8. June
JUNE
I throw myself into fixing the Shack like it’s a lifeline. Except I don’t want to be inside the Shack any longer than I need to be. There’s too much history packed into those four walls. And way too much Meredith.
She had set up shop in the back room to handle the books for the rest of the week, so at least I know exactly where to avoid. There are just too many memories ready to ambush me the moment I stop moving. So, I don’t stop.
Instead, I do what I do best—get out there and start rebuilding connections.
The docks are bustling with the usual early-morning energy.
Boats rock against their moorings, salt-stained ropes groan, and voices echo across the water—rough, familiar voices, tinged with laughter and the occasional curse.
If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine Dad is still here, shouting orders, the wind trying to pull his hair out of his headband.
I make my rounds, touching base with vendors we used to work with—some more receptive than others. I talk to old suppliers, shake hands, and nod along to their grumbling about gas prices and regulations, promising that the Holloway Lobster Shack is worth their time again.
Some don’t believe me, and I try not to picture Richard’s smug face when they do.
And then, at the far end of the dock, I find myself at a familiar stall, where three fishermen—Russ, Max, and Old Pete—are gutting fish with the kind of casual efficiency that comes with decades of practice.
“Well, if it isn’t little Junebug,” Russ drawls, barely looking up from his knife work.
I brace myself. “Morning, Russ.”
Pete wipes his hands on a rag and squints at me. “Heard you’re trying to fix up the Shack.”
I nod, planting my hands on my hips. “That’s the plan.”
Max lets out a barking laugh. “Should’ve started with dynamite.”
The others chuckle, and I roll my eyes; there’s no real heat behind it.
“I’ll get it back in shape,” I say. “Just need to make sure we’ve got the best suppliers.”
Russ grunts. “You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you, girl. Your daddy set the bar high.”
“Yeah, he did, didn’t he?” I say in an attempt to skirt past the condolences.
Luckily, Pete lets out a snort. “You planning on hitting Malibu for your tackle?”
Max shakes his head, flicking a fish head into a bucket. “Stupid, foolish act, if you ask me. Plenty of good tackle right here, but no, Aiden had to have the best, even if it meant crossing the whole country.”
Russ smirks. “Said he didn’t trust anyone around here to make a hook sharp enough.”
I snort despite myself. “Sounds about right.”
They laugh along with me, and for a second, it feels easy to stand here with them, swapping stories like I never left.
But then the weight of it returns—the fact that Dad isn’t here to defend his ridiculous choices, and that I’m the one standing in his place, trying to piece everything back together.
Because, logically, there was no reason for him to visit California every time he needed a new hook.
But I never got the chance to ask him why.
Now I never will.
The laughter fades, replaced by a quiet that stretches just a little too long.
Max clears his throat. “Well, you know where to find us if you need anything.”
I nod. “Yeah. Thanks, Max.”
The weekend creeps up without much warning, and before Meredith’s guy from the Cape can fix up the grill.
It would feel strange heading to the barbecue empty-handed, so I pick up several bottles of wine on my way over with every intention of consuming them myself.
I’ve managed to avoid the summer barbecues since Sophie left for L.A.
It’s easy enough to do when the gallery demands so much attention, not that I’ve been there much at all this week—beyond asking Marlene Abrams’s kid to cover my usual shifts.
She’s leaving in the fall to study fashion somewhere, so it’s not like she couldn’t use the money.
So it’s fitting that her mom is the first person I bump into as I crest over the dune.
“I can’t believe you’re actually here, Junebug!” Marlene pulls me into an inescapable hug. “I can’t believe you’re all here.”
And there, across the beach, laughing over a paper plate of what can only be Mom’s cranberry pie, are Sophie and Meredith.
My already tentative mood immediately sours.
I force a smile and raise a bottle. “You know where I find a cup, Marlene?”
Laughter spreads across the beach as the older woman guides me to the buffet table. Someone has already started the fire pit, and families I haven’t seen in years gather around picnic tables and blankets, their kids darting in and out of the surf.
The buffet table is a predictable spread of oysters, clams, and lobster rolls. I doubt any will taste as good as the ones we could have made at the Shack, so instead, I eye up the corn still wrapped in its husk, stacked beside bowls of coleslaw and potato salad.
Marlene gestures toward the stacks of paper cups at one end of the table. “You think Sophie might be interested in doing a bit of modeling for us while she’s down here?”
I set my wine down a little harder than necessary, ignoring her curious glance as I fill a cup to the brim. “You’d have to ask her.”
I don’t look toward the shoreline as I take a long drink. I don’t watch as Meredith and Sophie stand together, heads tilted close, sharing a private smile. I don’t watch as Marlene takes my unwillingness to engage in conversation as her cue to drift over to greet them both with a warm embrace.
Having filled up a second glass, I move toward the edge of the crowd. I’m so focused on staying out of sight that I almost walk straight into the Andersons. Unfortunately, though, Charlie spots me before I can make my escape.
“June! Hey!” Without giving me a chance to protest, he pulls me into a slightly too-long hug, his cologne thick with cigar smoke and summer-only indulgences.
Behind him, his mother clears her throat. “It’s good to see you again, Miss Holloway.” She offers a tight smile, her gaze expectant. “We had a lovely welcome back to the summer house this year. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful your Pearson-Lord was.”
“It’s your Pearson-Lord now,” I say with as much charm as I can muster, racking my brain to remember which painting I had sold them. Cursing myself, because I was just in that house a few days ago.
Then, out of almost nowhere, someone comments, “I’ve found nothing quite opens up a space—or, dare I say, an opportunity—like a Pearson-Lord.”
I freeze at that voice, as a surprisingly non-Burberry-wearing force of nature sidles up next to me with a soft smile and a still stupidly attractive face.
Charlie takes one look at him and immediately puffs up. “A new client of yours, June?”
Yeah. No way am I getting in the middle of that display of dominance. Ashton can fend for himself.
“Mr. Parker recently purchased the Day Cycle series for his gallery in New York,” I say, keeping my tone strictly professional.
“Actually…” Ashton corrects, still looking smug. “The Pearson-Lords are for my personal collection. I’m here to persuade Miss Holloway to discuss a profitable collaboration.”
I shoot him a warning glare.
Charlie snorts, and his mother visibly cringes. “Good luck trying to convince June to leave Nantucket.”
Ashton lifts an eyebrow, amused. “I take it you’ve had little success yourself?”
Charlie straightens like he’s about to start beating his fists on his chest.
Even though I just promised myself I wouldn’t get involved, I grab Ashton’s arm and pull him away before this gets any worse. “Can I talk to you?” I throw a quick, too-sweet smile over my shoulder at Charlie and his mother. “Excuse us one moment.”
Away from the crowds, the smell of salt and charred seafood hangs in the warm evening air. The sun has dipped low, casting the shoreline in a golden glow. I would enjoy the beauty of it if I weren’t so furious.
“Your boyfriend seems nice,” Ashton says, provokingly.
I spin around. “What are you even doing here?”
“Attending a barbecue.” His tone is infuriatingly casual.
“It’s locals only.”
He gestures toward the families mingling, where laughter echoes over the clinking of ice in glasses. “The Andersons, the Harringtons, the Winthrops, the Sutherlands—most of them only have summer homes.”
I narrow my eyes. “How do you know that?”
“I told you, I do my research.”
“They’ve lived here for generations.” I balk at him. “They’re not exactly tourists.”
He shrugs. “Well, maybe I’m planning on purchasing property here.”
A sharp breath escapes me. “Sometimes I think you exist to torment me.”
His lips quirk in amusement. “I’m serious. There’s this beautiful lighthouse on Tom Nevers that’s been abandoned for years now. Have you seen it?”
My heart stutters, and I tighten my grip around my cup. “You can’t buy that lighthouse.”
“Do you truly hate me that much?”
“That’s my lighthouse,” I mutter, tipping back the rest of my wine. The alcohol hums under my skin, loosening my words before I can filter them. “I’ve wanted it since I was a kid.”
His teasing drops away. “If I bought it for you, would you consider my offer?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous is that you won’t even hear me out.
” Ashton steps closer, the warmth of him a comforting balm against the cooling breeze.
“A lighthouse for a works exchange—five artists from Parker Gallery for five from Aidan June’s.
I won’t take any commission on works sold in New York.
And you know what? I won’t even ask you to return the favor.
Your standard rate is twenty percent, right? I’ll let you take forty.”
I let out a disbelieving laugh. “There’s a saying around here—if something sounds too good to be true, it usually is.”
“Have you considered that it might be something else?”
Now that I think about it… “Like money laundering? Working for some Russian oligarch?”
“Like I’m trying to impress you.”
I falter. Because… No. That’s not what this is. This can’t be happening, not right now. “Why would you do that?”
He leans down to look at me with those infuriating gray eyes—and oh, he’s way closer than I expected. Maybe I’m drunk. Maybe I’m not drunk enough.
“See, now you’re just fishing,” he says.
I shake my head. “Am not.”
“Do you want a line, June?” He exhales, his gaze searching mine. “About how I walked into your gallery and found the only masterpiece was you? Because, apparently, I haven’t embarrassed myself enough.”
My stomach twists. “You’re insane.”
“What’s insane is that I met this beautiful woman who’s smart, sarcastic, and cares so deeply about art that she’s willing to face a family that seems hell-bent on making her life as chaotic as possible.
What’s insane is that she shared parts of herself with me that I’d bet Charlie Anderson doesn’t know about.
” His voice drops slightly. “And it’s insane that after a wonderful dinner, she still walked away without a second thought. ”
I force myself to breathe evenly. “Maybe I’m not the kind of woman who needs her affections bought. Or are you just so used to getting everything you want that you didn’t consider rejection a possibility?”
He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans in closer. “Then let me earn it.”
The sky shifts from gold to deep blue, with the first stars flickering above us. The sounds from the party grow closer, reminding me that we are still here, that I am still connected to this place in a way he will never be.
I shake my head. “I don’t date summer boys. And you’re just another bored billionaire who likes the chase more than the result.”
He tilts his head, studying me. “I think I’d like the result just fine.”
“How long will it take you to ask me to leave?” I’m breathing so close to his face that I’m sure he feels it on his cheeks, his lips. “Because the summers here are nice and all, but you don’t want to ruin your Burberry jackets on a Nantucket winter.”
Then, before he can answer, I shove my empty glass into his hand and walk away.