was about to begin, and her brothers would be home soon.
Their mother had wanted to throw a party for Adam and Anders’s return, but before she’d even started planning, she’d become overwhelmed at the amount of work involved. So her assistant, Theresa, had stepped in like the quietly efficient savior she’d become ever since Allison’s father died six months ago. Now a small army of people was setting up for the party tonight: stringing fairy lights on every available tree, building a temporary stage for the live band, and constructing white tents along the side lawn where guests would dine on lobster, mussels, and the Gull Cove Island specialty of quail eggs à la russe. Allison couldn’t see the beach below, but she knew a crew was down there getting ready for a fireworks show that would put the Fourth of July in most major American cities to shame.
“Think we’ll get this kind of homecoming when we come back from college?”
Allison’s younger brother, Archer, flopped onto the patio chair beside her with a grin. His legs dangled awkwardly off the end; at seventeen, Archer had gone through his growth spurt late, and had only recently reached the same six-foot height as Adam. He still didn’t know what to do with his newly long limbs.
“Well, it’s not like Mother did this for Adam last summer,” Allison pointed out. Their oldest brother had started at Harvard two years ago, and the next oldest, Anders, had joined him there the past fall. Allison was breaking family tradition by going to NYU in September. “I think it’s just that things are different this year.”
“I know.” Archer hunched his broad shoulders, looking suddenly much smaller and younger. “It’s weird, isn’t it, how the house can be so full right now but still…empty.”
Allison’s throat tightened. “It doesn’t feel like a Story party without Father here,” she said, and Archer smiled ruefully.
“Especially since they’re serving mussels as a main dish. God, he hated those.” Archer deepened his voice as Allison joined in his imitation of their father: “Snot of the sea.” They both huffed out almost laughs, and Archer added, “I mean, he wasn’t wrong. You can put all the butter and cream and salt or whatever you want on those things, but they’re still disgusting.”
Most days since their father’s death, Allison felt as though the void left by his larger-than-life presence was unfillable; the kind of loss she’d ache with her entire life. But every once in a while—usually in a quiet moment like this with Archer—she could imagine a time in the future when the memories became more sweet than bitter. Part of her wanted to keep reminiscing, but she’d learned over the past few months that you could only stay so far ahead of grief. If she let herself wallow before Mother’s big night, it would be hard to put on the kind of bright face expected of her.
Archer seemed to be thinking the same thing. He leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head and crossing his legs at the ankle, the new position signaling an abrupt change of subject. “On a scale of one to ten,” he said, “how much more obnoxious do you think Harvard has made Anders?”
“Twenty,” Allison said, and they both laughed.
“Probably. It’ll be good to see Adam, though,” Archer said. He worshiped their oldest brother to a degree Allison didn’t quite share, but she was still happy at the thought of him coming home. There was no one on earth who could make their mother smile like Adam. “I talked to him right before he left, and he said he’s down for Rob Valentine’s party next Saturday. We just have to convince Anders.”
“I never said I was going,” Allison reminded him. All the Story children had attended boarding school outside Boston since they were twelve years old, and only Archer had maintained—and grown—the friendships he’d made at Gull Cove Elementary School. For the past few years, he’d spent every school vacation trying to convince his siblings to accompany him to one party or another. None of them blended as well as he did.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” Archer urged.
Allison rolled her eyes. “Did you learn nothing from the Kayla-Matt debacle?”
“That’s ancient history,” Archer said.
“Not to Anders.” Allison straightened suddenly, tilting her head. “Is Mother calling me?”
“I don’t think—” Archer started, pausing when a faint but clear “Allison!” floated toward them from inside the house. “I stand corrected. Your supersonic ears strike again.”