His Favorite Shirt novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Four Declined Cards

Thora cancels the cards she gave Heath's friends, takes her dress back, is told there is no room, and finds the boatman at the cottage door holding her ring.

"Then think about this," I said. "I'm not asking anyone's permission."

Heath stood waist-deep in the lake with his hair in his eyes, and for once he had nothing to say.

I walked back up the dock and across the lawn to Brielle.

She was still holding my wedding dress off the grass.

"Give it to me," I said.

"Of course." She put on her gentlest voice, the one she used for Posy. "I only wanted it to be fun. I would never keep it."

She laid the dress in my arms, and the woman with the braid raised her phone to film me taking it.

I looked straight into that lens.

"Go ahead," I said. "I'm filming you, too."

The phone came down.

I zipped the bag, hung it over my shoulder and went to the bar tent.

The man in white loafers was ordering a tower of champagne for the whole party.

He signed the check with the card I had given him in March.

I had given one to him and three to his friends so they could cover wedding errands without waiting on Heath.

I opened my banking app and read the charges from the last two days.

Eleven thousand, two hundred and forty dollars.

I pressed the button that said Cancel card, four times.

The bartender swiped the man's card and frowned at the screen. "It's declined, sir."

"Run it again."

"I did. Twice."

The man in loafers looked at me across the tent. The three friends standing behind him looked at me too.

"You can't be serious," he said. "It's a champagne tower, Thora. Don't be petty."

"It's my bank account," I said. "Call yours."

Nobody on the lawn said that one was petty.

I went up to the front desk of the lodge with the dress still on my shoulder.

The woman behind it was fifty or so, gray hair pinned up, and she had been watching the lawn through the window.

"I'm Thora Halvorsen," I said. "I paid for the lake-view suite and I need the key."

She turned a screen toward me. "The weekend is booked under Heath Pemberton. Every room in the lodge. I'm sorry."

"I put it on my card."

"I believe you. But I can only give a room to the name on the booking, and he has already asked me to give your suite to his daughter's mother."

"Where am I supposed to sleep?"

"We have nothing left." She looked at me for a long moment. "Except the staff cottage by the water. It's small. It's clean. It's yours if you want it."

I wanted to say no.

I wanted to be in my own car, driving south with the windows down.

But Heath had driven us up in his truck, and mine was in Grand Rapids, three hours away.

I texted my assistant: Bea, can you drive up in the morning? Bring your charger. Bring everything.

She wrote back in seconds: Leaving at 5. Don't sign anything.

"I'll take the cottage," I told the woman at the desk.

She handed me a brass key on a wooden float. "It's the last door down the path."

I walked down through the dusk with the dress on my shoulder and the camera banging against my hip.

The lawn lights came on behind me, and I could hear the party starting up again.

The path ended at a small cottage with a lamp in the window.

Before I could knock, the door opened.

A tall man stood there in a faded flannel shirt, his sleeves wet to the elbow.

His hair was dark and going gray at the temples, and his beard was short.

He was not looking at my face.

He was looking at my left hand, the bare one.

"You're the one from the dock," he said.

"I was just handed the key."

"I know. My mother told me." He held out his closed fist. "It went in off the end, past the third piling. There's a sand shelf there."

He opened his hand.

My ring lay on his palm, dripping on the doormat.

"I didn't give it to him," he said. "I'm not going to."

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