Her experiences growing up had influenced so much of who she was and how she chose to live her life.
Her past was the reason she couldn’t attend a wedding without wanting to ask the couple if they were sure they wanted to go ahead.
Her past was the reason she never wore red, hated skirts and was incapable of sustaining a relationship with a man.
Her past was the reason she felt unable to go back to the island where she’d grown up.
Puffin Island was a nature-lover’s paradise, but for Frankie there were too many memories and too many islanders who bore a grudge against the name of Cole.
And she didn’t blame them.
She’d grown up cloaked by the sins of her mother, and her family’s reputation was one of the reasons she’d made the move to New York. At least here when she walked into a store, the other people weren’t all talking about her. Here, no one knew or cared that her father had run off with a woman half his age, or that her mother had decided to heal her insecurities with affairs of her own.
She’d left it all behind, until six months earlier when her mother had stopped moving around the country from job to job and man to man and settled in the city.
After years of very little contact with her only child, she’d been keen to bond. Frankie found every interaction excruciating. And woven in between the embarrassment, anger and discomfort was guilt. Guilt that she couldn’t find it inside her to be more sympathetic toward her mother. Her mother had been the prime victim of her father’s infidelities, not her. She should be more understanding. But they were so different.
Had they always been that way? Or was it Frankie’s fault for going out of her way to make sure they were different? Because the clearest memory that lingered from her teenage years was her absolute determination to be nothing like her mother.
Stripping off her shirt, she walked into her little kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. Paige and Eva would no doubt spend the evening chatting, dissecting every moment of the event.
Frankie had no wish to do that. It had been bad enough at the time without going through every detail again, and it wasn’t as if they didn’t know what had gone wrong. The groom had dumped the bride. The way she saw it, a dead body didn’t need a post-mortem if you could see the bullet hole through the skull, and right now she needed to take her mind off everything to do with weddings.
Stepping into the shower, she washed away the stresses of the day.
It could have been a disaster, but with her usual smooth efficiency, Paige had rescued the situation.
Robyn’s friends had been wonderful, supporting her and saying the right things. There had even been laughter as they’d shared champagne and Eva’s cakes. Instead of an impending wedding, they’d celebrated their friendship.
Frankie wrapped herself in a towel and stepped out of the tiny bathroom.
Friendship was the one thing that could be relied on.
Where would she be without her friends?
And although she wasn’t in the mood for drinking and talking on the roof terrace, there was comfort in knowing they were only a few steps away.
She’d snuggle up with her book and lose herself.
She pulled on black yoga pants and a T-shirt, put some cheese on a plate and sat down to read. Immersed in another world, she almost leaped out of her skin as an enormous crash came from the kitchen.
“Holy crap.”
Yanked from a fictional world of horror, it took a moment for logic to kick in and tell her that one of the herb pots carefully balanced on her windowsill had fallen.
She didn’t need to investigate the source of the accident; she already knew.
Not a serial killer, but a cat.
“Claws? Is that you?” Still holding her book, she walked through to the kitchen, saw the soil and shards of terracotta scattered across the floor and a terrified cat with fur the color of marmalade. “Hey—you need to look where you’re walking.”
The cat shot under the kitchen table, eyeing Frankie from a safe distance, her fur almost vertical.
“Did you scare yourself? Because you scared the h
ell out of me.” Calm, Frankie put her book on the table and stooped to clear up the mess. The cat shrank farther under the table. “What are you doing down here? Where’s Matt? Is he working late?”
Matt, Paige’s brother, owned the house and lived on the top two floors. It was Matt, a landscape architect, who had found the old, neglected brownstone years before and lovingly converted it into three apartments. The four of them lived there in almost perfect harmony. Along with the cat Matt had rescued.