Big Summer(41)

Of course they did, I thought, feeling jealousy twist in my gut.

We left our shoes in the pile at the base of the staircase, where dozens of pairs of Docksiders and Havaianas, Prada flats and Tory Burch flip-flops had already been discarded. I unbuckled my sandals and did a quick scan of the female guests, noting that—no surprise—I was the largest woman there. Possibly even the largest person there. All of Drue’s people—and, from the looks of it, lots of Stuart Lowe’s, too—were fine-boned folks who looked like they subsisted on salted almonds and alcohol. There were cameras everywhere—one professional photographer gathering guests for posed shots, another snapping candids, and the majority of the guests with their phones out, taking advantage of the gorgeous setting to snap shots of themselves and their friends on the sand or by the water. A three-person video crew, with a fancy camera and a boom microphone, filmed the people photographing themselves.

“Let’s get a drink.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Drue. I was edging away from the cameras when I heard a dreamy voice behind me.

“Isn’t it so so incredible?”

Corina Bailey, the groom’s former fiancée, had padded up beside us and was looking rapturously out over the scene. Her flaxen hair was down. She wore an airy white eyelet cotton sundress, suspended from her shoulders on skinny lengths of satin ribbon. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she breathed in her babyish voice. As I watched, she gave a dreamy sigh, pressing her hands against her chest in a prayerful pose.

Drue and I looked at each other and, in a moment of perfect BFF telepathy, we both rolled our eyes. Corina gave one more deep sigh and went drifting across the sand, heading toward the water’s edge.

“Is she even leaving footprints?” I asked, half to myself.

“Nope. Jesus is carrying her.” Drue folded her hands in imitation of Corina’s, bowed, and squeaked, “Namaste.”

I elbowed her. “You’re going to hell.”

“Oh, no doubt.” Drue winked. “And if you’re wondering why Stuart went from a dim-bulb like her to someone as wonderful as me, the answer is, I don’t have an answer.”

Before I could respond, a woman with a silvery chignon yodeled a “Yoo-hoo!” in Drue’s direction.

“Gotta go,” Drue said, and went bouncing off in the chignon’s direction. I was heading for the bar, planning on finding an out-of-the-way place from which to drink and people-watch, when I heard a male voice, close behind me.

“Signature cocktail?”

I turned to see a guy smiling at me. He was about my age, with curly light-brown hair; emphatic, dark brows; a prominent nose; and a friendly expression. He had broad shoulders and slightly bowed legs. His shorts had once been red and had faded to a pinkish-salmon color; his frayed white button-down shirt was unbuttoned enough to reveal curling chest hair. His skin was olive-tinted and tanned in a way that suggested a lot of time spent outdoors, in the wind and the sunshine. He wasn’t movie-star handsome, but he had a friendly, open face. Plus, I noticed, biceps that pressed at the seams of his shirt. He was just a little bit taller than me. In one big hand he held two flutes full of pinkish-orange liquid.

“What’s in it?” I asked, as if I didn’t know. As if Drue and I hadn’t spent an hour in deep discussion on the question of whether she should go with a classic or have their mixologist come up with a bespoke cocktail for the rehearsal dinner, and if it should complement the one served after the wedding, or go in a completely different direction.

“I think they’re Bellinis,” said the guy. “Champagne and fresh peach juice.”

I knew that they were actually called the Drue Gets Lowe, and that they were made with champagne and apricot nectar with a squeeze of lime, but decided not to say so. “Are they any good?” I asked.

“They’re very sweet.” He handed me a glass. “But I like sweet,” he said, smiling as his gaze met mine. My cheeks felt hot as my fingers brushed against his. Oh, God, I thought. Did he think I was flirting with him? Then I felt my cheeks get even hotter, as I thought, Was I?

“Cheers,” he said. “I’m Nick Andros.” He clinked his glass against mine.

“Daphne Berg.”

“Friend of the bride?”

“You got it.”

“Are you staying in the big house?” He nodded in the direction of the stairs that led to the mansion.

“That’s right. It’s really something. It is big. The biggest big house I’ve ever been in!” Oh, God, I thought, cringing. This was the problem with a life where the male person I spent the most time with was eight-year-old Ian Snitzer. Get me around an actual man my age and I started babbling like a dolt.

“It’s the Weinbergs’ house.” A strange look crossed his face and was gone so fast that I doubted I’d even seen it. He drained his glass, considered it, and said, “That was an experience.” He looked at my glass, from which I’d taken a single sip. “But I think I’m going to get a beer. Can I get you something else, or are you going to finish it?”

“I’d love a glass of water.”

He held out his hand for my glass. “Still or sparkling?”

“Still, please.” He trotted across the sand, and I watched him go, appreciating the view, feeling flattered and confused. Was this guy actually interested in me? Maybe he was using the bar the same way old Brett had done and that would be the last I’d see of him. But a minute later, Nick was on his way back, holding a glass of water and a bottle of beer.