Widow’s Walk

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Chapter One

The heavy shopping bags hit the foyer floor. The contents tumbled out. Kyra Gibson looked down at the mess she’d made with dismay. She let out a weary sigh and rubbed her forehead with the back of her mittened hand. The tiny grocery store serving her side of Martha’s Vineyard had been utter bedlam. She should have known better than to go shopping the day before Thanksgiving. She’d been in life-or-death situations before, recently, but she’d experienced nothing as harrowing as fighting off other holiday procrastinators hunting down last-minute ingredients.

Kyra slipped her mitten off and rubbed the back of her hand, where a pale bruise was already forming. She’d nearly lost it, her hand and her patience, when a woman ripped the last tube of store brand crescent rolls from her grip. Her shoulder throbbed, and she rolled it back, wincing when the pain escalated to a sharp twinge. It wasn’t yet a chronic condition, but it certainly was committed to becoming one.

A bang, followed by a muffled curse, came from the kitchen. Her aunt’s voice was just discernable over the television blaring from the living room. Kyra grinned and bit down on her lip to keep from laughing.

“I’m back,” she called loud enough to be heard over the unusual racket.

“Kay!” Her uncle’s head popped up from the couch.

His dark brown hair flopped over the rims of his tortoiseshell frames, making him look more disheveled and brainier than usual. He readjusted his glasses and squinted at her. His bright blue eyes crinkled at the corners when he grinned.

He pointed to the bags at her feet. “How was it?”

“Cam, can you call Kyra and tell her we need olives? Those lovely Spanish green ones like we get at Sainsbury’s.” Kyra’s Aunt Ali walked into the living room, her eyes on her phone.

“I’m not going back out there.”

Ali looked up, ready to protest.

“No, Ali.” Kyra held up her hands. “It’s straight madness out there. The Americans have all gone insane.” Kyra wrestled out of her light blue parka and hung it in the coat closet.

It wasn’t the right shade for her warm-toned complexion. The faux fur trim was atrocious, and it was puffy in all the wrong places. She felt like her arms stuck straight out when she wore it, but it had been on clearance, and more importantly, it was warm. So warm. Too impatient to wait on the island’s sluggish postal service, Kyra had gone to the quirky general-slash-discount trading post to get it, along with fleece-lined boots, and other cold weather accessories that made her look ridiculous and left her hair staticky, but she wouldn’t dare trade in her winter gear for anything more fashionable.

She’d unofficially, and presumably temporarily, moved to Martha’s Vineyard from London in July. She hadn’t planned on staying so long, but August turned into September, and then October, and suddenly it was cold. Frigid. Winter in New England didn’t come on gradually, easing the residents in. Oh no. It swept in without warning, like some spiteful arctic spirit. The heat and humidity of summer had been replaced with bone-chilling winds and rains that lashed horizontally. It felt like she’d gone from wearing shorts and T-shirts to anoraks and boots almost overnight.

Ali inventoried the groceries on the floor, her hands on her hips. Kyra’s harried expression must have convinced her she wasn’t going back out, because when Ali looked back up at her niece, she pressed her lips together, thinking, and said, “It’s fine. We’ll do with what we have. It’ll be brilliant.” She stuffed the escaped items back in the bags and hoisted up three. A soft grunt escaped her lips, and Kyra raised her eyebrow at her aunt. Grinning, Ali turned toward the kitchen.

“What time does everyone get here?” Kyra asked, heaving the remaining bags to her shoulder. She bit back a grimace when the pinching sensation intensified.

“Less than an hour. Cam,” Ali called back over her shoulder. “Can you get Iggy up from his nap? And you’ll both need to change.”

Cam stood and stretched. He ran his hands down his rumpled button down.

“Aye, m’eudail.” He turned back to Kyra. “What does one wear to American Thanksgiving?”

Kyra was stumped. “I’ve no idea.” Images of holiday movies from her childhood cycled through her mind. Men in matching flannel shirts, women in full skirts and aprons. Lots of trapper hats.

“Thanksgiving is tomorrow,” Ali said. Then she stopped walking and turned around. “I think they call this a Friendsgiving? Fuck if I know.” She retreated, back stepping into the kitchen, and raised her unburdened shoulder in a shrug.

“What does one wear to American Friendsgiving then?” Cam called after her.

“I’ve set your clothes out on the bed. And for Iggy, too.”

Cam’s eyebrows hitched up, as his expression morphed from indulgent to alarmed.

Kyra’s eyes went wide, and she met her uncle’s gaze. “She wouldn’t.” But Ali totally would. Her aunt lived for theme events. She loved any reason to get dressed up. The matchier the better. Cam wasn’t as enthusiastic as his wife, over theme dressing. Kyra didn’t bother hiding her amusement with her uncle’s obvious dismay. Her grin turned sadistic, and she raised her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug. “Better you than me,” she whispered. Kyra felt his glare burning into her back as she followed her aunt into the kitchen.

Ali dumped the bags on the wide granite island and clasped her hands together. She hopped from one foot to the other and let out her high-pitched Ali squeal. It sounded a bit like a small creature’s death cry.

Kyra feigned a pained wince. “I know. You’re excited. I know.” She laughed.

Ali grabbed Kyra’s forearm. “I remember Mum and Dad doing Thanksgiving when we were children. Mum cooked up this big dinner. We hosted kids from Dad’s classes at the college who were unable to go home. And it was always horrible.”

“I think that might just be the food,” Kyra said, scanning the counters strewn with food-like things she couldn’t identify. A lot of it looked pureed. Did the pilgrims suffer from dental issues? “What is all this?” She eyed something that was an unnatural orange color.

“Grace and Charlie gave me a list of the traditional Thanksgiving dishes.” Kyra poked at it, and Ali swatted her hand away with a dishtowel. “I swear, Kay, the food is amazing. Well, it is, if it’s done properly.” Ali’s mouth dipped in an uncertain frown as she assessed the orange dish.

Kyra schooled her features so she wouldn’t make a face. She doubted that the gloppy messes before her were done properly. But she wouldn’t know. Kyra couldn’t remember if she’d ever had a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. When she was a little girl, she and her mother would fly to meet her father in some far-off place, and then after her mother died, she was sent to live with Ali, her mother’s much younger sister, in London.

“You’re going to love it. I promise. We’ve got it all. The stuffing, the potatoes, sweet potatoes,” Ali said, pointing to each dish of foodstuff. “And Gully’s bringing pie. You know, America could solve all its geo-political issues if it started with pie.” Ali went to the stove and fiddled with a pot threatening to bubble over.

“Ali, again, I’m so sorry that our plans were waylaid, and we’re not doing a proper Thanksgiving tomorrow, like you wanted.”

Kyra’s aunt and uncle had flown in with their infant son the weekend before to spend the holiday with Kyra on the island. Originally, they had planned to spend tonight at the Wraith & Bone, Kyra’s favorite local pub, and host Thanksgiving dinner for Kyra’s island friends tomorrow, but they’d had to change their plans when Kyra received the gala invitation.

Loriann Oma, the chairwoman and majority shareholder of one of England’s premier media companies, Omega Media, and Kyra’s biggest client, was coming to Martha’s Vineyard. For the past four months, Kyra had been entrenched in an M&A deal between Omega, and a US-based company, Global Media, and they were finally winding down the negotiations and preparing the documents for signatures. There were only a few tiny details left, but everyone, including her managing partner and boss Assaf Maloof, was optimistic the papers would be signed any day now.

And in true Loriann fashion, she wanted to memorialize the momentous event. She’d reserved an estate on Chappaquiddick, the smaller companion island to Martha’s Vineyard, for the week to iron out the last wrinkles, and begin the integration process with a festive autumnal gala. From what Assaf had told Kyra, Loriann had invited at least a hundred people. People eager to give up their holiday evening with their families to wine and dine with other self-important suits.

Frankly, it sounded terrible, but when Kyra had tried to decline, explaining she was hosting dinner for her own family who’d traveled all the way from England, Loriann simply invited them, too.

“We’re all going to be one big family, Kyra!” she’d exclaimed, or rather, her assistant Aysha had, but with much less enthusiasm.

“Can I, we get out of this?” Kyra had asked, first to her boss, who’d snorted, “Don’t be daft, Gibs.” Then to Aysha who had said, with much more empathy, “Afraid not, Kyra. Even Asher couldn’t talk her out of it.”

And it was a done deal.

If Asher Owen, Loriann’s righthand, and the CEO of Omega, had been unable to dissuade her that a party or his presence was necessary, there was no way Kyra would, and so she’d reluctantly agreed that she and her family would attend.

When she’d told Ali and Cam the bad news on their next video call, Ali’s eyes had gone wide as dinner plates.

“Verinder House!” Ali’s voice reached an epic pitch. Even Cam flinched. “It’s legendary, Kyra! It’s like the Breakers or the Elms. But it was abandoned decades ago. Left to rot. I’d heard someone bought it and it was only recently renovated and turned into an event space. I would die to see it.”

“But what about Thanksgiving dinner?” Kyra had wheedled, choosing the lesser of the two available evils.

“We’ll just do it Wednesday. It’ll be perfect.” And at her aunt’s wholesome grin, the one that lit up her entire face, and made her dark blue eyes, ones she and Kyra shared, sparkle, Kyra had folded.

Ali had taken Kyra in when she was barely more than a girl herself, cared for and loved her when Kyra had no one else. If this would make her aunt happy, Kyra could bite her tongue and endure a few hours of inane conversation and fake smiles over champagne and canapes.

Ali stopped rifling through one of the kitchen drawers and turned around. “Don’t be ridiculous, Kay. Wednesday, Thursday, Friendsgiving, Thanksgiving. What difference does it make? The day is about us being together.” Ali put her arm around Kyra’s shoulders and gave her an enthusiastic squeeze. Kyra bit back a wince. “And also, it’s about the food. Lots and lots of food. And drinks. Lots of those, too. I think we’ve got those things covered, don’t you?”

“I suppose we do,” Kyra said, trying not to sound glum. She cuffed back the sleeves of her sweater. “What else needs to be done?”

She looked around her kitchen. It was in a state of barely contained chaos, and she felt a flutter of apprehension. Kyra had never hosted or co-hosted a holiday party or even a dinner party before. She couldn’t in good conscience call her meager food preparation skills cooking. She could toast things with varying degrees of unburnt success. That was about it. But Ali had insisted, and she’d promised she’d take care of everything.

Taking care of everything, it turned out, meant Kyra was dragged grocery shopping, table linens shopping, clothes shopping, more grocery shopping, and then sent out on last-minute errands to gather forgotten items. And she’d do it a thousand times over. Perhaps not the grocery shopping on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. That was a onetime misjudgment.

“Give us a hand?” Ali asked, nodding to the backdoor.

Kyra followed her aunt out onto the patio. She froze.

“Ali,” she gasped.

The patio table was covered in more trays of food, all prepared and ready to be cooked off. Her aunt had made herbed fingerling potatoes, carrots with the green tops, a colander full of fresh green beans sat in a bowl, ready to be sautéed with butter and thyme. She must have been cooking for hours.

“You did all this?”

“Are you kidding?” Ali scoffed, but her eyes shone with pride and love.

She pushed a platinum tendril behind her ear. She’d grown her hair out over the last several months and had taken to wearing it in Veronica Lake style waves. On anyone else, it would look like she was trying too hard. On Ali, it looked effortless. And beautiful.

“Impressed?”

“Very.” Kyra bit her cheek hard, a little overwhelmed. “Thank you.”

Ali bumped her hip against hers. “Help me bring these in.”

Kyra set a large bowl on the counter and returned outside to retrieve more dishes. Her aunt glided in; platters balanced across her arms like a Cirque du Soleil performer. Kyra raised an eyebrow, and Ali grinned.

“Nandos.”

Kyra stuck her tongue out. She knew for a fact that Ali’s teen waitressing career had lasted for all of twenty-five minutes. The woman just had excellent balance.

“What else?” Kyra asked.

“That was it.” Ali wiped her hands on her apron.

The ovens were on, heating to temperature. Kyra peered inside. They were empty.

“Shouldn’t there be a turkey in there? Doesn’t it take a long time to cook?” She pointed to the stack of double ovens that she’d not once used in the past four months.

“Chase is bringing it. He said we’re deep frying it? Apparently, it only takes an hour?”

“Deep fry a turkey? A whole one?”

Ali’s mouth twitched in an Americans. Who knows? Look. “Cam is thrilled. He’s been researching how to do it all morning.” She was opening and closing drawers, looking for something, and pulled out a roll of aluminum foil. “They’ll be here soon. You should get dressed.”

Kyra gave her aunt a look, and it was returned with one of feigned innocence. “I’m not theme dressing, Ali.”

“No, of course not. You’d never. You have no sense of fun.” Kyra turned to leave, but Ali stopped her. “But, Kay, you could wear the Princess Di outfit.” At Kyra’s confused expression, Ali grinned, and said, “You know, with the boots.”

Kyra huffed an agreeable laugh. That she could do.

Chapter Two

Kyra stepped back from the full-length mirror she’d had installed in her walk-in closet. She took in her outfit, the one her aunt suggested she wear. Tailored, blue oxford, her favorite jeans, and caramel-colored suede boots that inched just past her knees. She’d bought the boots in a boutique in Edgartown on her visit last spring. Kyra frowned. Something was missing. She grabbed the cream Aran-style cashmere sweater from the shelf and pulled it on over her head. She fixed her collar and unclipped her hair so it fell down her back. With her dark hair and olive complexion, one would need to be blind to compare Kyra to Princess Diana, but even so, she thought she looked nice.

Her phone buzzed from the bedside table, and she stumbled over her discarded clothes, rushing to answer it.

“Hello?” The call clicked through, just before it was sent to voicemail.

“Hey,” Tarek Collins’s deep, melodic voice greeted her.

She heard his smile and couldn’t help her own. “Where are you?”

“Woods Hole. The wind has kicked up and they’re canceling ferries. I think this one is going, but it’s delayed.” Kyra moved closer to the wall of windows that overlooked her backyard and Crackatuxet Cove. It was overcast, and the tall grass surrounding the cove snapped an awkward dance in the breeze.

“Is there a storm?”

“No, I don’t think so. It’s just windy. Probably remnants from a hurricane or nor’easter that’s blown out into the Atlantic.” Kyra heard rustling on the line, then Tarek came back. “We’re being allowed to board. I’ll see you in about an hour.”

Before she could respond, he hung up.

Kyra went into the bathroom. She took a little extra care on her makeup, adding a winged liner that made her made her eyes appear bigger. She was being silly, but she was a little nervous.

They hadn’t seen each other in nearly six weeks. Tarek had been consulting on a case in St. Louis. It was the longest they’d been apart since he’d kind of unofficially moved in during the summer.

It still surprised her sometimes, probably because it’d happened so gradually. After rescuing her and Chase from the sea caves, Tarek had driven her home… And stayed. She’d hardly noticed when his clothes took up space in the closet and he returned to his friend Gully’s house or his apartment in Worcester less and less frequently.

One day, it’d dawned on her that they were living together. Whatever it was between them had grown into something more, and she was happy sharing her days, her nights, her life with him.

And then he’d had to leave.

Shortly after the incident with the Keres, he’d accepted a position as a profiler with a private consulting firm specializing in complex investigatory support. He would be called away with little notice, sometimes for days, often for a week or more, to support local and national law enforcement teams, and consult on mostly violent crimes.

When he was on an assignment, he could be distant, shielding her from whatever terrible things he was investigating. All she ever knew about his cases was what was reported in the news, and often that was horrific. But once the investigation closed, he’d return and slip back into their routine as if he’d never left.

He was assigned his most recent case in October. He’d flown out to St. Louis. It was supposed to have been a short stint, a week at most, and he’d have returned long before Cam and Ali’s visit. But a lucky break that then turned into a lengthy evidentiary review had kept him onsite much longer.

“We’re here!” a voice boomed from downstairs.

Kyra grinned. Chase. She swiped on some lip gloss and hurried downstairs. She was still two steps from the bottom when she was yanked into the air and wrapped in a warm hug.

“Down,” she squeaked.

Chase set her on the floor and stepped back, his hands still on her arms. His blue-green eyes shone with mischievous merriment.

“We’re here,” he said, softer this time.

“I can see that.” Another man stepped out from behind Chase. He was a few inches shorter, a few years older, and nearly as handsome. “Hey, Gerry, how are you?”

“Couldn’t be better.” Gerry stooped down to press his perfectly groomed, stubbled cheek to hers. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Are we saying that? It’s not actually Thanksgiving.” Chase frowned.

“What would you have us say?” Gerry asked, his dark eyes sparkled. Chase’s frown deepened.

“Did you bring the frying mechanism?” Cam appeared from the kitchen.

Kyra’s jaw dropped open, and she gaped at her uncle. “What are you wearing?”

He’d changed into jeans and a plaid flannel shirt. He was wearing an apron with a cartoon turkey brandishing a baster like a weapon while presenting a platter of a cooked turkey, complete with paper frills.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Ali appeared from behind him in matching flannel and apron. Her smile was a thousand watts.

Kyra had other adjectives in mind. Absurd, appalling, cannibalistic.

“I found these at one of those shops on Circuit Avenue. They even had a baby size for Iggy.” She turned her son on her hip.

Kyra’s eyes widened in horror at her little cousin, dressed to match his parents. Sans apron. Thank god.

“What have you done, Ali? Isn’t this when he creates core memories? He’ll remember you torturing him like this.” Iggy looked like a tiny, pudgy lumberjack. It didn’t seem to bother him. He made a sloppy noise and tried to stick his fist into his mouth.

“Pfft.” Ali waved her hand. “Core memories, shmore memories. He looks adorable.”

Cam grinned. “I like it. Reminds me of home.” He ran his hand along the green and blue plaid. His forehead creased. “It’s the wrong colors, though.”

“Where do you want us to set it up?” Gerry asked and threw a warning look at Chase, who was slowly unbuttoning his navy-blue coat, to reveal … a red plaid flannel shirt.

Kyra blinked. Seriously? “You, too? You hate theme parties.”

“Yeah, but Ali asked, and I look good. Red’s my color.” Chase looked down at his shirt, and grinned, much too pleased with himself.

Gerry, at least, was dressed like a normal person, his shirt a single, solid color.

“No embroidered turkeys?” she asked him, referencing the festive clothes he and his sister wore during the summer months.

“No, not this time.” He chuckled and shook his head. “Maybe I’ll find some for next year. Get us all matching ones.”

“Absolutely not,” Kyra protested at the same time Ali exclaimed, “Yes!” And everyone laughed.

“I think we’re supposed to be some meters from the house,” Cam interrupted, all business. He was staring out the large glass windows that made up the back wall of the house. “Should we set up in the back courtyard?”

“Sounds good. It’s in my trunk. We can bring it around back. Ger?”

“Coming.” Gerry handed Kyra a bottle of wine, and he and Cam followed Chase back outside.

Ali took the bottle from Kyra’s hands. “Wine?”

“Desperately.” Kyra followed her aunt back into the kitchen.

Ali put Iggy in one of those moveable baby-containment contraptions along with a few noise-making toys. Cronkite, Kyra’s long-haired white cat, slunk into the kitchen and leaped into Iggy’s playpen. The little boy made a high-pitched baby giggle while Cronk turned a few times before plopping over, his feather duster tail flicking in lazy swipes.

Cronk had claimed the tiny human as his own. He’d been suspiciously absent from his regular place in Kyra’s bed since the Babcock family’s arrival. The little beast also took a sadistic pleasure in rubbing against her uncle, setting off his allergies. She narrowed her eyes at her house demon. Cronk just blinked his emerald-green ones at her and yawned.

Ali placed a glass in front of Kyra. “Cheers.” She raised hers in salute and took a sip. “You look lovely, by the way.” Her aunt was always quick to compliment, but she did so sincerely.

“You told me to wear this, but thank you.” Kyra glanced down and pulled at the bottom of her sweater. When she looked back up, her aunt was watching her with her trademark smug, know-it-all smile. “What?” Kyra didn’t really want to know.

“When does he arrive?”

“Soon.” Kyra groaned. “Please don’t make a big thing of it.”

Ali scoffed. “I raised you. Of course I’m making a big deal of it. My little baby girl is all grown up and has a live-in boyfriend.” Ali stage whispered the last word.

Kyra made a face. Ali’s smug smile turned into a manic grin, all feral at the edges. Kyra attempted to glare at her aunt.

“Raised, really?” Ali had been barely twenty-two when Kyra was sent to live with her. She’d been twelve. “It’s not like I’ve never brought anyone home before.”

“True, but not anyone you actually cared about.” Ali grinned. “You’re blushing,” she said with unsuppressed glee.

“Just try not to embarrass me. Please?” Kyra touched her warm cheeks and grimaced.

“No promises.”

“Ding, dong!” a voice sang from the foyer. Grace Chambers shuffled into the kitchen carrying a heavy-looking Mander Lane Farm tote bag. “Happy Thanksgiving, dear!”

Her wife, Charlie, followed a step behind, struggling with her own grocery bag. Kyra reached out to help, but Charlie waved her off and set it on the counter with a thunk.

“I’m so sorry we’re late. Julia took a catering job and only told us about it at the last minute. We’ve been entirely on our own since Sunday. She was supposed to put a basket together for you, but it must have slipped her mind.”

Kyra glanced at Charlie, who rolled her eyes. Kyra highly doubted Julia had forgotten. In her experience, Julia’s memory was a steel trap, all the better for holding grudges. The Chamberses’ chef was not Kyra’s biggest fan.

“I tried to put something together, although I suspect it’s lacking. Char picked up bread from Café Joy this morning, and we brought wine.” Grace placed the bottles on the counter, her sculpted eyebrows curved in apology. “I know it’s not the same.”

“Please. Don’t apologize. You needn’t have brought anything. We have more than enough,” Kyra said, smiling. “But thank you.”

Julia’s homemade bread and butter was some sort of witchcraft, like the Turkish Delight in Narnia. It was life altering. Kyra had been talking it up to Ali for days. But she was only a smidge disappointed. They may not be getting Julia’s sorcery, but the sourdough from Café Joy was Kyra’s second favorite on the island. She pulled the thick loaf from the bag and inhaled the tangy, yeasty scent and sighed.

“I told you not to worry, Grace.” Charlie rolled her eyes. “Happy Thanksgiving.” She gave Kyra and Ali hugs. Charlie pushed her wild curls off her forehead and slumped against the island. “I hadn’t realized how much we’d come to depend on Julia. It’s been terrible this past week. On Monday, Grace had a meeting with the council. I had to cook dinner.”

“It really wasn’t that bad, love.”

Charlie rolled her eyes again, and mouthed to Kyra, It was worse. She shook her shoulders in a mock shudder.

“You must be hungry then. Good thing Ali made enough food for…” Kyra waved to the kitchen surfaces covered in dishes. “The whole island, I’d say.”

“Starved.” Charlie sighed. “For days. It looks delicious, Ali. Kyra never said you cooked.”

“It’s new,” Ali said proudly. “But I’ve never done Thanksgiving before.”

Grace pulled off her Canada Goose parka and draped it across the back of one of the barstools. Kyra noted, with a touch of dismay, that Grace’s coat did not make her look like a swollen marshmallow peep.

Ali pulled down more wine glasses and poured one for Grace. She raised the bottle to Charlie, who stood there, her big brown eyes on her wife. She bounced on her toes.

“Oh, just go, Char.” Grace waved her hand.

Charlie grinned and pulled a six-pack of beer from the bag. She practically ran for the backyard.

“We walked up just as the boys were unloading the frier.” Grace sighed and shook her head.

“At least she’s not wearing flannel,” Kyra muttered and shot a pointed look at her aunt.

“Oh no, dear, she is. And a utility vest.”

A raucous cheer went up when Charlie joined the men on the patio. A propane frier setup sat in pieces around them. They were hunched over Cam’s phone.

Grace smoothed her perfect blonde bob and took a seat at the island. She took a long sip of her wine. Kyra watched the older woman’s shoulders drop as if she was finally letting herself relax. Kyra reached out and rubbed her shoulder, earning a grateful smile.

Grace patted her hand and turned to Ali. “Tell me, dear. How has your visit been?”

Kyra hadn’t seen Grace or Charlie in nearly a week. They’d all spent an evening together when Ali and Cam had first arrived, but they’d been busy since, and Kyra had missed her friends.

Charlie’s real estate management business was preparing her clients’ properties for the off season, arranging for upkeep and repairs. Grace had been working on the Martha’s Vineyard Community Council’s activities, the national election, and the fallout from Senator Hawthorn’s abrupt announcement that he would not be seeking reelection late last month. Chase still refused to discuss his father’s legal troubles, but Kyra knew he wasn’t taking any of it well.

“It’s been fab.” Ali came around to the other side of the island and clinked her glass against Kyra’s. “I showed Kay our old house on Lake Tashmoo. We had breakfast at the airport, shopped in Edgartown. It’s been a trip down memory lane.” Ali dropped her head to Kyra’s shoulder. “I’m glad we were able to share this with her.”

Kyra and Ali had spent hours on Monday going through old family photo albums. They’d drank too much, and stayed up half the night laughing, then crying, then doing some strange combination of the two.

“It has been special,” Kyra conceded, and wrapped her arm around her aunt’s waist.

“Are you looking forward to visiting Verinder House tomorrow?” Grace asked.

“I am so excited. Even if Kay isn’t.” Ali shot Kyra a sympathetic smile and stepped away to add the finishing touches to the charcuterie and cheese platter she’d been assembling.

Kyra shrugged. She wasn’t looking forward to the gala, the forced social niceties, or whatever spectacle Loriann had planned, but even she had to admit the house sounded incredible.

“Oh, that’s right, Kyra said you design restorations for historic buildings.”

“Mmhhmm, that’s my specialty, but my architecture firm handles all sorts of projects. When Kay told me about the estate Omega had rented, I spent the flight researching it. It looks magnificent.” Ali told Grace about the building’s history, the famous architect who’d built it in the 1800s, and the recent renovations. “Are you familiar with it?”

“Char grew up on the island, so she probably knows more about it than I do, but I’m vaguely familiar. Julia worked there years ago, and I believe her husband was their groundskeeper for a while, until he started his construction business. Back then, it was still a private residence.”

“Is that where she learned to cook?” Kyra asked.

“Oh, no, dear. And don’t let her hear you say so. Julia was already a very accomplished chef when she came to the States. She doesn’t talk about her time at Verinder House much. I think she and her husband left long before the family sold the property.”

“It’s too bad you and Charlie aren’t able to come to the party tomorrow,” Ali said.

“I know.” Grace sighed. “But Char hates formal events, and we’ve committed to a few already this season.” Grace left the rest of it unsaid, but Kyra knew the real reason they’d declined the invitation was Charlie’s refusal to step foot on one of the small ferries that served as access and transportation to and from Chappaquiddick. Charlie’s boat phobia was a growing point of contention for the couple.

“I’ll take this into the living room.” Kyra picked up a platter of appetizers.

She set it on the coffee table and straightened the napkins, the coasters. Her nervous energy had her fussing. She fluffed the pillows and straightened a throw blanket. She turned on the gas fireplace, adjusting it so the flames were just so. Kyra ran her palms down her thighs. This would be the first time Tarek would meet her aunt in person, and although she knew her aunt was teasing, she really wanted Ali to like Tarek and for him to like her.

The trees shook as a gust of wind blew. Leaves flew across the yard. It didn’t seem to bother her uncle or the others. They were standing in a semi-circle around the turkey frier that appeared to be somewhat assembled. Charlie’s hands were moving as she told some presumably ridiculous story, and Chase was bent over with laughter. Kyra’s phone buzzed, and she turned away, smiling and perhaps a bit jealous. Charlie was a wonderful storyteller. She fished it from her back pocket, expecting it to be Tarek. It was Asher, Omega’s CEO. From his personal account.

“When you’ve a chance, ring me.”

Kyra frowned. If it was related to the merger or Omega, he’d have texted her from his work account and if it was urgent, he’d have called. Kyra tried to remember. She thought he’d said his flight arrived yesterday. He was likely stuck inside with Loriann, bored stiff, and was looking for entertainment. She wasn’t going to let him weasel an invite to her aunt’s party tonight, which would be such an Asher thing to do. He could be such a charming bastard. She swiped her thumb across the call back icon.

The front door swung open, and with a blast of icy air, Tarek stepped into their foyer. Kyra ended the call before it could connect and pocketed her phone. She’d call Asher back tomorrow. Tarek’s eyes found hers and his mouth quirked up in that half smile she loved. He dropped his bag on the floor and met her halfway. She paused, looking into his dark green eyes, for a half a second before he pulled her into his arms.

The cold clung to his jacket and seeped through her sweater. She shivered as his cool cheek pressed against her neck.

“I missed you.” His whisper sounded like a sigh.

“Me, too.”

“Ahem.” Ali announced her presence by faking a strange high-pitched cough.

Kyra let Tarek go and turned narrowed eyes on her aunt. Ali wasn’t bothering to hide her giant shit-eating grin.

“Oh, Detective,” Grace hummed, her eyes sparkling with the same meddlesome energy. “Lovely to see you.”

“Just Tarek, Grace. It’s nice to see you, too. Happy Thanksgiving.” Tarek pressed his lips together like he was trying not to laugh. He laced his fingers with Kyra’s, pulling her close.

Kyra shifted on her feet. She gestured between Tarek and her aunt with her free hand. “Ali, this is Tarek. Tarek, Ali.”

“A pleasure to finally meet you in person,” Tarek said, letting Kyra go and offering Ali his hand.

Ali pushed his hand aside and flung herself at him, hard enough he stumbled back. His eyebrows shot up and he gave Kyra a wide-eyed look. Kyra huffed out a long, apologetic breath. Ali was going to be Ali.

Her aunt stepped back, looking up at him, her whole body vibrating with excitement.

“I’m so glad you’re real!” she screeched.

Kyra squeezed her eyes shut, gathering her patience.

“I was sure Kyra made you up so I wouldn’t worry about her dying alone and being eaten by her cats.”

“You’ve literally talked to him on video chat a dozen times. And it’s just the one cat. That you made me keep,” Kyra grumbled.

“There are amazing things you can do with Photoshop these days.” Ali’s grin somehow widened, and Kyra groaned inwardly. Ali was loving this.

“Tar, you made it.” Chase strode into the room, followed by Charlie, Cam, and Gerry. “We’re about to put the turkey in,” he said, thumping Tarek on the back.

Kyra introduced her uncle. Ali disappeared and came back into the living room with Iggy. Tarek held the little boy, bouncing him on his hip, while he listened to Cam’s theories on turkey frying. Tarek handed Iggy back to his mother and excused himself to freshen up after a long day of travel. Chase and Cam promised to wait for him for the big descent.

“I like him,” Cam whispered in Kyra’s ear right before Charlie dragged her uncle back outside.

Kyra let loose a long breath. It had gone as well as she could have hoped. She was only mildly embarrassed by Ali, and Tarek had taken it all in stride. Actually, she thought he might have been amused. The anxious band that lived around her chest, just underneath her ribcage, relaxed.

Tarek returned, and Kyra snorted in surprise, swallowing her wine just in time. It burned her nose and down the back of her throat, making her cough. Apparently, he’d received Ali’s dress code memo. He was wearing a plaid shirt identical to Cam’s. She must have bought him one too, when they were in town. When or how she’d gotten it to him, Kyra had no clue, but she had to admire her aunt’s commitment.

Before she could ask, Tarek gave her a wink and slipped outside. A few minutes later, another boisterous clamoring came from the patio as the turkey was lowered into a boiling vat of peanut oil.

Ali and Grace settled into seats beside Kyra, and they chatted about the island, Grace’s involvement with the community council, other events. Kyra half listened and half-watched the turkey-frying activities through the windows. Every so often, one or more of the folks outside would pop back into the kitchen for more beer, snacks, and eventually, bottles of small batch bourbon to sample.

“Gerry, you’re responsible. Please don’t let them burn down my house,” she begged when he and Chase came inside for more ice.

“You are insured, right?” he deadpanned, and laughed at Kyra’s frown.

Kyra poured another glass of wine.

“He’s an ER doctor, not a firefighter, Kay.” Chase emerged from the kitchen with a tray of finger foods Ali must have had ready.

Kyra took one of the little bacon-wrapped figs he offered to her.

He ran his eyes over Gerry and smirked. “But a firefighter would be hot.”

Gerry made a dismissive sound, but he looked more intrigued than anything.

“I’m sure I can get my hands on a uniform at the next fundraising committee meeting. What’s your size, again, dear?” Grace offered.

Gerry turned a mottled pink, and they all burst out laughing.

Just as the sun was dipping behind the trees, the turkey was pulled from the fryer, the side dishes from the ovens, and someone with sense assembled a salad made of fresh produce that Chase confirmed was sent by his farm manager. Kyra’s house didn’t have a dining room, something that she’d never missed before.

“What will we do?” she asked, her hands on her hips surveying the mountain of food.

“We’ll set up everything on the counter here and eat in front of the fire in the living room. They’ll love it.” Ali patted her on the shoulder. “Here, make yourself useful.” She handed Kyra a basket with the bread the Chamberses brought and shooed her into the living room.

Kyra placed it on the coffee table and stood back, watching her aunt distribute plates and cutlery to their guests and arrange a queue. Her friends and family jostled for seats on the sectional or the floor, their plates piled high.

She swallowed back a tight feeling at the base of her throat. She’d never had this experience. Holidays, those she had celebrated with Ali, had always been small, casual affairs. It was just of the two of them, and then later, Cam, who avoided his family as much as possible, made three. They would order Indian takeaway, or heat something Ali bought at Waitrose and watch movies or play board games. It was … quiet. She rubbed her chest with the heel of her palm.

“Kay?” Chase said, his voice soft.

She startled. She hadn’t realized he was right beside her. His eyes, the color of a mountain lake, glimmered, and she saw in his face that strange warm feeling she felt buzzing behind her lungs. She smiled up at him, realizing what it was. She was happy.

“I know,” he murmured and stooped to press his lips to the top of her head and she leaned into him.

Kyra and Chase had grown close after she solved the murder of his then boyfriend. They’d supported each other through shared trauma, nightmares, and a terrifying trek through a hidden cave system. He was over the top brilliant, beautiful, kind, and utterly ridiculous. She loved him to bits.

Chase’s head snapped up. His voice rose over the crowd. “Don’t you fucking dare, Collins! One of those legs is mine!”

Kyra wandered into the kitchen. Ali was the only one left. She was mashing already mushy sweet potatoes into a pulp for Iggy.

“Ali?”

Her aunt turned around, wiping her hands on her barbaric apron. “Sweetheart, what is it?” she asked, and Kyra looked up at her aunt, barely an inch taller, and threw her arms around her.

“Thank you.” Kyra sniffled.

“Aw, babes. No, thank you.” Ali stroked Kyra’s back. “We’re so happy to be here with you.” Ali pulled back and wiped a tear off Kyra’s cheek and made a tsking sound. “None of that. You don’t want to ruin your eye makeup for your fit detective.”

“He’s not a policeman anymore.”

“No, but consultant, or whatever he is, sounds so corporate.” Ali scrunched her nose up, and then her eyes went wide. “You made him keep the uniform though, yeah?”

“Ali!” Kyra tried to push her away, but Ali held her close and gave her another squeeze before releasing her.

“Alright, enough. We’ll talk more about that later, and you can show me the pictures.”

Kyra would be doing no such thing.

Ali picked up the bowl. “I’d better feed Iggy before this gets too cold. Make yourself a plate and come on out.”

When Kyra came back with her own plate, everyone was comfortably stuffed in the too small room. Someone, Tarek, she assumed, had set up a chair for Cronk. He sat, a king on his throne, a little plate of turkey skin in front of him. Tarek had held her a spot next to him on the floor in front of the fire. When she sat, he gave her a warm smile and stroked her knee with his thumb.

Once everyone was settled, and Iggy was happily gumming his baby spoon, Cam cleared his throat. “It may not be American tradition,” he said, his Scottish brogue more pronounced after a few drinks. “But in my village in Scotland, we say a blessing whenever good fortune brings loved ones together.” He held his glass aloft and repeated a prayer Kyra had never heard him say before, his Gaelic lyrical and beautiful. He raised his glass. “Sláinte.”

They clamored back a response, loud and jubilant.

Tarek wrapped his arm around her shoulders and murmured, his breath hot on her ear, “Happy Thanksgiving.”

End of Excerpt