LOGINVivienne Marsh restores paintings for a living she has spent her whole career putting cracked, damaged, half-ruined things back together and pretending it doesn't remind her of her own family. When Voss Enterprises calls her studio about authenticating a damaged portrait, she walks into the coldest, most beautiful office she's ever seen and meets the man behind the voice on the phone and in the four minutes before she learns his name, she forgets, entirely, how to breathe normally. Then she learns his name. And his proposal. Damian Voss needs a wife by his thirty-fifth birthday or he loses controlling interest in the company his grandfather built to a board that will gut it, and to a cousin who will finally get to prove he was always the more ruthless Voss. Vivienne's late father owes Voss Enterprises a debt large enough to bury her gallery and her family's name. Damian offers her a contract, marries him for eighteen months, and the debt disappears. No feelings required. No questions asked. Just a ring, a signature, and a very convincing performance for a board of directors who will be watching for cracks.
View MoreHome, Little ShipEleven years later, on the first Saturday in August, the sun came up over Blackwater Cove exactly as it always had.It rose out of the sea as a thin line of gold, then a red arc, then a blaze, and spilled itself across the harbor in long bright ribbons. The water went from slate to rose to a deep clear blue. A gull cried, wheeled, and dropped out of the sky onto the weathered post at the end of the dock. Somewhere behind the village, a rooster crowed, and someone laughed, and the first smell of coffee drifted out through the open windows of the little gray cottage on the rise.SUSAN'S HOUSE, said the sign over the door, in fresh blue letters. It had been repainted every spring for eleven years. Nobody had ever suggested stopping.Vivienne stood on the porch in her bare feet, in an old paint-stained sweater, with a mug in both hands, watching the light come up. She was forty-seven now. Her hair had gone silver at the temples, and she wore it loose, because Damian like
The Last PartyNo black, said Mr. Aldridge.He stood at the lectern of St. Anne's, in his gray suit and small round spectacles, with a sheet of cream paper in his hand and an expression of dignified helplessness. The little stone church was packed to the walls. It was a hot, bright, windy morning in late August, and every window stood open to the sound of the wind in the old elms.I have here, said Mr. Aldridge, a letter from the late Mrs. Voss, with instructions for her funeral. I was asked to read it aloud, and in full, without editing. He cleared his throat. She writes: I forbid black; I have attended eleven hundred funerals in my life, and every one of them was improved by color. Anyone found in a dark suit will be asked to leave. Also, I should like it noted that I am dead, not stupid. If anyone weeps for longer than ten minutes, I will know. A soft, startled laugh rippled through the church. Vivienne sat in the front pew, between Damian and Alexander, in a yellow dress that Elea
Margaux's LettersSit, said Margaux. Please, I should like to say this once, properly, and I should like you to be comfortable.Vivienne sat down in the little armchair opposite, with her heart beating slowly and hard. The lamp threw a soft circle of gold across the carpet. Outside the window, the cove lay dark and still beneath a sky full of stars, and the low rhythmic sound of the tide came faintly through the open sash, in and out, in and out, like breathing.Margaux folded her hands over the writing case, and looked at her for a long moment. She was very small in the big chair. The shawl had slipped from one shoulder, and her white hair, loosened by the sea wind, lay in soft wisps around her thin face. But her eyes, in the lamplight, were as bright and clear and kind as they had ever been. I am going to die soon, she said.Vivienne's breath stopped.Not tonight, I think. Perhaps not this month. But soon, Margaux's voice was perfectly calm. Dr. Okonkwo-Reid told me in the spring.
Did the Boat Float?Five years passed the way the tide goes out, so slowly that nobody noticed until they looked up and the whole shoreline had changed.It was August in Blackwater Cove, and the afternoon light lay golden and heavy across the water. The little harbor, which had once looked gray and shuttered and forgotten, was bright with painted boats. A row of fresh white pickets ran along the lane. The general store had a new awning, and a new sign, and a bench out front where a gray-haired woman in a yellow slicker sat reading a newspaper, as she had every summer afternoon for forty years.And at the end of the cove road, on its low rise above the water, the old Hale cottage stood new again.Its roof had been mended, and its shingles reset, and its windows scrubbed until they shone. There were geraniums in the window boxes and a hammock on the porch. A pot of coffee steamed on a wicker table, and the front door stood wide open to let in the sea air. A small, hand-painted sign hung






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