Elsa shook her head. “Not that they’ve told us, unfortunately.”
Lola and Audrey exchanged glances, both at a loss for what to say. Eventually, they found a way to make an excuse and head back down the boardwalk to meet with more family. Just after their departure, Elsa spotted another familiar face: Agnes Larker, the wife of Aiden’s dear friend, Peter. Elsa flailed a hand in greeting, which made Agnes jump. Her eyes bugged out for a moment, as though she wasn’t sure who Elsa was.
“Agnes!” Elsa bounded toward her, arms outstretched. “Is Peter racing today?”
“He is.” Agnes was stiff, even as she allowed the hug.Did all women think that Elsa was “cursed” after her husband’s death? Did Agnes think her curse would rub off on her?
“You must be excited,” Elsa continued.
Agnes nodded, turning her gaze toward the far end of the dock. “They should be coming in soon.”
“Oh, right. True. I’ll go gather my crew. See you around later, maybe?”
Agnes half-agreed to this before hustling away. Elsa’s throat tightened as memories flowed through her: Agnes, Peter, Elsa, and Aiden, all out on a sailboat, their children with babysitters and the wine flowing easily as the light faded. Aiden and Peter had always gotten along like brothers, laughing until their stomachs ached and “jamming” on their guitars deep into the night like teenagers.Did Agnes not remember all that? Did it not matter to her at all?
“Who was that?” Nancy asked when Elsa returned.
“An old friend.” Elsa sounded doubtful.
“Peter Larker’s wife?” Mallory asked.
“Yeah. Although she treated me like we’re only acquaintances,” Elsa offered. “It threw me off.”
“Whatever,” Mallory said. “Sounds like she’s just being awkward. Try to let it go.”
* * *
Twenty-five minutes later, Elsa and Mallory hovered at the edge of the docks, Zachery waving his hands through the blissful air, watching as seven sailboats churned forward, practically neck-in-neck.
“It’s Cole!” Mallory cried, pointing to the one on the far-hand right. “GO COLE!” she howled. Her voice was immediately lost in the roar of the crowd.
It all happened so fast. A man at the finish line flashed a large flag forward as the first of the boats surged past. From where Elsa stood, she couldn’t guess who’d achieved first, second, third, or even seventh. She watched, captivated, as Cole sped his boat up to the dock, lassoing his rope to tie himself up. He stepped out, glistening with sweat, and reached over to the next boat to shake Tommy Gasbarro’s hand.
Over the loudspeaker, one of the race authorities announced, “Ladies and gentlemen of Martha’s Vineyard! We have our top three. For the first time in many years, our top three is made up of all islanders. Coming in first is world-renowned top sailor, Tommy Gasbarro.”
The crowd howled with adrenaline. Elsa’s heart pumped with sorrow, watching her son’s face grow slack. He’d wanted first so desperately. It was a strange thing, feeling such empathy for your children’s pain— even in the context of this silly race.
“In second place, we have Peter Larker!” the announcer continued.
Elsa’s jaw dropped with surprise. Sure enough, there he was: the handsome fifty-something man who’d spent countless hours with her husband, swapping stories and playing guitar tunes. Peter waved a sturdy hand toward the roaring crowd, his smile electric.
“Huh,” Mallory said. “Weird to see him after all this time.”
“And finally, in third place, we have our beloved Aiden Steel’s son, last year’s top racer, Cole Steel!” the announcer finished.
Elsa and Mallory howled excitedly. Zach matched their noises with his own squeals. Cole waved to the immense crowd and then gave the three of them a personal, lower wave, plus what looked like a wink.
“That’s your uncle, Zachery!” Mallory cried. “See him?”
“Uncle!” Zachery cried.
A little while after Cole walked off the docks, Bruce appeared strong and triumphant, his nose crimson from the sunlight. Probably, he’d come in fortieth or fiftieth, nothing to scoff at in a field of one thousand and five hundred racers. As he tied up his boat to a faraway dock, the crowd gave him little more than a small round of applause. Elsa, however, beamed with pride and shot down the dock, weaving in and out of tourists until she reached him. Once before his boat, she flung herself into his arms. The boat rocked chaotically beneath them. Bruce struggled to make his boat shoes grip to stabilize them.
“Elsa!” he called. “You’re going to tip us!”
Elsa burrowed her face into his chest, inhaling his salty aura. When she dropped back to the ground, she kissed him with her eyes closed, her heart performing a backflip.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she told him.