An Invincible Summer (Wyndham Beach #1)(17)

Maggie put her head down and lifted her coffee cup. Out of the corner of her mouth, she whispered, “Is that . . . ?”

“Um-hmm. Wife number three. Kayla,” Liddy whispered back.

“She looks sort of familiar.” Maggie narrowed her eyes. “But I don’t know where I’d have met her.” She paused, trying to recall who’d been seated next to Brett at her mother’s funeral, but in that moment she’d turned around, as if sensing him there, she’d seen only him.

Liddy snorted. Another eye roll, causing Maggie to frown and ask, “What?”

“Seriously? You don’t see it?” Liddy made a face and leaned behind Maggie. Tugging on Emma’s sleeve to get her attention, she said, “Em, Maggie’s trying to figure out why Kayla Crawford looks familiar.”

Emma smiled and said softly, “Maggie, she looks like you.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, she most certainly does not.” Maggie protested a little too loudly. The woman on the other side of Emma turned at the sharp outburst. Maggie smiled at her, and the woman—the sister of someone at the table but right then Maggie couldn’t remember who—smiled back and returned to her conversation.

Maggie lowered her voice. “Okay, she’s blonde. I’ll give you that. But Brett always liked blondes.”

“The last two wives were blonde, too,” Emma told her.

“That has nothing to do with me.” Maggie attacked her coffee cup, stirring in more cream in a vicious swirl.

“Maggie”—Liddy touched her arm—“we’ve been friends our entire lives. I don’t make up this shit. All you have to do is look at that woman and you can see the resemblance.”

“I am looking at her. I still don’t see it. For one thing, she’s gotta be twenty years younger,” Maggie pointed out.

“There are none so blind as those who would not see.” Liddy sat up in her seat and proceeded to drink her coffee. She made a face. “It’s cold. I need to find a waiter.” She looked around the room. “Ah. I see one with a coffeepot in hand. I’ll be right back. Maggie, Emma? Coffee?”

“I’m switching to wine, thanks,” Maggie said.

“Me too.” Emma reached for the bottle on the table and poured into first Maggie’s glass, then her own.

The DJ, who’d played soft music during dinner, now started to play livelier songs. Maggie watched Liddy disappear into the crowd and turned to Emma, who was now chatting with the woman on her right. She reached for her phone to see if either of her daughters had sent her a text—unlikely but it beat sitting there pointedly not looking at the other side of the table—when she had the sense she was being watched. She turned on her phone and made a pretense of scrolling through emails while trying not to look, but her curiosity got the best of her. Glancing up, she caught the blatant stare of Kayla Crawford. Maggie looked away and continued scrolling. I’m sure she’s heard my name over the years, Maggie told herself, and I suppose it’s natural to want to know what your husband’s high school sweetheart looks like.

She had to sneak another peek. Kayla was chatting amicably with Lisa, her attention diverted, which gave Maggie a few seconds to get a better look even while ignoring her own internal question of why she felt the need to. Well, she’s certainly younger, and maybe a little taller . . . and hmm, maybe she does look just a teensy bit like me. Or like the me I was years ago. Not that that means anything . . .

Maggie couldn’t help wondering just how young Kayla was.

“Don’t think I didn’t catch you in the act,” Liddy said as she took her seat, a pot of coffee in her hand. “Coffee, anyone?”

Three people at the table raised their hands, and after pouring into her own cup, Liddy passed the pot to her left.

“What are you talking about? What act?”

“Checking out Kayla Crawford.” Liddy smiled. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.”

“Liddy, I was not . . . ,” Maggie protested.

“Please. Remember who you’re talking to. Besides, I saw you. But what’s the big deal? If you weren’t the least bit curious, I’d think there was something wrong with you.”

“But I—” Maggie was interrupted by an announcement from the DJ.

“I’m happy to see all you folks having such a good time. Nothing like reliving your high school years, am I right?” He paused for a spattering of applause and a cheer from the other side of the room. “And how ’bout that seventies music, eh? What’s better than listening to those songs that you listened to as you drove along in your car with the windows down, singing along at the top of your lungs? Or dancing till you dropped? Or snuggled up with the one you loved? Ah, yeah, those high school days were special, weren’t they? Makes me nostalgic for you. And to bring back all those special moments, here’s your class president, Francie Peterson.”

From the podium, Francie motioned with both hands for the applause to die down. She looked very authoritative in a high-necked, sparkly green dress that fit just a little snugly around the hips and black-rimmed glasses, her frosted brown hair tucked behind her ears. In her hand she held a sheaf of papers.

“Thanks, everyone. What DJ Steve was saying about the music of our times is so, so true,” Francie continued. “Seventies music was magical, am I right? So let’s relive a little of that high school magic, shall we?” As the crowd cheered, Francie nodded to someone near the doorway, and the lights dimmed. “Your attention, please, to the screen being lowered at the front of the room.”