Emily was only half listening to Gigi’s monologue. On an island full of Irish, holding a grudge was an Olympic sport, and the feud between the Mahoneys and the Callaghans was intricately woven through the tapestry of Trillium Bay history dating all the way back to the eighteen hundreds. There were arguments, of course, about who started it and how and why, and every now and then it would flare up, then eventually fade into the background again. The last significant event occurred nearly thirty years ago when old Dewey Mahoney chopped down a one-hundred-year-old fifty-foot pine tree because it obstructed his view of Lake Huron. He didn’t seem to notice, or care, that the tree was smack-dab in the center of the Callaghan family’s front yard. He apologized later, when he sobered up, but some questioned his sincerity when he paid off the $1,000 court-ordered restitution entirely with Canadian pennies.
Emily glanced over at the Mahoney sisters. They were staring back and whispering behind their hands. She couldn’t be sure if they were gossiping about her, about what had happened in the pie tent yesterday, or spreading tales about some other poor, unsuspecting victim. Still, they never had seemed all that diabolical to her. They looked like harmless little old biddies. April, May, and June. Those were their names. They had a brother, too. August. He’d run off and joined the marines when his sweetheart left him for another. Then he’d come back home covered in so many explicit tattoos that June forbade him to ever go shirtless in public again. And Gus obeyed. Marine or not, he wasn’t about to make his sisters angry. So, now that she thought about it, maybe looking harmless was just part of their diabolical disguise?
Three rows in front of them was old Bridget O’Malley. She’d been old for Emily’s entire life and was currently closing in on 103. The old spinster had never been married. Maybe that’s why she’d lasted so long. Gloria Persimmons sat down next to her, wearing a traffic-cone-orange dress. She helped Mrs. O’Malley take the songbook from the rack attached to the pew in front of them, and then she waved at Emily.
Emily waved back just as Brooke joined them. She had on a white dress covered in cherries, and red sandals to match. She even had on mascara, and Emily wondered what the special occasion was. This was church, sure, but Brooke never dressed up.
“Hi,” Emily whispered. “You look cute.”
Brooke blushed. “Thanks. So do you. Of course you do.”
Harlan sat down on the other side of Gigi, his face so stoic this might have been a funeral. Then again, any face on Mount Rushmore was more apt to display emotion than Chief Callaghan, so when Lilly sat down next to him and he patted her arm, Emily knew for certain that the scandal had yet to break. Or at least he had yet to hear of it.
Yesterday, after Tag and Ryan had left the pie tent, Lilly excused herself. She’d come back twenty minutes later, looking moderately relieved. When Emily asked where she’d been, she said, “Damage control. I just gave Dmitri Krushnic twenty bucks for his silence. Let’s hope I shouldn’t have offered him fifty.”
The sisters hadn’t talked much after that, and the rest of the day had been full of Lilac Festival festivities. Emily was kept busy fielding questions about her own life, and love life, but no one said anything to her about Lilly’s, and that was a relief. Still, there did seem to be a number of people in the congregation with their heads bent toward the person next to them, murmuring something into their ear. For once she found herself hoping they were talking about her instead of Lilly.
After Mass, everyone slowly ambled out to the front yard of the church where the Saint Bart’s Ladies’ Auxiliary always had sugar cookies and lemonade waiting. Harlan was usually accosted during this time by people with very important issues to discuss, such as when the new No Trespassing signs might be going up near the golf course because teenagers loved to drink on the greens after dark and then pee into the sand traps, and what to do about the trash that tourists left behind on the walking trails, and whether or not he’d need extra deputies on hand when Independence Day rolled around. Today was no exception, and he was quickly surrounded.
“So what are your plans for today?” Brooke asked Emily as they sipped lemonade while standing next to the statue of Antoine St. Antoine, a French fur trader who had established the first outpost on the island. He’d married an Ojibwa woman, and together they had sixteen children. That being the case, it really was Mrs. St. Antoine who deserved the commemorative statue.
“Gigi is taking me to see the cottage I’m renovating. What is Lilly doing over there?”
Lilly was off to the side, whispering to Chloe, who nodded slowly. Emily followed her daughter’s gaze, and there was Ryan. Her heart gave a traitorous little skip. Sure, he’d called her sister a gold-digging bimbo, but damn, he did look good in a dress shirt. Had his shoulders been that broad yesterday? Probably, but they seemed even more broad today. Too bad he was officially the enemy. And too bad he was standing next to Tag. That was not good, but there they were, not looking the least bit sheepish or guilty. Not looking at all as if Tag was the type of man to get handsy with the chief’s daughter. What was wrong with them, showing up here like this? Were they not in the pie tent yesterday? Did they not think keeping a low profile today might be a wise decision? Certainly a better decision than showing up at church. Then again, maybe Tag was here for confession and absolution. He’d better hurry, because the churchyard just wasn’t that big, and Harlan was about fifteen feet away.
Dmitri strolled past, nodding at Emily with a knowing smile and a conspiratorial wink. Add that to the column of not good.
“Good morning, Peach. Brooke. Lovely day today, isn’t it?” He carried his hat in his hand. If he had actually kept his mouth shut, it would be twenty bucks well spent, but Emily had her doubts.
“Good morning, Dmitri,” the sisters said in unison. He kept on going, and Emily breathed a tiny sigh of relief, which was cut short as Chloe left Lilly’s side, skipped right past the beekeeper, and walked right on up to Tag and Ryan. No, no, no. This could only end badly, but Lilly’s face was calm. Mostly calm, although a muscle around her jaw seemed a little tense, and Emily realized that was what the whispering was about. Lilly had probably been reminding Chloe not to tell Harlan about Tag, which reminded Emily she needed to talk to Chloe about how it was never okay to keep secrets or tell lies . . . unless, of course, your twenty-six-year-old auntie was dating a man as old as your grandpa. In that case, lying wasn’t just okay. It was essential. If Harlan Callaghan found out his baby daughter’s boyfriend was a card-carrying AARP member, shit would fly, and wasn’t nobody ready for that, especially not in the front yard of Saint Bartholomew’s. A church was no place for full-frontal honesty.
Uncertain of what her role in this little drama was supposed to be, Emily just stayed to the side until Harlan approached the Taggerts, and then she quickly crossed the grassy expanse of lawn to join them, pulling Brooke with her.
“That’s the guy I met at the airport. Let’s go say hi.”