Page 106 of Windlass

“Those made for women?” Stevie eyed the pocket with suspicion.

“Yes?”

“Then the pockets are definitely too small. I’d say put it in your bra, but—and I mean this with the greatest admiration and respect—you are obviously not wearing one.” Didno onewear bras anymore? Not that Stevie was one to talk. “Do you have a safety pin anywhere?”

“Probably.”

“Put the ring in a baggie or something and safety pin it to your pocket lining.”

“That’s actually genius. Thank you.” She paused. “Really, thank you. You’ve been a huge help.”

“I haven’t done that much.” She really hadn’t, besides listen, but that had apparently been what Ivy needed. Most people were simple that way.

“I hope things work out for you, too.” Ivy’s eyes didn’t drift toward the house, but Stevie understood her meaning plainly.

She noted with great interest the paint chipping from the floorboards. Not a lot of paint, only enough to indicate the job was a few years old. Probably maintaining houses on an island like this was a nightmare, what with the salt air, humidity, storms—

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“So things are good?”

Stevie forced herself to look up, and because she was the biggest idiot alive broke into a smile that hurt her face and nodded.

“I’ll take that as a good omen. Don’t get sunburned.”

With that non sequitur, Ivy touched Stevie’s arm lightly in thanks, and walked quickly back to the house to locate a safety pin and her future fiancé.

Mildly woozy from too much time in the sun, but not so much that she needed to lie down, Angie lounged in the mossy shade at the edge of the small green surrounding the island’s white chapel. Cool, clean, pine-scented air blew over her, stirred by the constant breeze off the ocean, and she savored it while she watched Ivy and Lilian set up the wickets with Morgan and Stevie’s help. The latter three mostly moved the hoops around, relocating them to Lilian’s liking. Stevie rearranged a few behind her back. Angie caught her eye and nodded her acknowledgment of the sabotage.

“How are things?” Emilia asked the question with some hesitance as if she were not sure she was allowed. “In the house I mean.”

“Good.” Angie watched Stevie. A memory of the night before that was so jarringly powerful she had to recross her legs with haste hit her. How had she ever thought Stevie naive? The woman knew exactly what to do with that mouth, and her hands.

“Just good?” Emilia pressed.

“I mean . . .” What could she say? Her eyes wandered back to Stevie. Morgan, Stevie, Ivy, and Lilian had gathered in a circle, apparently discussing the course as Ivy was pointing at a few places meaningfully.

“Ange.” Stormy spoke this time.

“What?”

“Put her out of her misery.”

She pinked, though that could also have been too much sun exposure. “She’s not miserable.”

“You know what I mean.”

She was glad Stormy did not bring up Lana in front of Emilia. She wasn’t sure how much Emilia knew about that situation and didn’t want to add to that store of knowledge.

“Put yourself out, too,” said Emilia, smiling a little too shrewdly.

Shit.

“Hey,” Angie waved at the lawn, “speaking of croquet—”

“Which we weren’t,” Stormy pointed out.

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