Chapter One
Ruth
The road to hell is paved with secrets.
It’s a strange thought for Ruth Bancroft to have as she pulls up to the Reid Street boutique, Two Be Wed. She always did that. Let her student’s work creep in even after she left the classroom.
The assignment—rewrite a common expression—was designed to spur critical thinking skills, and the response from a soft-spoken 11th grader had taken her by surprise.
Good intentions and secrets are cut from the same cloth, she thinks, pausing to admire the shop’s window, its mannequin in a playful avant-garde ball gown made of seer sucker and lace. It was the kind of quirky teacher comment she usually liked to include along with a student’s grade and might be suiting too many scenarios lately.
Ruth pushes open the boutique’s door and a bell chimes, the familiar smell of fresh paint and industrial glue everywhere since Hurricane Kerry. Her sister, Sophia, and mother, Caroline, are perched on the settee in front of the sales floor’s three-way mirror, two glasses of champagne fizzing between them. Ruth can see from the set of her mother’s mouth and the pinched appraisal of the plastic flute in her hand that she won’t be drinking it.
Sophia looks up, blonde waves slipping over her shoulders as she shuts the binder in her lap. It’s only 84 degrees outside, mild for October in the Florida panhandle, but Ruth is already sweating. Her bushel of too-thick hair is spurring a four-alarm fire against her neck. As usual, her sister looks impossibly put-together, her linen tunic unwrinkled, fresh lipstick. Every bit of her permeating the Instagram Influencer she is.
Sophia stands, phone in her hand and smooths her outfit. “Jo’s running behind—maybe grab some pics now?”
“Well, hello to you too, big sis—it’s nice to see you this morning …”
There’s a quick hug, a set of air kisses along with her sister’s flippant laugh, and Ruth pastes on a smile, willing herself again not to count all the ways her “little beach wedding” isn’t going as planned. In the twelve months since she’d pitched the idea to her fiancé, the town had nearly been leveled. The now famous category four storm barreled through Blue Compass on the same day their engagement announcement hit the Savannah Morning News. Kerry’s last-minute turn had taken everyone by surprise—especially Blue Compass residents who never evacuated for any storm and certainly hadn’t batted an eyelash at earlier predictions of a softer brush to the east.
From the comfort of her fiancé’s couch, they’d watched as the storm made direct landfall, the clarity of Teo’s absurdly big television unsettling as roads cracked like wet spackle in front of them and whole homes washed away in real time. Six weeks later, when the National Guard let people return, she’d been inconsolable, stammering over and over that a bomb had gone off. Kerry had sheared the entire beach district. Every plant and tree, business and home ripped up by the root. Even Blue Compass’s famous sugar
white sand was gone. In its place was a gritty dirt landscape dotted only by driveways—the parking slabs like gravestones while mountains of debris lined every curb.
Once the shock wore off, Ruth dug in. Blue Compass needed her more than ever. Teo said he would marry her anywhere. Her family was a much harder sell.
So now here she was—a year later, Blue Compass’s reluctant poster bride in front of the camera again. Another painful round of forced smiles, more craning and contorting. Hips back. Chest up. Always in that way that everyone knows looks good in photos but feels ridiculous in the moment. She didn’t need another reminder that the publicity was a good thing.
Two Be Wed was lucky to be open at all. One block to the left, the roof was still caved in on a consignment shop with an identical store front. Blue Compass’s little version of Main Street, once lined in pots of mums and marked by an American flag, was nowhere near restored. Since her sister’s account, @sophiasez, began featuring the wedding, donations to the city’s recovery fund had tripled.
“Lord, let me do it.” Sophia jams her head into Ruth’s, and she yelps as her sister snaps a few artfully arranged selfies in front of the shop’s etched glass logo. As Ruth peels herself away, the clicks continue.
“There’s my bride …” The voice comes from a tiny office in the back as Kayla Jennings appears, the young owner strapping a pin cushion to her wrist.
Ruth smiles and squelches the urge to do a double take, her eyes shooting to the floor as Kayla tosses back hair that should be coarse and black—yet suddenly isn’t. Since their last visit, her wedding planner has colored and straightened her tight curls, a surprise bubblegum pink now peeking from the bottom layer.
“It’s so cute.” Sophia’s squeal is cloying as she reaches out to touch a pink strand before going in for a full hug.
Kayla is about to say something when the front door flies open. A burst of noise and a dirty Ked propping it in place as Ruth’s niece and nephew toddle in. Behind them, Jo Bancroft-Hunt, teeters in the doorframe. Her sister is sweaty and balancing on one foot, a death grip on the wrist of each of her twins. A menagerie of backpacks and diaper bags look ready to topple her.
“The sitter still hasn’t shown, and Daddy’s out too far fishing.” Jo rolls her green eyes on the word fishing as she sheds the bags on the satin chair next to Caroline, who slides over. Jo turns, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. A sinister looking brown stain streaks her white Henley. “Well, that’s new.” She licks her thumb and rubs at it aggressively before rolling her eyes again and giving up.
“There’s the most beautiful flower girl in the world.” Ruth runs over to scoop up her
four-year-old niece.
“Champagne?” Kayla holds up the bottle as she looks at Jo, bending to pick up one of the twin’s bags and hang it on a hook.
Jo nods emphatically, “Sweet angel from heaven—yes.”
The twins plop down next to Caroline on the settee as her eyes go wide. “Beauregard Frankford Hunt, what’s in your pocket?” Caroline leans over to examine her grandson’s hand as he reaches into his shorts. Her voice jumps three octaves as he lifts his palm toward her face. “Is that a dead frog?”
Caroline recoils as Jo grabs for a trashcan by the counter. When she’s finished shaking Beau’s hands out over the gold bin, she wipes her own on her jeans before searching through a unicorn backpack until she unearths matching iPads. Handing them over to the twins, she sighs, “Yesterday, I found one of those snake skin molts in his backpack. I swear I miss the nanny more than I do the firm, hands down.”
Rhea wiggles free from Ruth to grab at the tablet then looks back up at her aunt. Her emerald eyes pinched in a serious expression. “Dere’s a man in our window.”
“What?” Sophia laughs.
“I told Mommy. I don’t like dat scary man.”
Jo suppresses another eye roll. “Daddy let them watch a Halloween movie marathon last night … obviously, we’re crushing this parenting thing.”
Kayla hands the sisters their bridesmaid dresses in heavy plastic bags, and Ruth follows them into the tiny fitting room, relieved her own Alexander McQueen gown hadn’t needed much alteration. The strapless bodice sat perfectly at her waist, the simple neckline chosen to accent where Caroline’s necklace hit just at her collar bone. The diamond choker with its intricate filigree was something she was still wrapping her mind around wearing. The center stone alone was six carats. It was a family heirloom, and Ruth knew that if she so much as nicked a filigree, she would be disowned.
“I’m so glad this is the last of the errands.” Ruth zips up Sophia’s dress. “I just want as little drama as possible for the rest of the week.”
Sophia lets out a snort. “Umm—says the girl who waited till this morning to drop the bomb that dear ol’ Dad is walking you down the aisle.”
“Come on, you know how hard that was for me—but Dad really wants to … and at least he’s trying—”
“Seriously, I’m shocked Mom is here at all—or that she’s even talking to you.” Jo steps out of her jeans and into her dress. “It’s like this wedding is
mellowing her out.”
The bridesmaid designs were pale pink and made of a soft shantung silk. Ruth had been mindful with their selection, each tailored to work with the sister’s body type. With the help of Kayla, Sophia’s skimmed the lines of her waif-like figure offering the illusion of curves. A few skillfully placed darts cinched Jo’s dress in all the right places. The results were better than Ruth could’ve imagined.
“The dresses are perfect. Caroline is going to die.” Stepping aside, she clears a path so they can squeeze by and get the final nod of approval, which is waiting—as always—from their mother.
Chapter Two
Kayla
Outside the dressing room curtain, Kayla’s relieved to hear the oldest sister and the mother are finally happy with the dresses. Bizarre requests and prewedding jitters are nothing new—though it is usually coming from the bride. Seven hundred thousand followers or not, “Insta-zilla” was definitely a new wedding hybrid—and one that was working her last nerve.
Last week, that sister had actually sent her an email wondering if they could “find a way to lure the area’s sea manatees and make them swim near the reception?”
Who knew what fresh hell she might have today?
Sophia parts the garnet velvet curtain that divides the dressing area, and scoops up Rhea who is still sitting quietly with her iPad. She fishes two patterned headbands from her purse and arranges them on the child’s white blonde head, then her own. Angling her phone, she snaps a few shots of them together.
Sophia’s eyes meet Kayla’s, and she says, “Don’t worry. These have nothing to do with today—just grabbing for later. I love the light in here.” Sophia adjusts the curls around the girl’s gingham band. “I just became Bella Headbands’ newest brand ambassador. The company’s algorithm tells me the best time to post, and I like to have a few options ready for them. After dinner is usually peak shopping.”
Kayla offers her a tight smile. For the thousandth time reminding herself of all the reasons she’s doing this. Though it isn’t just for the money, she tosses in a mental tabulation of her commission for good measure.
Ruth Bancroft’s wedding is definitely the biggest she’s ever planned, and the fanciest the town has ever seen. Two hundred plus out-of-town guests and first-class everything. The Bancroft name carries enough weight to have people streaming in from all over Georgia. There isn’t a small business the wedding hasn’t touched. From Reid Street Coffee locals to a million faceless strangers on the Internet, no one can seem to get enough of the “Gulf Coast’s Wedding of the Year.” Though she’d take all the free press she could get for Two Be Wed, the glamor of it was long ago lost on her. Putting together an event post-Kerry meant outsourcing everything from the wedding invitation’s 100-pound linen cardstock to every platinum rimmed place setting for the reception. Her only saving grace was that Blue Compass’s crazy celebrity chef had agreed to cater the wedding—which definitely wasn’t saying much.
Jo steps out of the dressing area, hanging her dress as she touches her forehead. “I’m suddenly not feeling the greatest. I’m gonna get out of here before the twins break something—Kayla, you’re a magician.”
There’s a round of hugs, and the sister is gathering the children when the doorbell chimes again. Kayla turns to find familiar faces in the doorway, both men sunburned and carrying picket signs.
“Guys, there’s got to be other places to go on Reid Street.” She shoots them a glare even as she reaches behind the counter and hands them a
key to the restroom.
Caroline turns, setting down her still-full glass of champagne as she sizes up the two visitors. “Oh—I thought we closed the store for today’s fitting?”
Kayla shrugs, “The perks of being so close to City Hall. It’s either them or trick-or-treaters all week.”
In fishing hats and flip flops, Jeff and Randy-Jo Markson are old classmates of Kayla’s. They nod at the family before leaning their signs against the wall and ducking into the restroom. The words “Vote No on Building Ordinance 23” sprout upside down on the carpet. The other sign, “No High Rise Hell” sits upright, the words struck through in red like they’re bleeding.
“I’m just glad somebody’s holding City Council’s feet to the fire.” Ruth scrunches up her nose. “Can you imagine this place turning into Myrtle Beach?”
The stories were practically folklore now. Anyone connected to Blue Compass knew about real estate developers with deep pockets salivating at the doorsteps of traumatized beach owners. They arrived before Kerry’s flood waters had fully receded, before some owner’s loved ones were cold in the ground. But Blue Compass had always been an untamed beach bum, its charm carved out of pure stubbornness and a generations-long distaste for progress. It was one of the reasons Kayla never left. This was a place where someone still answered the phone at City Hall, and people didn’t feel the need to paint things weathered by salt air. Her father was the chief of police here, and though she might have her issues with him, they had both worked hard to put down roots. No building higher than four stories strangled Blue Compass’s skyline, and she hoped it never did. Now, the heady combination of desperation and easy money coupled with the cities’ mounting seven-figure shortfall had begun to reprioritize some people’s thinking.
Fresh meat.
Was that what the yummy fiancé had called it? At one of their meetings, the groom, who worked for some law firm in Savannah, had mentioned experience with these types of developers—and it had not been good. Kayla heard he was doing pro-bono work for a few of the locals, and he seemed to know what he was talking about. Sadly, and just as the fiancé had predicted, there’d been some initial resistance, but a vote to amend the city’s building ordinance was on the docket for next week. Now, the city’s fate—and its soul—rested in the hands of the new City Council and its newly re-elected mayor.
Sophia takes out her lipstick as the front door closes behind Jo and the twins. “I think it’s great what they’re doing—the protestors. It’s why what we are doing—the wedding is so important.” She reapplies
using the big mirror, making a duck face as she closes the tube. “I’ll check the Go Fund Me when I have time and make sure to post about it—my readers have been so crazy generous already …”
Kayla forces a smile. “There are still a ton of last-minute details to get through. Let me grab my checklist from the back.”
In her office, she finds her clipboard where she left it. The counter and cabinets along the back wall meant to serve as her kitchen and breakroom were completed last week. For months, she’d been bookmarking stone and interesting veined countertops, but when it came time to install, her budget only allowed for a cheap speckled Formica. God, even Mother Nature seemed to give preferential treatment to the rich.
The Bancroft’s vacation home, “Summerhouse,” had fared better than most of the town. The lucky one-mile difference of their neighborhood, Nautilus Cove, had set the sole strip of estate homes just inside the storm’s eye wall. The Bancroft’s sprawling beach property was slated for the rehearsal dinner’s planned oyster roast. Next to it, the neighborhood clubhouse and pool complex would host the ceremony and reception. For the next four days, she was in charge of both.
Kayla takes a deep inhale through her nose as she returns to the sales floor. When she gets there, she catches Sophia crooning something about “crowd control” and when she realizes the women are discussing the weekend’s security, she feels her face get hot.
They’d only needed one security guard to obtain the necessary permits, she explains.
“And there’s no reason to think we need more?” asks Ruth.
The mother finally looks up from her phone, freeing herself from some serious texting. Her face is flushed, and for a moment, Caroline Bancroft could be the bride’s sister. Ruth has the same bee-stung lips, the same bird-like features. Rumors of a youth spent on the pageant circuit explains the mother’s ramrod straight posture.
“I agree.” Sophia scribbles something in the massive bridal notebook. “We don’t want a bunch of ‘looky-loos’ everywhere.”
Kayla shoves down a pang of guilt. It’s mostly a lie of omission. Twenty-four hours ago she’d come in to find Two Be Wed’s back door ajar. Nothing gone. Nothing out of place. The police had gotten there in minutes. (The perks of a small town—especially when your father’s the police chief.) After they searched the store and came up empty-handed, Kayla attempted to start the day’s business in her office, finding the room still tidy, the Bancroft wedding folder still neat on her desk. Yet, she wasn’t fully convinced the open door was the carelessness of the janitor. The old man never forgot to lock up.
“Three valets and one security guard is perfect,” Kayla says. She closes her eyes and pictures the metal stakes around the pool and clubhouse. Painted
white and designed to mimic beach pickets, they offered a natural and picturesque barrier that under normal circumstances would be more than adequate. If her father thought it was best not to worry the family—who was she to argue?
Thirty minutes later, Kayla is still feeling guilty as she locks up behind them. The three women had left in a hurry, eager to get ready for the bachelorette party later that evening. She’d just flipped the sign to “closed” when she hears it. A scream—high-pitched and sharp enough to make her drop her keys. The sound comes from beyond the display window, her view blocked by the puff of her bridal mannequin’s skirt. Kayla, who always prided herself on staying calm, goes cold. Grabbing for her keys, she kicks open the door and runs. ...
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