KRISTAN HIGGINS

CHAPTER ONE

Winnie

 

Windsor Eleanora Smith was not a homewrecking whore. It’s just what everyone was saying these days. Including her brother.

 

“Wear it with pride,” said Robbie, younger by three and a half years physically and two decades emotionally. Winnie held up his gift, a white sweater with the letter A embroidered in red, front and center. “Not funny,” she said. Still… “Where did you get it?”

 

“Special order,” said Rosie, his fiancée. “We debated with going for a Coldplay kiss-cam meme, but this is more classic. And I agree. It will really screw with the gossips.”

 

It was yet another Smith Family dinner. They’d assembled at her sister Addison’s house—Winnie’s parents, Grandpop, her four siblings, their partners and three nieces—a mob, in other words. Ostensibly, they were there to discuss Robbie and Rosie’s wedding in a few months. Given recent events, however, they were also keen on showing support for Winnie, the recently crowned homewrecker, who had only wrecked one home, and not even on purpose.

 

“I kind of love it,” she said, giving Robbie a nod of thanks. Once, they had shared a bedroom, while she did not share his sense of humor, she appreciated that he’d given some thought to her dilemma.

 

That being said, this dinner was killing her. She hated being the center of attention—her family was way too big and growing every year. The noise was like the ocean…constant and huge. But they were hers, she supposed. Grandpop, aka Robert Smith, beloved by all; her parents, Gerald and Ellie; her siblings—Harlow, the oldest, married to Grady, mother to Matthew, stepmother to Luna; Addison, the older-by-three-minutes identical twin, her unsmiling wife Nicole, and their two demon-daughters, Esme and Imogen; Lark, the other, more perfect twin and her new husband, Dante, also perfect (Boston firefighter, utterly gorgeous in body and spirit); and Robbie, the only boy, the scene stealer, adored, doted on, somehow engaged to Rosie, Harlow’s best friend from college and therefore older than Robbie by ten years. They were getting married in December, and Winnie had offered to be their wedding planner…Rosie’s father was an entertainment attorney in Los Angeles and insisted on paying her a Hollywood wage. Thank God, because she’d need the money. Until this week, Winnie had owned a fairly lucrative event planning business. As of three days ago, it was a dumpster fire.

 

“This will pass, honey,” Lark said. “Someone else’s crisis will come up, and people will move on. Life in a small town, you know?” She reached across Dante and squeezed Winnie’s hand.

 

“Thanks.” She forced a smile at her sister.

 

“More wine?” asked Harlow, the other perfect sister, holding the bottle over Winnie’s glass.

 

“Keep it coming,” Winnie said. She didn’t drink very often, but this week called for it.

 

“You didn’t know you were sleeping with another woman’s husband,” Mom said, stating the obvious. “He’s the liar. People should cut you some slack.”

 

“We cannot help with whom we fall in love,” Grandpop said kindly. “He was using a different name! Who can blame you for not knowing his true identity?”

 

“The Mommy Mafia is who,” Winnie said. “My client base, in other words.”

 

“When I think of the ‘other woman,’” Robbie said, making air quotes, “I picture someone more like my beautiful fiancée here. Not you, Winnebago. No offense to either of you, of course.”

 

“I’m flattered,” Rosie said, kissing his cheek.

 

“I’m not,” Winnie said. “Seventeen parties canceled this week alone. Wives, lock away your husbands, because Winnie Smith is arranging your kids’ First Communion party, and she’s an immoral slut.” It was possible that she was buzzed, and more power to it.

 

“Oh, honey. Don’t call yourself that,” Dad said. “You’re wonderful. The most moral person I know.”

 

“Yeah, you’re not quite there yet,” Robbie said. “You can be an aspirational slut. Don’t get ahead of yourself. I had to put in years for that title.” Rosie laughed and tilted her head against his shoulder.

 

“Can you two not be so…happy?” Winnie asked.

 

“Unfortunately, Winnie’s right,” Addison said, checking her phone. She couldn’t go thirty seconds without looking at it. “People are blaming her. A few vague-book posts, a sudden burst of shitty reviews on Yelp. A text chain that went on for miles before they realized I was on it. So yeah, everyone is hating on her. They’re also saying Tanner is an asshole. But mostly that Winnie should’ve done better research, and who doesn’t know these things in this day and age.”

 

“You know, Addie, sometimes saying nothing works, too,” Harlow said.

 

“What?” Addison said. “I defend her! Obviously. Plus, information is power.”

 

“Addie is the queen of the Mommy Mafia,” Nicole, her wife, said proudly. “Girls! Stop eating the cheese spread with your hands.”

 

“Sleep around and live life to the fullest,” Robbie advised sagely. “I did, and now I’m engaged to the most perfect woman in the world.”

 

“Robbie, shut up,” Harlow said, smacking him upside the head. “Honestly, Rosie, are you sure you want to marry this little dweeb?”

 

“Weirdly, I am,” Rosie said. “He’s loved me since he had hormones. Who can resist that? And we won’t fire you, Winnie. You’re still our wedding planner, and my father wants to spare no expense for his beloved and only child.”

 

“Thanks,” Winnie muttered, polishing off her wine. Only child. Lucky. And while she was grateful to Mr. Wolfe for saying “unlimited budget,” it’s not like it was a long-term solution. Her event planning business had always been more focused on the more commonplace celebrations in a person’s life. Birthdays, anniversaries, family reunions. Baby showers and gender reveals (though she thought they were tempting fate and a bit self-aggrandizing). There were plenty of other event planners who fed off the stress and fanfare of the zillion-dollar weddings and bat and bar mitzvahs, the demanding clients and expensive vendors. Winnie had always tried to focus on the regular people. For example, a five-year-old’s birthday party.

 

But Wellfleet, Massachusetts, like most of the towns on the outermost part of Cape Cod, was small. Tiny in the off-season, especially in terms of the year-round families who made up the bulk of her business. Life on Cape Cod was expensive, housing prices were ridiculous, and Winnie had just lost her base. Life in a small town, as Lark said, meant it took mere minutes to cancel a business. Or a person.

 

“Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?” Esme chanted. “Can Luna sleep over? Mommy? Mommy? Can she? Can she?”

 

“Mama, can she? Please? Please? Can she? We’ll be good! I promise! We will be!” Imogen said. She would never need a bullhorn, no sir.

 

“Daddy, can I sleep over? Please? Please? Can I?” Luna added.

 

Amazing that people wanted children. Winnie liked having nieces and a nephew, but this? All day, every day? The world was crowded enough, and bless her sisters for procreating so her parents had grandchildren, releasing Winnie from any guilt they might try on her.

 

“Yes, yes, fine,” Addie said. “Of course. Luna, we love having you. Find something to do, though. The grownups are talking about your aunt Winnie and her problems.”

 

“What problems?” Esme asked. “Did you do something bad, Aunt Winnie? What was it? Did you kill someone?”

 

“I’ll never tell,” Winnie said. “My glass is empty, by the way.” Grady obliged with a gentle smile. Her favorite brother-in-law. Had Dante poured the wine, he would’ve nabbed the title, but the night was Grady’s.

 

“You did. You killed someone,” Esme said. “You’re so fun, Aunt Winnie.”

 

“I really am.”

 

“Don’t encourage her, Winnie,” Nicole snapped. “Girls, killing people is wrong. Go watch a movie.” The children obeyed, but Imogen first lowered her head and took a massive bite of cake, no hands. The kid grinned up at her, and Winnie gave a slight nod of approval before Nicole herded them off.

 

“Winnie, my dear, we all know who you are,” Grandpop said. “And we love and support you.”

 

“Thanks, Grandpop.” She felt the unfamiliar sting of tears and ordered them not to fall. She hadn’t cried since she was eight, and she wasn’t about to start now.

 

“We’re all still going to trivia night, right?” Harlow said. “Semifinals.” Harlow took her trivia team way too seriously.

 

“Of course I’m going. I’m the DJ,” said Robbie. “The most important person there.”

 

“Come with us, Winnie,” said Lark. “It’ll be good for you to get out. Dante and I are coming, too.”

 

“We’ll make sure you have fun,” Dante said. “And if anything happens, we’re your bodyguards, how’s that?”

 

Fun brought forth images of a cozy house in Antarctica, with only penguins for neighbors. Winnie wouldn’t have to talk to anyone, just ice fish, keep a fire going and focus on not freezing to death. Better than the pointed stares and whispers and hostile mutters she’d encountered these past few days. You’d think society would be past that—how many politicians had blatantly cheated on their spouses? How many actors? It didn’t hurt their careers, did it? But here in Puritanical Massachusetts, it seemed like women were still blamed for husbands who couldn’t keep it in their pants.

 

“Please come,” Rosie said.

 

Winnie hesitated. She wanted to crawl into bed and rewatch The Office for the nineteenth time and doomscroll. But she knew better. She was heartbroken (and a little drunk), and if she went home, she’d almost definitely curl into a ball and cry. Being with her family was probably the safer option. “Sure,” she said. This way, she could also avoid seeing how many more clients had canceled.

 

And face the fact that Mitchell—i.e., Tanner Johnson—hadn’t reached out. Mitchell, the first man who’d ever said he loved her, outside of Dad and Grandpop. The only man Winnie had ever loved.

 

“I love trivia night!” said Grandpop, who was on Harlow’s team. “But we should stay and help Addie and Nicole clean up. You lovely girls are such wonderful hostesses! I ate thirteen of those little water chestnuts wrapped in bacon. My favorite!”

 

“Please don’t stay,” Nicole said bluntly. “I’d rather clean up on my own.”

 

“We’ll give the girls their baths and tuck-ins, how’s that?” Mom suggested.

 

And so off they went…Grandpop, Harlow and Grady, Lark and Dante, Robbie and Rosie…and Winnie, the other Smith kid.

 

Harlow was a pillar of the town, the oldest, the smart one who got full scholarships for college and law school. She now ran Open Book, a bustling indie bookstore, with Grandpop. Addison, one of the stunningly beautiful identical twins, had “married well” and was now one of those irritating mommy influencers, showing off her beautiful daughters, beautiful home and beautiful wife. Lark, the other stunningly beautiful twin, was a doctor who had recently married a Boston firefighter. She was the kindest soul in the universe and everyone’s favorite (Winnie’s, too). Robbie was the baby of the family, spoiled since Mom first pushed him into the world. He was The Boy, carrier of the Smith family surname, named after Grandpop and now marrying Rosie, Harlow’s best friend from college.

 

And then there was Winnie. The other one. The one whose name people couldn’t remember (Robbie made a sport out of it), the not-beautiful, not-brilliant sister who, until she became the aforementioned home-wrecking whore, had pretty much blended into the background. “Oh, you’re one of the Smiths? The bookstore sister? The one with the big house on Lieutenant Island? The doctor? No? I guess I didn’t know there were four girls.”

 

But in the past few years, she’d busted her ass as an event planner. It was a great job for someone who liked to be in the background, who put in countless hours to create the best event for a small budget, who would make something beautiful and fun and touching and also set up thirty tables and serve drinks if the bartender didn’t show. It wasn’t like it had been her particular calling, but she’d done some seasonal work for an established event planner for a few years, was organized and hard-working. Jobs were hard to find, and when her boss moved to France, Winnie did her best to fill the niche. Now that career was over. Robbie and Rosie’s wedding would stave off the bills for a little while, but she’d either have to rebound or find something else to do.

 

All because she’d fallen in love with a rat bastard, lying, cheating asshole chef.

 

Last week, Nycholiss (as in Nicholas) Johnson turned five, an event Winnie had organized—dinosaur bounce house, dinosaur cake, dinosaur party favors, dinosaur games. Fifty guests, most of them adults, with a dozen or so kids under the age of ten—friends, classmates, cousins, as well as younger sisters Bruklynne (as in New York) and Kaedeigh (as in Katie). Blakelee, the mother of the birthday boy and lover of misspelled names, had tapped her glass, and the guests fell silent, expecting a toast about how wonderful Nycholiss was.

 

“I have something to say,” she began, her voice hard. “Yes, it’s my son’s birthday, and happy birthday, Nycholiss. But I think everyone here should know that Winnie Smith, my party planner, has been sleeping with my husband. Don’t even think about denying it, Winnie, and shame on you for being the kind of woman who’s willing to break up a family. You’re disgusting.”

 

All eyes swiveled to Winnie. Winnie herself glanced behind her, thinking for a flash that maybe Blakelee was talking about another Winnie Smith. Blakelee’s face was bright red, and Winnie felt a flash of sympathy for her, making such a scene at her kid’s party. “Um…maybe you need a drink of water,” she suggested.

 

“Don’t patronize me, you homewrecking whore!” Blakelee shouted. “How dare you?”

 

“I…okay, you must be thinking of someone else,” she said, her voice calm and firm. “I have not slept with your husband.” Winnie had never even met Mr. Johnson (who hopefully had a normal name). But seriously. Winnie, some kind of side chick? Please. She was seeing someone, but he certainly wasn’t married or a father. They were pretty serious, so everything else aside, she wouldn’t have time to steal a husband. Nevertheless, everyone was staring at her, the joyful shrieks of the kids in the bounce house a dissonant backdrop to the anger on Blakelee’s face. “I’m not sleeping with anyone’s husband, Blakelee. Can I get you a glass of water? You look a little flushed.”

 

“Of course I’m flushed! How could you possibly sleep with the husband of a client? Your website says ‘family events’ but you think it’s okay to seduce the father of three?” Blakelee screeched.

 

“Stop,” Winnie said, her voice hard. “I haven’t slept with anyone’s husband. I would never do that.”

 

“You stay away from my family before I get a restraining order!” Blakelee said.

 

“You’re paying me to be here,” Winnie had said. “And you’re wrong. I—”

 

“Does he look familiar?” Blakelee said. She shoved her phone in Winnie’s face, and the ground seemed to evaporate from under Winnie’s feet.

 

It was Mitchell, Winnie’s boyfriend of the past six months, the man she slept with three or four nights a week. The man she loved. In the photo, he stood on the beach, arms wrapped around Blakelee, the three kids hugging their legs.

 

Did Mitchell have a twin, maybe? People mistook Addie and Lark all the time. That must be it. “I…he’s not…” The words died in her mouth.

 

Nycholiss’s party was outside. Winnie hadn’t even been in the Johnson house. She and Blakelee had met just once in person to discuss this party, and that meeting had taken place at her sister’s bookstore. She hadn’t needed to go in this morning for setting up—everything was outside, the food table, the bounce house, the bubble station. Well, she hadn’t gone in yet. In just ten minutes or so, she’d go in for the cake, and later, during cleanup, she imagined.

 

Suddenly, she was very, very worried that if she did go inside and take a look around, there’d be a photo of Blakelee’s husband. Who was, it was slowly dawning, also Winnie’s boyfriend.

 

Then her phone buzzed, and in a daze, she slid it from her pocket. A text from Mitchell.

 

I think we should stop seeing each other, the text said. It’s run its course.

 

No shit, Mitchell.