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of her, anyway. But that was the crux of it. She didn’t know her well, not really. So why did she think something was wrong? Perhaps it was the details for Izzy’s wedding crowding her head and her life, making her see problems where none existed.
    “Yoo-hoo, Nell, are you with us?” Jane Brewster sat down on the picnic bench next to Nell, her long patterned skirt billowing in the breeze.
    Jane’s husband, Ham, was right behind her, one hand touching her shoulder. Ben followed close behind, balancing a tray of icy beer mugs, baskets of fried calamari, and bowls of dipping sauces.
    Nell hugged her friend and motioned to Ham. “Come sit, all of you. Ben, you’re all sweaty.” She grimaced.
    Ben leaned over her shoulder and kissed her soundly. He straightened up and walked around the table. “Salty kisses are good omens.”
    “You’re full of it, Ben,” Jane said. “But as long as you bring food and drink, we’ll put up with you.”
    “Little Merry Jackson is rarin’ to go,” Ham said. The watercolor artist—and one of Nell and Ben’s oldest friends—looked over the tops of heads toward the stage. “She’s itching to start moving.”
    They all looked over at the diminutive blonde, whose husband, Hank, owned the Artist’s Palate and the valuable strip of shore upon which it sat. She was snapping her fingers, gyrating her body to the sound of Andy’s drums as he teased her with a few beats. Merry was clearly enjoying performing on her own turf.
    When Pete had formed his band a few years ago, it was more for fun than for public entertaining. He and Andy Risso would get together, Pete strumming the guitar and singing and Andy on drums. Merry Jackson had heard about the jam sessions. Always looking for an excuse to get out of restaurant duty, she showed up one night at Andy’s place with an old keyboard under her arm and enough energy in her tiny body to power their amps. Soon after that, the Fractured Fish was born. Now, no prominent Sea Harbor festivity was complete without the band livening it up a notch.
    “Pete says he’s doing more vocals with Merry now. They’re thinking of adding another guitarist.”
    “We should get autographs while they’re still speaking to us,” Izzy said, dipping her fingers into the basket of calamari.
    Cass and Danny wandered over with Willow Adams, a young fiber artist, and soon the picnic table was shoulder-to-shoulder bodies with conversations crisscrossing one another as news and food were shared in equal proportions.
    As Pete began his first number, bodies began swaying with the beat, humming along with an old Beatles tune. Waiters, mostly college kids home for summer vacation, wove their way through the crowd, balancing burgers and fries, fish sandwiches, and hefty jugs of beer.
    A gull swooped down beside Nell, then flew off with a piece of bun in his beak. She laughed and soaked in the salty night air. It was definitely summertime when you shared your meal with birds.
    “What do you think of my girl?” Hank Jackson asked, leaning over Birdie’s shoulder and acknowledging the others with a welcoming smile.
    “A bundle of talent,” Birdie said.
    “Yep.” Hank’s head moved up and down as his eyes took in her every move. “She’s amazing, isn’t she? How’d I get so lucky?”
    Nell watched Hank watch Merry, and smiled to herself. They were an interesting couple, odd in some ways, but marriage seemed to work for them. Although fifteen years older than Merry, Hank’s looks were a striking complement to his young wife’s—his darkly handsome face and over-six-foot frame a contrast to Merry’s delicate blond beauty. It was a surprise to many Sea Harbor people when the cheerleader married the handsome community-center coach.
    Ben had told her that Hank Jackson was a hard worker. After graduating from UMass, he’d come to a town he’d once known only in the summer, visiting a relative with a place near the sea. He’d loved Sea Harbor and, together with