Page 49 of My Ex-Best Friend's Wedding

“Oh my. It’s not supposed to be a secret, is it?” Mrs. McKinnon asks. “I mean, not anymore?”

“To think Kendra pretended to have been married all that time.” Leslie shakes her head. “As if anyone here would have treated her any different.”

“People might have,” Mrs. McKinnon says. “Not everyone was so open-minded back then.”

“Oh, I...” I close my mouth. It’s not like I have anything to add to this conversation.

“I heard she left him at the church brokenhearted. And that’s one fine-looking man.” Mrs. McKinnon sighs. “But I suppose she must have had her reasons.”

They both peer at me as if I’m going to tell them what those reasons were when I’m wondering that very thing myself. I have no idea what would have made the woman I thought I knew so well act so out of character. I take a step back.

“Lauren must be so upset,” Leslie adds, but I can tell she’s still hoping I’ll weigh in. “Is she just furious at Kendra?” When I don’t say anything she continues, “Clara over at the post office said she wouldn’t be surprised if that girl never forgave her mama.”

I take another step back. There’s no room to retreat farther. I’m up against the shelves.

“Well, at least she’s getting to know her father now. Better late than never, I always say.” Leslie has clearly spent some time thinking this out. “Maybe he’ll even give her away at her wedding.” One eyebrow sketches upward. “Is he married?”

“Um, no. He’s a widower.” I’m relieved to have something to offer that isn’t someone else’s secret.

“Maybe he didn’t just come to get to know his daughter,” Mrs. McKinnon says with a wistful smile that reminds me of just how many romance novels she’s purchased. “Maybe it isn’t only about Lauren.” She waggles her eyebrows in a way that reminds me that she’s also been reading quite a bit of erotica. “Maybe he came back for Kendra, too.”

Twenty-three

Lauren

“So tell me again why Ocracoke isn’t pronounced ‘Ockra-COKE-ee’?” Spencer is watching me from the passenger seat of the rental car as we head back toward Manteo from our drive down to Hatteras.

He’s been asking this question since he spotted the signs for the Hatteras-Ocracoke Ferry and assumed the pronunciation of Ocracoke would be similar to Rodanthe.

I appreciate the fact that he’s been trying to make up and jolly me into a better mood all day (not to mention applying his creative flair to capturing our outing for posterity and social media), but it also makes me feel worse. Because it’s obvious that the only reasons we’re fighting are my abject unhappiness and my inability to deal with what has happened.

I stare glumly out the window at some of the most gorgeous scenery on earth. It’s been a bizarre point of honor not to respond to his teasing or even crack a smile. (Except in the over-the-top photos and videos he’s staged and posted.) As if any sign of real levity or enjoyment might somehow absolve my mother of treachery. Or negate the horror of her keeping my father and me apart. Of making me mourn someone who was not only alive but living less than six hours away. Of depriving me of grandparents. Of family.

“I don’t know,” I say more gruffly than I mean to. “That’sjust the way it’s pronounced. Like how the letterccan be ‘see’ or ‘kuh.’” I sound like a guest lecturer with a great big stick up her ass. “It’s best not to question these things.”

I set my jaw. Thank goodness I didn’t take him to Ocracoke, which is still reachable only by ferry; a turn of events that has left them isolated to the point where some old-timers still speak Hoi Toider, a dialect heard only on remote islands in the Outer Banks. (A bit of trivia that sent Spencer to YouTube to hear the Ocracoke brogue for himself. After which he recorded and posted a video of us pretending to miss the ferry while singing a chorus of a hit song fromThe Music in Mein a mangled brogue.)

“Hey, I’m just trying to apply a little logic to the situation.” He gives me the puppy-dog look and expectant smile he’s used to coax me into performances and poses that are way outside my comfort zone. I’ve clung to my righteous indignation most of the day, but now, inexplicably, an answering smile threatens.

“Fahgeddaboutit,” I say in my best Brooklyn accent. “I’ve been in all five boroughs and I don’t think New Yorkers have a leg to stand on when it comes to accents and pronunciations.”

“Point taken. I’ll move on if you say Chicamacomico real fast one more time,” he says, gleefully massacring the name of the historic lifesaving station we toured in Rodanthe. (After which he somehow talked me into crawling across the sand with a lifesaving ring around me and seaweed clinging to my clothes as if I’d just been rescued.)

I give him an eyebrow, still not completely ready to capitulate to his good humor. “And, FYI, you didn’t have to say ‘Ro-DAN-thee’ quite so many times.”

“Ah, but I did.” His slightly sunburned face is wreathed in smiles. We both smell like a combination of salt air and sunscreen from the time we spent plopped down on the sand of an absolutely deserted stretch of beach. (Where he staged a shot of us discovering the actual remains of a shipwreck that had recently washed ashore.) “Not only that. Did you notice how manytimes I did NOT mention Nicholas Sparks or his movie or the Weather Channel?”

I give him a stern look that’s no doubt ruined by the smile that tugs at my lips.

“I see you smiling and feeling superior, but come on. Who decided Bodie Lighthouse should be pronounced ‘body’? That’s justwrong.”

I give a long, theatrical sigh, but I am in fact smiling, something I couldn’t even imagine this morning when we left Bree’s. I still feel like my head might explode every time I let myself think about the steady diet of lies my mother fed me, but while the anger continues to simmer inside me the tears aren’t quite so near the surface. And while I have no intention of so much as being in the same room with my mother, I’m looking forward to continuing to get to know my father. Today has reconfirmed just how lucky I am that Spencer will be a part of everything that lies ahead. (Plus, I have no doubt his social media skills will thrill the publicity team at Trove.)

We’re just coming off the Herbert C. Bonner Bridge when my cell phone rings. It’s Deanna. I glance at my watch. It’s just after fourP.M.,so I assume she’s calling to see what time we’re planning to check in.

“Lauren?”

“Hi, Dee.”

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