When You Knew

by Jamie Beck

  “Alec, you’ve always been one of the kindest, most loyal, and patient men I’ve known. My daughter has never been happier in her life than she has this past year, and that’s almost entirely thanks to you and your love. Hunter has always viewed you as the brother he never had, but I’m damn glad it’s now official. Welcome to our family, and we wish you both decades of happiness to come.”

  He raised his glass of the Egly-Ouriet champagne Smith had recommended for the event, and everyone clanked their flutes and chugged down the bubbly.

  Everyone except Sara.

  Mr. Morgan and Hunter both gave short toasts as well, and again, Gentry noticed Sara raising her glass but then setting it aside without taking a sip. Had they tried another IVF in secret and succeeded?

  Ian elbowed her side. “I think it’s your turn.”

  “Oh!” She winced. “Sorry!”

  Instead of facing the guests, she looked directly at Colby.

  “Everyone else has already used all the good words in their toasts, so I’m going rogue. Those who know me well will not be surprised.” A smattering of chuckles rippled through the crowd. “Alec, you owe me a lifetime supply of your curried shrimp dish as a thank-you. If I hadn’t flirted with you so obnoxiously, Colby might never have faced her true feelings. And on a more serious note, Colby, I am so lucky to have an older sister who embodies grace and courage. You’ve taught me that strength comes from love, not pride, and I’m so glad you’ve found someone equally wonderful to share your life with. Now get busy making babies, because Colt needs more cousins.” More laughter erupted, but Gentry noticed Hunter and Sara exchange a knowing look. “Cheers.”

  Gentry swallowed her champagne and eyed Sara, who yet again refused to drink her champagne.

  She sat and said, “Hunter, you look like you’re about to burst with some good news. Care to share?”

  Her brother started at being put on the spot, pushed his glasses up his nose, and pivoted. “Well, our first few months’ sales figures on ChariTea are on target with projections. No major hiccups yet. I think we can expect to see a lot of growth going forward.”

  “That is good news. We should drink to that as well.” Colby raised her glass. “I love seeing my whole family together, and happy.”

  “And growing,” Hunter said.

  Gentry clinked her glass with Ian and watched Sara clink hers and set it aside. “Sara, you aren’t drinking tonight?”

  “Sorry?” Sara’s eyes widened.

  “I’ve noticed you haven’t taken a single sip during any of the toasts.” Now, everyone’s attention shifted to Sara and Hunter. “You aren’t feeling sick, are you?”

  Sara and Hunter shared another look. He whispered something, and she shrugged.

  Colby spoke up, eyes widening with understanding. “Don’t you dare keep a secret just because you think I can’t share this day with anyone. If you’ve got more good news, you’d better tell us right now.”

  Hunter smiled at Colby, and Gentry didn’t even feel left out for a change. “Okay, then. Sara’s pregnant.”

  The table erupted with clapping and hugs. Leslie’s eyes began to leak, and Gentry’s dad asked, “How did it happen?”

  “Apparently, it’s not completely unheard of for people to be unsuccessful at IVF, and then, when they stop trying or thinking about it, for everything to come together. We’re only at ten weeks, but I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”

  “Congratulations.” Alec wore a giant smile and then whispered something to Colby before kissing her again.

  Excited chattering broke out all around Gentry as the waiters set the amuse-bouche in front of everyone.

  Ian leaned close. “More cousins for Colt, indeed.”

  “It’s the best news ever.”

  “I can think of something better.”

  She popped the sweet fig with creamy ricotta in her mouth. “Like what?”

  “Like a brother or sister.”

  Gentry’s whole body warmed. “That would be perfect.”

  “I think so, too.” He kissed her.

  She brushed her fingers through his bangs. “It seems unfair that I’m getting everything I ever wanted, but you didn’t get to fulfill your dad’s wish.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m happy with my choice.” Ian squeezed her hand.

  She believed him, but it didn’t lessen the discomfort of knowing that she hadn’t had to make any compromises. Ian deserved some kind of gesture from her to show him how much he meant to her. “If we ever have a son, let’s name him Brian. That way your dad’s name will live on for another generation.”

  “I’d love that.” Ian’s face lit with a smile, his eyes bright with tears. “I wish my father had met you.”

  “Me too. But I wish more that he’d seen what an amazing father you are. Thank you for loving Colt and me, and making my family complete.”

  “Thank you for giving me a life better than anything I’d ever dreamed for myself.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I have many people to thank for helping me bring this book to all of you, not the least of which are my family and friends for their continued love, encouragement, and support.

  Thanks, also, to my agent, Jill Marsal, as well as to my patient editors, Megan Mulder and Krista Stroever, and the entire Montlake family for believing in me and working so hard on my behalf. I’ve been eager to stretch into new territory, so I’m grateful that they’ve supported these Cabot stories.

  A special thanks to Mimi Falbo, a hospital administrator who spent many weeks volunteering at the Hôpital Albert Schweitzer Haiti throughout the years; and Kathleen Hower, CEO and founder of Global Links, who educated me about Haiti, NGOs, and some of the conditions and challenges of its people and health-care system.

  Thanks, also, to a special reader and his wife, Steven and Joan Walton, of Brooklands, Sale, England, for helping me craft Archer Cooke’s dialogue.

  I couldn’t produce any of my work without the MTBs and, in this case, Lisa Creane, who help me plot and keep my spirits up when doubt grabs hold.

  And I can’t leave out the wonderful members of my CTRWA chapter. Year after year, all the CTRWA members provide endless hours of support, feedback, and guidance. I love and thank them for that.

  Finally, and most important, thank you, readers, for making my work worthwhile. Considering all your options, I’m honored by your choice to spend your time with me.

  MENU ITEMS CREDITED

  Le Coucou in NYC

  Queue de Homard Grillé (whole poached lobster tail, grilled romaine, citrus, sauce lauris)

  Jean-Georges in NYC

  Gulf Shrimp with Fiddlehead Ferns

  The French Laundry in Yountville, CA

  Almond Wood Grilled Japanese Wagyu

  AN EXCERPT FROM THE MEMORY OF YOU

  (THE FIRST BOOK IN THE NEW SERIES SANCTUARY SOUND)

  EDITORS’ NOTE: THIS IS AN EARLY EXCERPT AND MAY NOT REFLECT THE FINISHED BOOK.

  Chapter One

  On her deathbed years ago, Stef’s mom had imparted one final piece of advice: never regret anything that once made you happy. That lenient perspective had comforted Stef in the wake of many mistakes. Today those words drifted back as she turned down Echo Hill Lane, the narrow, tree-lined cul-de-sac where her next appointment, and many happy memories, lived. Then again, that old lesson didn’t quite apply to her current predicament, because her regret had nothing to do with the time she’d spent here with Ryan Quinn and his family, and everything to do with leaving them all behind.

  She parked her Chevy van across the street from the white Dutch Colonial that had been like a second home in her teens, leaving the driveway open in case Mr. Quinn had to come or go. Once she killed the engine, she sat in the driver’s seat shaking out her hands.

  Jitters at thirty. How ridiculous! She hadn’t had a real conversation with Mrs. Q. in a decade. Ryan wouldn’t have wanted her visiting, and she’d forfeited his family’s comfort after she’d ghosted him in colleg
e.

  But today wasn’t about comfort. Today was about a job—one she and her childhood friend–turned–business partner, Claire, needed to keep their Lockwood & McKenna home remodeling and decorating business growing.

  “Here goes nothing,” she said aloud while still behind the wheel, then blew out a breath and opened the door. After buckling her tool belt, she trotted across the lawn to the shade of the home’s small portico and knocked on its apple-red front door. The briny scent of the nearby Long Island Sound helped to calm her nerves.

  Seconds later, Mrs. Q. opened the door, wearing an apron. Her lively face broke into a smile, curling the edges of her wise blue eyes. The tall woman exuded a no-bullshit vibe, although she now had a decade’s worth of new wrinkles, and gray strands frosted her blonde hair. Nostalgia rushed forth, fanning pinpricks of joy across Stef’s skin.

  The aroma of freshly baked snickerdoodles wafted outside while the two women faced each other for the first time, each assessing the appropriate decorum for this odd reunion.

  “Stefanie, good to see you. Come on in. I’ve got to get the last batch out of the oven before they burn.” Mrs. Q. waved Stef inside—minus the hugs of yesteryear—and then strolled ahead, straight back toward the kitchen.

  Assaulted by familiar sights and sounds—the creaky, old wide-plank floors, the sisal carpet running up the stairs that led to Ryan’s room—memories overwhelmed her, causing her to bump into the cardboard moving boxes stacked near the base of the stairwell. “Oof.”

  “Watch yourself!” Mrs. Q. called.

  Stef noticed an oversize, handsome photograph of Ryan with his daughter, Emmy, displayed on the mantel. His smiling brown eyes and curled cocoa-colored hair still as handsome as ever. Suppressing a tiny pang of envy, she made her way to the kitchen.

  Molly gestured toward the platter on the counter with her spatula. “Have one.”

  “Thanks.” Stef nabbed a thick, warm cookie, then stood in the kitchen feeling sixteen years old again. A quick look at the cherry cabinets and jade-colored granite counters proved that nothing had changed much since she’d been a frequent guest.

  Then an uneasy feeling took root. Did those boxes mean the Quinns were moving? Was this renovation an attempt to make the home more attractive to a buyer? It shouldn’t matter, yet the idea of anyone other than the Quinns living here seemed as grim as setting fire to her favorite scrapbook.

  She couldn’t say that, of course, so she opted for pleasantries. “You look great, Mrs. Q.”

  “Thanks. You too.” She finished transferring the last batch of cookies to a cooling rack. “We’re both adults now. Call me Molly.”

  “Okay.” Stef attempted a smile despite the surreal exchange.

  Molly turned off the oven. “So tell me, how are you?”

  “Same as always.” Not exactly true, but she wouldn’t burden Molly with the changes ten years had wrought.

  Molly crossed her arms. “Happy to be back in Sanctuary Sound, or is it too sleepy after life up in Hartford?”

  “I think I’ve had my fill of city life for now.” Idle chitchat, or was Molly fishing for something? “It’s nice to be home.”

  Her hometown—three thousand residents nestled on the Eastern Connecticut coastline—certainly differed from city life. She’d returned about two months ago, eager to surround herself with the familiar after . . . everything.

  “No boyfriend left behind?” Molly’s even gaze betrayed no bitterness, but Stef didn’t like the conversation heading in that direction, or the rising shame from her guilty conscience.

  “No.” Her cheeks turned as hot as that oven, thanks to the cruel way she’d dumped Ryan. It seemed like a good time to change the subject. “No time for much social life. Claire and I are super busy getting things off the ground.”

  “It’s brave of you girls to start your own business.”

  “Given the local mini renaissance, this seemed like the right time to be my own boss.”

  “We’ve certainly seen an influx of newcomers.” Molly’s tone carried the same hint of sadness that Stef had heard from other longtime residents who bemoaned the armada of wealthy young families who’d sniffed out the undervalued aging homes near the beach. To Stef, however, those buyers were target customers.

  Molly set the empty mixing bowl and spoon in the sink, along with the cookie sheet. “I miss the old days. Speaking of, how’s Peyton?”

  Peyton Prescott, the childhood friend who, along with Stef and Claire, had formed the middle-school triumvirate known as the Lilac Lane League. They’d all remained close friends until recently. Now Claire hated Peyton, and Stef was stuck in the middle. All because of a lousy man. “Writing for travel magazines keeps her on the move. I haven’t seen her in a year.”

  “Most of the old gang has up and gone.” Molly’s gaze turned distant, and Stef guessed she wished Ryan hadn’t moved to Boston. “It’s the curse of a small-town childhood. You feel stifled and become convinced the rest of the world is more exciting, learning too late that deep relationships are what make life rich.”

  Stef had certainly come to understand that better with age. She almost asked about Ryan, because not talking about him seemed damned awkward. Something stopped her, though. Antsy to fill the silence, Stef asked, “Do you mind if I take a look at the back porch? It’s been a while, and I want to familiarize myself with it again so I can figure out the project’s scope.”

  Converting a screened porch to a family room would be a straightforward job, and a nice addition to the gallery of work she could show prospective clients.

  “Of course. I’ll come with you so we can talk through my ideas.” Molly untied her apron and hung it neatly on its hook. She cast a hesitant glance at the dirty bakeware abandoned in the sink, but then let it go.

  Stef covered a smile, having forgotten about how nasty-neat Molly had always been. Ryan had driven her crazy with his piles of shoes, clothes, and sports gear.

  They stepped through the kitchen door onto the screened porch. Clusters of terra-cotta pots sat on the flagstone floor, overflowing with sunny-yellow begonias. A faux rattan outdoor sofa and two gliders had replaced the old wrought iron furniture Stef remembered. She estimated the patio to be a sixteen-square-foot footprint, which would make a comfortable family room.

  “Tell me, what kinds of finishes do you envision?” Stef asked, whipping her small notebook and pen from her belt.

  “Nothing modern, given that the rest of the house is eighty years old. I’d like the windows and floors to blend in, if possible. Same with the exterior.”

  Stef opened the screen door to go outside and look at the structure. Molly followed her. Together, they squinted in the August sunlight. “Shouldn’t be hard to match these double-hung windows and shingle siding. Are you thinking we pull out all the floor-to-ceiling screens and build half walls and windows, or maybe you want French doors all around?”

  “I like it to be bright and have views of my garden.” Molly pointed to her massive pink polyantha rose bushes. “Maybe just one set of doors and as many windows as you can put in here without making it impossible to heat in the winter.”

  The distant wail of an ambulance siren split the air, interrupting their conversation.

  Stef suddenly became blinded by the sunlight. Time shifted down to a slow pulse while short, sharp breaths chafed her lungs. That’s wrong. There shouldn’t be sunlight. Should be blackness. No sun. Not even moonlight. Something—a shadow—lurking at the edges . . . stabbing, grunting, cigarettes and pain . . .

  “Stefanie?” Molly’s touch broke through Stef’s haze. “Are you okay?”

  A trickle of the perspiration gathering along Stef’s hairline rolled down her temple. “Yes.”

  “You looked panic-stricken.” Concern colored Molly’s eyes.

  Stef shrugged off Molly’s unspoken questions. She couldn’t answer them even if she wanted to, which she didn’t. “Lost in thought, I guess.”

  “About what?”

  St
ef flipped a new page in her notebook. As always, remembering any detail of her zone-outs was like trying to catch fog. “Dunno.”

  Molly hesitated before speaking. “Maybe we should go inside and get you some water.”

  She followed Molly inside, choosing to wait on the porch and catch her breath. She’d been losing track of time now and then for the past few months. Her hazy moments didn’t follow a discernible pattern, so she chalked them up to the aftereffects of her most recent concussion.

  She’d had a few concussions during her high school and college soccer career. Then, three months ago, her head had taken another harsh blow when some assholes jumped her in an alley, beat the crap out of her, and made off with her purse.

  A sudden burst of acid surged up her esophagus, but she breathed through the burning discomfort. Molly returned and handed her a glass of water, which she chugged.

  Determined to wipe that worried look off Molly’s face and be professional, she said, “I think we should open it up into the kitchen, and also here.” She pounded on the wall that she believed would lead into the hallway beside the stairwell. “That’ll give you better flow.”

  “Good idea.” Molly checked her watch, suddenly looking antsy. “Ballpark me . . . how much and how long will it take?”

  “I need to check on some prices, and we also need to decide whether to connect to the home’s HVAC or go with the new portable units, and stuff.” She put her notebook away and withdrew a tape measure to verify her estimates.

  “I’m not that picky. Functional and basic, that’s all I need. What’s the timing on all of this?”

  “Maybe eight to ten weeks. We’re working right on the slab, which saves a lot of time and expense.”

  “That’s good.” Molly opened the kitchen door, preparing to go inside while Stef continued measuring. “Let’s get it started ASAP.”