Chapter 22: December Sixth

On the sixth of December, the terrace of the Harlow Inn glowed with forty strings of white bulbs.

Six patio heaters stood along the rail.

It was nineteen degrees out, and nobody wanted to go inside.

I had paid for all of it.

The band, the oyster bar, the heaters, and a caterer who did not know my first name until I told her.

It had cost eleven thousand dollars out of the thirty-one four.

I'd had a fine time spending every cent.

The invitations had gone out two weeks before, with a card I'd written myself.

It said: Come if you want. There is no seating chart. Nobody will be voted on.

Almost everyone had come.

The dock regulars crowded around the oyster bar with paper plates.

The woman from the café had brought her husband, who turned out to be one of the men from the bench.

Two women from the foundation stood by a heater in sequined dresses.

They told me they had never been so glad to have a reason to get dressed.

Brittany arrived with her husband, and her daughter rode on his shoulders under a pom-pom hat.

The child's cheeks were pink and healthy.

"She asked for the boat," Brittany said. "All week. She says it again in her sleep."

"Ben's here somewhere. He'll let her steer."

"Don't you dare. I'll never sleep again."

Teddy circled the terrace with his phone held up, filming.

I stopped him by the heater.

"Did you want to put that down tonight?"

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