s full name aloud before; they’d cut themselves off from the world for those few stolen weeks, creating a reality that belonged to them alone.
She’d almost managed to convince herself that she’d imagined the whole thing.
“That was… a long time ago.” Marigold’s voice sounded hoarse. “We got a divorce. I can’t imagine why that’d be a problem now.”
“And everything was finalized? Do you have copy of the paperwork?”
“I’ll… I’ll need to check with my New York lawyers.
I’m sure it’s all in order.” It had to be, right?
She knew Hugo had signed the papers—her lawyer had confirmed receipt.
Marigold had been at a restaurant opening in Brooklyn, and she’d slipped out the back door to take the call.
“We’ve received Mr. Berlanger’s signed papers, so all you need to do is return yours,” the lawyer had said cheerfully.
Marigold remembered slumping against a pile of empty produce crates, unsure if the sudden weakness was the result of relief or shock that it was really all over.
And then, of course, she’d mailed her signed copy.
Or dropped them off at the office. She must have, right?
Who forgets to finalize their own divorce?
“Do you want me to call?” Bruce asked. He often coordinated with their family’s New York lawyers.
“Sure… yeah.” Marigold stumbled through the kitchen and out into the backyard, where she’d be out of earshot.
“If, for whatever reason, they never got my signed document, what happens then? My wedding is tomorrow, and I can’t…
I mean, I need to…” How could she tell Jonathan they needed to postpone?
How could she tell her mother? There was no way. She had to figure this out.
“Given how much time has passed, you’ll need to sign new copies. If you and Mr. Berlanger sign and get them notarized today, we should be able to get everything in order by tomorrow.”
“Okay… okay,” Marigold said, more to herself than to Bruce. “I’ll find a notary, get the signatures, and send them over.”
“The town clerk would normally insist on hard copies, but if you send a scan by tomorrow morning, it’ll be fine.
Mary owes me a favor. She was in a bit of a jam a few years back.
Turns out her son had opened a credit card in her name and then flown to Russia to meet a woman he met on the internet, but the woman—”
“That’s probably not something you should tell me, Bruce,” Marigold said, a bit more shrilly than she’d intended.
“But thank you for the call. I’m on it. You’ll have the paperwork in time.
Talk to you soon.” She pressed “end” and started to scroll through her contacts before remembering that she was holding Olivia’s phone, not her own.
“Can I have that back, please?”
Marigold flinched, then spun around to see her sister glaring at her from the back door.
“Just gimme a sec,” Marigold said, taking a few steps backward as she planned what to do next.
First, she had to grab her phone. She still had Hugo’s number buried in her contacts, but what would she do if he didn’t pick up?
It was too risky just to forward the paperwork and hope for the best. It needed to be signed and notarized today.
Which meant that if Hugo didn’t check his texts or look at his email, someone would need to hand deliver the documents.
And as far as Marigold knew, Hugo was still living in Canada.
“No, now. I have to check my email. Immediately.”
Marigold tossed the phone to Olivia. “God forbid you make anyone wait thirty seconds for a response.”
“It’s my job to be available and responsive. To be someone people can count on.”
“And you’re saying I’m not?”
“You’re getting married tomorrow and you don’t have a marriage license. Classic Marigold.”
“It’s not my fault,” Marigold said faintly. “There was a mix-up with the paperwork.”
“Nothing’s ever your fault, is it?”
“I appreciate your support, Olivia. It’s super helpful.”
Olivia sighed. “Fine, I’m sorry. What do you need?”
“Nothing. I’m just going to grab my phone and head to the ferry. I need to get my… birth certificate. From my apartment. I didn’t realize I needed it for the license.”
“You’re going to New York? That doesn’t make any sense. We know a hundred people flying up today. Just ask someone to bring it for you. Your doorman can let them in.”
“It’s in a safe with all my jewelry, so I don’t think I should risk it. Or it might be in a safe-deposit box at the bank. I’m not one hundred percent sure. It’s just easier if I go. I’ll be back in time for the rehearsal dinner.”
Olivia gave her an odd look. “Are you okay? Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”
For just a moment, Marigold felt an urge to tell her sister everything.
Olivia would be horrified, but she’d fix Marigold’s mess, just like she always did.
But she’d never, ever let Marigold forget it.
She’d bring it up, regularly, for the rest of their lives.
And could she really trust Olivia not to tell anyone about Hugo?
No, her little performance last night had made it clear—she wasn’t afraid to humiliate Marigold when the opportunity arose.
Jonathan could never hear about this. Neither could Lulu and Bill.
“There’s nothing to figure out. I just need my birth certificate. It’s fine. I’m on it.”
“Will you be okay doing all this by yourself? Do you want me to come with you?”
“I’m good. I’d rather you stay here, hold down the fort. I’ll just go grab my stuff.” Thankfully, the one thing she really needed was up in her room—her passport.
She wasn’t going to New York; she was heading to Canada. She had eight hours to find Hugo Berlanger and fix the biggest mess she’d ever made.