This Summer Will Be Different(7)

When I step back inside, Farah is counting the arrangements for tomorrow’s delivery, so I grab the broom from the back and begin sweeping the leaves and flowers and scraps of ribbon.

Farah points a long finger in my direction, its sharp nail tipped with a stripe of acid yellow. “Stop what you’re doing. I don’t need your help.”

“I know you don’t, but I’m here . . .” And I need a distraction.

“Sit. Relax for thirty whole seconds. Your stress stresses me out.”

I look at the clock again. Six eighteen. My heart is pounding. Bridget wouldn’t miss something as monumental as her last gown fitting. “We were supposed to be at the store at six.”

I call the boutique. Maybe we got our wires crossed, and I was supposed to meet Bridget there? But no, the aggrieved salesperson who answers the phone tells me, Bridget isn’t there. In fact, she is twenty minutes late, they close at seven, and it’s a very busy time of year, don’t I know? I apologize, assuring her we’ll be there soon.

I finish sweeping and pull out a stool. I send Bridget another text, fingers beginning to shake, then check CP24, searching for news of accidents on her route.

“Lucy,” Farah chides. I don’t like the softness in her tone, either.

I’ve already lost my aunt. I can’t lose Bridget, too.

Something is very wrong.

I stand again. Begin to pace. Sylvia watches for a moment, then leaves her spot under the table to walk beside me.

The longest five minutes of my life pass, and then my phone vibrates in my palm. The sound that leaves my throat when I see Bridget’s name on the screen is guttural, somewhere between a sob and a gasp of relief.

“Bridget, where are you?” I say. “Are you okay?”

Her voice cuts in and out, barely audible over the wind blowing into the microphone.

“I can’t hear you. Can you hear me?”

“Bee?”

The line crackles. I hear the whoosh of a sliding door, and then the blowing stops.

“Bee?” My best friend’s voice comes clear through the other end, but it doesn’t sound right. It sounds broken. Small.

“What’s going on? Where are you? We were supposed to be at your fitting half an hour ago.”

“I’m home,” she says. “I’m at Summer Wind.”

It takes a second for her words to make sense. “You’re . . . what?” My pulse has become a jackhammer in my ears. “Is your family okay? Your parents? Is—” I stop myself from using the wrong name. “Is Wolf okay?”

I hear her sniff, and I hold my breath. “Yeah. They’re fine. But I thought they’d be here. They didn’t tell me.”

“I’m not following, Bridge. They didn’t tell you what?”

“They decided to drive to Toronto for the wedding. They’re making some kind of vacation out of it,” she says, her voice pitching upward. “You know how they are.”

I do know how they are. Bridget’s parents are spontaneous, the opposite of their daughter. It drives her bonkers. Which is why it’s not just highly unusual that Bridget has up and left for the island. It’s deeply troubling.

“Okay. But, Bridget, why are you in PEI? Your wedding is in less than two weeks.”

There’s the fitting tonight. I’m supposed to go over to her condo tomorrow. Miles was going to make a fancy dinner while I helped Bridget finalize the seating chart and a shot list for the photographer. I’m throwing the bachelorette party this weekend.

“I know. I know. I know. But I needed to get away, Bee. I needed to come home.” She’s speaking in staccato bursts, fast enough that I almost miss what comes next. “And I need you here with me.”

“You need me there? On Prince Edward Island?”

Farah’s eyebrows reach to her hairline.

“I really, really do. Please come,” she says. Another sniff. “There’s a flight leaving tomorrow that still has seats. I’m looking at the website now.”

“You want me to come to PEI tomorrow?” I gape at Farah. Sylvia sits next to her, head cocked.

“Please, Bee. Please come out. I need you.”

The list of excuses I have for staying is long. There’s the Cena meeting tomorrow. The flower auction Tuesday. I don’t know if our part-timers will be able to pick up extra shifts. There’s also Bridget’s wedding to prep for.

But Bridget never asks for help. She’s never had to. She loves me to Neptune and back, but she doesn’t need me the way I need her. Until now. I’d travel anywhere if she asked for my help. Saying no isn’t an option.

I look to Farah. “Go,” she whispers.

“Okay,” I tell Bridget, shaking my head. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

“You’re coming to PEI?”

I swallow. “Yeah,” I tell Bridget. “I’m coming.”

Even though there’s one very good reason why I should never set foot on Prince Edward Island again.





2





Now

Eight Days Until Bridget’s Wedding





I stare out the oval window at the tarmac, watching as my pink suitcase is thrown onto the conveyer belt. It travels the ramp into the belly of the aircraft. A flutter worries in mine.