Until Midnight

Prologue The Day of the Wedding

Prologue

The Day of the Wedding

It was a perfect day for the wedding. The Ocean House gleamed yellow in the early-morning July sun.

The sea sparkled, the blue hydrangeas were in full bloom, the scent of beach roses filled the air, and the large white tent, erected yesterday afternoon for this evening’s wedding reception, shaded the grass beside the croquet lawn.

This was the quiet hour, when the early-rising hotel guests were having their first coffee.

The only sound was the crash of waves, their white-frilled edges spilling onto East Beach.

Most of the wedding guests were staying in the legendary hotel.

She was staying there, too, with a man who thought he was her boyfriend.

They had gathered for last night’s rehearsal dinner in the Harbour Room.

She had no doubt that the dinner was seared into their minds; thanks to her, they would remember it forever.

They had checked in to rooms and suites with views of the Atlantic Ocean or Watch Hill’s sailboat-studded harbor.

A mansard-roofed tower, with pediment-topped porthole windows, crowned the hotel.

The American flag flew from a flagpole on the very top.

The tower contained a magnificent suite—theirs, not hers—but she tried not to think about that.

Maybe if she had taken a different path in life, happiness could be hers.

She had known love, she couldn’t deny that, but the life she had chosen guaranteed it wouldn’t last. Here she was, in a house diagonally across the street from the hotel.

She called it the Finishing School, to continue a tradition.

Other Watch Hill houses had names like Bluffside, Seawinds, First Light, and Grey Ledge.

The names were sometimes painted above the front door or etched into stone pillars at the ends of private drives.

But the Finishing School was the name of this house and others in the network, and it did not appear anywhere on the properties.

The Finishing School wasn’t a place; it was a state of mind.

The hundred-year-old house was charming. Its white cedar shingles had been silvered by a century of salt air. It had white shutters with anchor cutouts, window boxes full of coral-pink geraniums and deep-blue lobelia. Best of all, there was a view of the Ocean House from the upstairs bedroom.

So much planning had gone into this day, down to the exact detail.

The invitations had been printed on Crane medium-weight paper.

Her mouth twitched—a tiny smile—at the fact that there was one small typo.

Well, not really a typo—she had inserted it.

She deserved to claim a little happiness, didn’t she?

She read the invitation now:

Kate Woodward she deserved it after all she had been through. This was the day she would make him pay.

She couldn’t resist putting on the wedding dress. She let her robe slide to the floor, and then she slipped the dress over her head. The white crepe felt cool to her skin; the weight of the crystal-beaded neckline caressed her chest.

“Beauty,” she said out loud, looking at herself in the full-length mirror. “Belle,” she said, staring into her own eyes.

Downstairs, the front door swished open and shut. Her heart sped up. She wasn’t expecting anyone. For a minute she considered running into the bathroom and hiding so they couldn’t see the dress, but then she figured it was meant to be, so she stood right where she was.

She stared into the oval cheval glass next to the bedroom door as she listened to the footsteps on the stairs.

She had no idea what they would say. She hoped it was him, not her.

If it was him, he would put his arms around her from behind, turn her around, kiss her, and tell her she was his, that she could never leave him, leave them.

The moment was electric, more frightening than exciting, and she closed her eyes, steeling herself for his embrace.

The touch felt like a caress, like the gentle tickle of a fingertip tracing her throat.

It didn’t hurt, but it startled her, and she opened her eyes and looked in the mirrored glass.

It struck her, how odd it was to see the white wedding dress turning crimson.

Red spray pulsed out of her neck in time with her heartbeat, and she lifted her hand to try to stop it.

Her gaze in the mirror met the familiar face, and she gasped because it wasn’t him at all. She saw the curved blade. She saw rage in those eyes she knew and loved better than anyone else in the world.

Her hand cupped her throat; the blood felt warm.

The dress was scarlet now. She fell to her knees, then toppled over.

She lay in a patch of sunlight streaming through the open window.

She stared at the wall. She remembered how they could hear the train whistles and the ferry horns from their street; she remembered holding his hand.

It’s true, she thought: At the end, your life flashes before your eyes.

Her voice was garbled, but she said a name out loud anyway. It was a name full of love and protection and devotion. She whispered it through her own blood as she died.

“Conor.”