2. June
JUNE
“I said maroon, not mauve. They are literally two different colors, June. You would have thought they’d at least have an ounce of basic understanding between the lot of them, but no.
Once again, I’m left to fend for myself in a room full of dimwitted troglodytes.
” Sarah shook her red hair over her shoulder in a display of aristocratic indignation that would put most of the Westmoor crowd to shame.
It’s hard not to smile when she gets like this. Her British accent—softened after a decade in Massachusetts—tends to revert to sharp snobbery when she feels even the slightest inconvenience.
“That’s a new one,” I say, testing the word out for myself. “Troglodyte.”
“Oh God, don’t say that.” Sarah pales, immediately losing her previous ire. “It’s actually quite rude.”
“Then why did you say it?”
She shrugs innocently. “It was in the heat of the moment.”
“You’re going to scare away all my clients,” I say as I gesture around the empty gallery for emphasis.
Sarah snorts crudely. Her talent for fostering a healthy appreciation for sarcasm and subtle insults is one of the many reasons we became friends. Additionally, her first husband’s poor taste in interior design led to a long-lasting and mutually beneficial relationship with the Aiden June Gallery.
From the sound of it, her current husband isn’t faring much better.
“Sometimes I think you only come here to complain,” I say with a smirk, knowing it was a welcomed distraction. Especially when my phone is currently burning a hole in my pocket.
She huffs, adding, “I came here to purchase two paintings, one in maroon and one in mauve, to show the decorators the difference.”
The telltale chime of the front door opening fills the room, and I instinctively stand back up from my lean against the counter. “You know, there are probably cheaper ways to do that.”
“Where’s your flair for the dramatics?” Sarah flashes her fancy new Amex, now engraved with her new name, Sarah Magnolia. A big upgrade from Sarah Day. Although if she ever asked, I’d admit my preference for her maiden name. Sarah Spencer sounded like a character out of?—
“Excuse me?”
I’m pulled from my inner thoughts to acknowledge the man trying to wave me over from across the room. I feel Sarah react sharply beside me—as obvious as ever—as I try to shape my expression into something friendly and professional.
Because this man is gorgeous. All clean lines until the scruff on his sharp jaw, broad shoulders that carried the Burberry jacket off with ease.
The bangs of his dirty blond hair were styled to casually fall in front of his steely gray eyes.
Curated, intentionally or not, like a neon sign that reads, “new-money tourist.”
I force a tight smile to appear on my face. “Hi, can I help you?”
“Are you June Holloway?”
With a parting glance to Sarah that conveys exactly what we’re both thinking, I approach the stranger with a playful flair of my hands. “The one and only.”
Burberry’s lips quirk into a smile. “Ashton.” He reaches for my hand as if to shake it, only to smoothly pull it to his lips to kiss.
I don’t need to look over my shoulder to know Sarah is rolling her eyes.
“Do you need me to repeat myself, Ashton?” I say, hoping my smile disarms some of the bitterness in my tone.
To his credit, he takes it in his stride. “I’m here to look at the Day Cycle series?”
“Phase one or phase two?”
“Both.”
I nod, using the excuse of guiding him to the paintings to mask my growing irritation.
The entire Day Cycle series would cost nearly six figures, and, as much as tourists like to flaunt their money, it’s uncommon for anyone to bother with the insurance nightmare of transporting multi-thousand-dollar art back home on their large yachts.
“This is Pearson-Lord, isn’t it?” Ashton comments as we approach the back wall, where the beautiful depictions of light are on full display.
“George is a good friend,” I reply, confirming his assumption.
“I thought this was a local gallery?”
My eyebrow twitches at that. “George lives on the Cape.”
Ashton hums thoughtfully before returning to his examinations. I briefly wonder if he’d take offense if I called him a troglodyte.
But in the silence that follows, my mind drifts back to the phone in my pocket, the message I received this morning, and the two simple sentences that still make me want to throw it across the room.
Mom: Come to the Beach House this afternoon. We need to talk.
Richard obviously sent those messages, since my mom always ends her texts with half a dozen heart emojis. Also, the last message Mom sent me was in 2017, when she apologized for not being able to attend the gallery opening.
Still, the fact that either of them had bothered to reach out was more than a little concerning.
“Do you know if he’s planning on continuing the series?”
I shake away my thoughts as I draw closer to Ashton’s side. “How well do you know Pearson-Lord?”
“I’d like to know him better.” His response is surprisingly tasteful, effectively loosening my tongue.
“George’s muses are fleeting. He often locks himself away for days to create pieces like this, only to emerge from his trance and decide he hates them.
” I point out the brushwork in the center of each sun.
“I was seconds away from digging through his trash for these. Apparently, ‘the sun simply cannot be harnessed by his brushes.’ He was being ridiculous, of course. I’ve never seen anyone capture anything like this before. ”
Ashton hums again, though the sound is decisively less grating. “You are a good friend.”
“I said so, didn’t I?”
His brow quirks. “But your customer service leaves something to be desired.”
There’s no point hiding the scowl on my face. “You asked me if George would continue the series. My answer is no. All the money in the world couldn’t persuade him to return to an idea he’s decided he hates.”
“Yet he’s willing to let you sell his despised pieces?” Ashton looks over, seemingly bemused by my expression. “If anyone could convince him to continue, my money would be on you.”
“It’s a shame I have zero motivation to do so,” I snap back.
Ashton’s smile only widens, as if this loosely veiled argument does not affect him, while I have to clasp my hands behind my back to stop them from shaking.
His composure only fuels the fire, especially as he leans in closer to look at me, giving me a full view of his very obnoxious—yet beautifully stylish—Burberry jacket.
“Even if I purchased them both?”
I blink up at him. “I think there might be cheaper ways to make your point.”
“But this would be more entertaining, wouldn’t you agree?”
The conversation feels so eerily similar to the one I just had with Sarah that I almost wonder how long Ashton had been lingering before he made his presence known.
“I can ring you up now if you want?” I say, gesturing back toward the counter where Sarah has seemingly made herself scarce.
“Are you calling my bluff?” He provokes me with a flash of challenge in his eyes.
But I don’t back down. “Absolutely.”
This only seems to goad Ashton, his gray eyes gleaming down at mine, a rebuttal clearly inching to the end of his tongue?—
And my phone vibrates in my pocket.
However, it allows me to pull a power move by holding up a single finger to him as I check it.
Mom: Please, June.
“Everything all right?”
I look up to find Ashton’s playful smile has dropped from his expression, replaced with something that flickers with concern.
“Yeah.” I pocket my phone, distracted. “Listen, if you’re actually serious about this, you can come back the day after tomorrow. I need to close up shop.”
“Is everything?—”
“Here’s my card.” I shove it into his hands to stop him from asking. “I’ll let George know that you’re interested.”
Ashton puts it into his pocket and, thankfully, seems to sense my hurry. He nods once before heading back out. “I’ll catch you later then.”
The drive to Wauwinet is still familiar, even though I can’t remember the last time I made it over to the east side of the island.
My only reason for visiting the Beach House disappeared after Sophie graduated.
From that moment, I stopped trying to maintain a strained relationship with my mother in favor of protecting myself.
It wasn’t like I could have a real conversation with her when Richard was constantly scrutinizing us anyway.
Besides, I can’t really avoid them. Nantucket is only so big, and running into Eleanor Grant on my way back from the gallery usually leads to at least a coffee.
Mom has always had a knack for avoiding anything that might cause conflict, especially when she’s sipping a cappuccino, limiting us to roughly two safe topics—sailing and my terrible love life.
The anxious feeling I get as I turn down the familiar driveway makes me doubt that either of these topics warranted the invitation this afternoon.
I cut the engine and glance up at the house that had been my home for the better part of two decades.
From the outside, not much has changed. I can almost picture Dad running out the door to meet Roland for a beer.
We used to be like passing ships in the night whenever I worked the evening shift at the Shack.
But he’d always stop by the Jeep and wait for me to roll down the window so he could kiss my cheek and ruffle my hair with a promise to take me sailing in the morning before we repeated the same routine over and over.
Maybe it was foolish of me to think we’d last forever. But I was twenty, happy to be loved by those around me, and eager to give my love freely, unable to imagine my family ever letting me down.
As I walk up the steps to the porch, I remind myself that I’m not twenty anymore, and after a verbal sparring match with a wealthy tourist, I’m more than ready to hold my own if needed.
Luckily, Mom answers the door. “Hey, baby.”
Eleanor’s signature blond hair has lightened to gray over these past few years, and she seems to prefer a shorter cut than ever before.
There was a time I was jealous of her beachy waves, especially when Sophie came out looking just like her.
The two of them wouldn’t look out of place on a J.
Crew runway. All I have are her hazel eyes, which now seem to glow with joy, inexplicably, as she gazes at me through the open door.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, suddenly feeling wrongfooted by her expression.
“Come on in.” She holds open the door for me as I step into the hallway.
It’s an ingrained habit for me to want to go straight to the kitchen, but as we walk through the house, I hear voices from the living room, and Mom nudges me in that direction.
I brace myself, knowing I’m about to find Richard behind the closed door and assuming the worst.
But it’s not my stepfather that my eyes lock onto the second I walk inside.
No.
It’s the perfectly poised, power-suit-wearing woman with a stubborn jaw and slick, dark hair pulled aggressively back from her all-too-familiar features.
“Meredith?”
And she dares to smile. “Hey, June.”
I laugh. Long and hard—aware that I probably sound completely unhinged—until the laughter catches in my throat and there’s nothing but bitterness left.
“Yeah. No. Absolutely not.”