Chapter 4: Sunday in Rye

I carried the letter up to the barn and held it out to Ramsey over the watermelon.

He wiped his hands on his jeans and read it.

His face didn't change.

His knuckles did.

"Fiancée," I said. "I wasn't anybody's fiancée. He left."

"I know."

"She can do this? Vote on the lease?"

"Two of three seats can do almost anything." He folded the paper very small. "She's had Dylan's proxy for two years. Now she has Dylan."

Clyde was at Duchess's head with the knife, not listening, slicing rind.

I lowered my voice.

"What time is Sunday lunch in Rye?"

Ramsey looked at me.

"One o'clock. It's been one o'clock since 1985."

"Then we're going."

"We weren't invited."

"I wasn't invited to my own jilting either. I went anyway."

He almost laughed.

Then he looked at me a long moment.

"I'll drive," he said.

The Gannett house in Rye was white with black shutters and a lawn that went all the way down to the water.

I hadn't been back since the day I stood in its garden in a dress.

The arch was still there.

Someone had planted white roses up it.

I walked past it without slowing.

The housekeeper opened the front door, saw me, and tried to close it again.

Ramsey put his hand flat on the door.

"She's with me," he said.

The housekeeper let go.

The dining room smelled like roast lamb and lemon.

Darlene sat at the head of the table in her pearls.

Dylan sat on her right, showered and golden, the beard trimmed for camera.

Kyla sat on her left with her phone propped against the water jug, recording.

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