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one day after dropping me off and never came back.”
    “Maybe she got lost,” Justine had suggested.
    “No, she left a good-bye letter. Where did your daddy go?”
    “He’s in heaven. He’s an angel and he has big silver wings.”
    “My grandmother doesn’t think angels have wings.”
    “Of course they do,” Justine had said impatiently. “They have to have wings or they’d fall out of the sky. There’s no floor up there.”
    In third grade, Zoë’s father had moved her to Everett, where her grandmother lived, and it had been years before she had seen Justine again. They had stayed loosely in touch by exchanging birthday and holiday cards. After graduating from culinary school, Zoë had married Chris Kelly, her best friend since high school. At that point, Zoë was busy with her job as a sous-chef at a Seattle resturant, and Justine was trying to make a success of Artist’s Point, and they had completely lost touch. Approximately a year later, however, when Zoë and Chris had filed for divorce, Justine had been an unexpected source of comfort and support, and had offered her the chance to make a new start in Friday Harbor. Tempting as the prospect was, Zoë had been more than a little apprehensive about the idea of working with her headstrong cousin. Thankfully the arrangement had worked out beautifully, playing to each of their strengths. They argued rarely, and when they did, Zoë’s quiet stubbornness usually won out over Justine’s bluster.
    Artist’s Point was just a two-minute walk away from downtown Friday Harbor and the ferry landing. A previous owner had converted an old hilltop mansion into a bed-and-breakfast, but the business had never taken off, and eventually Justine had been able to buy it at a rock-bottom price. She had renamed and redecorated the inn. Each of the twelve rooms in the main house had been turned into a homage to a different artist. The Van Gogh room was painted with rich colors and furnished in a French provincial style with a sunflower bedspread. The Jackson Pollock room was decorated with modern furniture and prints of drip paintings, and over the bathtub, Justine had hung a clear plastic shower curtain that she had covered with splatters of acrylic paint.
    Justine and Zoë shared a two-bedroom cottage in the back of the main building, a scant seven hundred square feet with one bathroom and a cupboard kitchen. The arrangement worked because they spent most of their time in the bed-and-breakfast, with its spacious kitchen and common areas. To Justine’s chagrin, Zoë had brought a companion to live with them: her white Persian, Byron. Admittedly, Byron was a little spoiled, but he was an affectionate and well-mannered cat. His only flaw was that he didn’t like men—they seemed to make him nervous. Zoë understood exactly how he felt.
    In the past couple of years, the bed-and-breakfast had become popular with both tourists and locals. Justine and Zoë held monthly events including cooking classes and a “silent reading” party, and they also hosted weddings and receptions. The event that would take place tomorrow, on Saturday, was what Justine privately referred to as the wedding-from-hell, in which the bride’s mother was an even bigger bridezilla than the bride. “And then you’ve got a whole collection of bridesmaidzillas, and the groomzilla and the dadzilla,” Justine had complained. “This is the most dysfunctional wedding I’ve ever seen. I think they should invite a psychiatrist to the rehearsal dinner tonight, and turn it into one big group therapy session.”
    “They’ll probably end up throwing the cupcakes at each other at the reception,” Zoë said.
    “My God, I hope so. I’ll just stand in the middle with my mouth open.” Justine licked the last of the raspberry buttercream off her fingertip. “You saw Lucy this morning, right? How’s she doing?”
    “Pretty well, all things considered. She’s on pain medication, but Sam seems to be taking