I feel all eyes boring into me, watching me, waiting for me to
make a wrong move. I’m an imposter, a wedding crasher, the newcomer in a small
town where everyone knows everyone else. Bowing my head, I slump down in the
white wooden folding chair. From beneath my brow, I peek at the guests around
me. To my relief, no one is paying any attention to me. They’re too engrossed
in the ceremony. The bride and groom are center stage, standing with the
minister under an arbor of blue hydrangeas with the cerulean waters of Catawba
Sound glistening in the background. They strike a handsome couple—she in a midi
white chiffon dress and he in a pale gray linen suit.
I
haven’t yet met the couple. But the groom, Will Darby, owns Tracy’s Threads,
the women’s clothing boutique where I recently started working. The boutique’s
manager, Mollie, invited me to be her plus-one for the wedding when her
boyfriend bailed on her at the last minute in favor of a bill-fishing
tournament up the coast in Mount Pleasant. I jumped at the chance to visit
Marsh Point, the Darby family’s ancestral home, a graceful Lowcountry-style
house set amid a backdrop of the sweeping Carolina marshland.
I
slip a scrap of paper from my vintage beaded clutch and read the message
written in my mother’s hasty handwriting.
Darby Baby. January 9th. Marsh Point. One
hundred Pelican’s Way. Water’s Edge, South Carolina. My adoptive mother,
Victoria Boone, died eight weeks ago, at the beginning of April, from a brain
aneurysm. Ten days ago, while searching her desk in her home office for her
life insurance policy, I found a sealed envelope beneath her hanging files in
the bottom drawer. Either my mother had hid it there, or it had slipped through
the hanging files. Along with the address, the envelope also included a remnant
of a baby’s blanket—yellow flannel printed with baby ducks. January 9 is my
birthday. If my suspicions are correct, one of the two women seated in the
front row on the groom’s side is likely my biological mother.
Returning
the paper to my purse, I shift in my seat to get a better view of the Darby
sisters, but with several rows of people separating us, I can only see the
backs of their heads. While their hair is the same golden honey color, one
sister wears hers in a pixie cut and the other in long, layered waves. An
attractive man sits tall and erect beside the sister with short hair. Is he her
husband? Where are her children? Do the bored-looking flower girls and ring
bearer belong to her? Seated beside the other sister are two teenagers—a boy
and a girl—with hair the same mahogany shade as the man with them, who, I
assume, is their father.
The
minister pronounces them husband and wife, the couple kisses, and the crowd
cheers. Following the migration of guests to the food tent, I spot the Darby
sister with the pixie cut waiting at the carving station for a slice of beef
tenderloin.
I
step in line behind her. “Lovely wedding. Your family’s home is gorgeous.”
When
she turns to face me, confusion replaces her smile. “I’m sorry. Have we met?”
I
extend my hand. “Not yet. I’m Harper Boone, the new sales assistant at Tracy’s
Threads. I’m Mollie’s date for the wedding. Her boyfriend was unable to attend
at the last minute.”
She
shakes my hand. “In that case, welcome to Marsh Point. I’m Ashton Darby, Will’s
eldest sister.”
Sale
