at South Beach to see Ryan marry Emily.
The beach was a splash of color, with outfits ranging from swimwear to floaty silk. Chairs had been placed in rows on the sand, and the cries of the seagulls and the crashing of the waves were interspersed with laughing children and barking dogs.
Everyone seemed to know each other and Frankie stood still, poised on the edge, feeling like the outsider. If she lingered here, perhaps no one would notice her and once the ceremony started she could melt away unseen.
She was about to run that plan past Matt when Ryan spotted them. He strode across the beach and pulled Frankie into a hug. “You’re the hero of the hour. You shouldn’t be hovering at the edge of the beach—you should be right in the front row. You’re our guest of honor.”
Front row?
Frankie’s stomach lurched. Sitting right in the front would mean there would be nowhere to hide. She’d be right there, watching while they exchanged vows. She’d be expected to wear a soppy, dreamy look on her face. It wasn’t a look she’d perfected. “No! I couldn’t possibly—you must have lots of people who—”
“Oh, Ryan is right, you must—” This time it was Hilda who spoke, and a pretty blonde woman with two children close by added her voice to the general atmosphere of persuasion.
“There’s definitely room up there. I’m Lisa, by the way. I own Summer Scoop, the ice cream shop on Main Street. If you have time, you must pay us a visit. Ice cream cones on the house.”
“Or we could buy a tub and take it home,” Matt murmured in Frankie’s ear, “and I could lick it off your naked body.”
It made Frankie want to laugh, and in trying not to laugh she forgot to feel tense about the prospect of sitting in the front row at someone’s wedding.
“Are you planning on doing that on Main Street?”
“It’s possible. I’ll try and let you know before it happens.” Matt took her hand and led her to the front. Some faces she knew, and some she didn’t. Some said how pleased they were to see her back on the island, some said how pleased they were she’d found flowers she could use for Emily. All were welcoming and friendly.
Finally, she slid into a spare seat in the front row. “I shouldn’t be sitting here.”
Matt sat down next to her. “Smile. You’re going to have fun.”
She wanted to ask how he thought she’d have fun when Hilda sat down on her other side.
“Remember, once an islander, always an islander.” She patted Frankie on the knee before turning to talk to the woman on the other side of her.
Frankie glanced around, saw soft smiles and misty eyes and wondered what was wrong with her. She felt nothing except faint panic and mild nausea.
To distract herself she focused on the small group of children who were fidgeting and holding recorders ready to play and then on Ryan, who was standing with another tall, dark-haired man who looked familiar.
She was trying to work out where she’d seen him before when Matt leaned toward her.
“He’s the Shipwreck Hunter.”
“Excuse me?”
“That guy you’re staring at, wondering where you’ve seen him before? His name is Alec Hunter. He’s a historian. He presented that series on shipwrecks that kept most of the nation’s women glued to their TV sets.”
“Of course.” She’d loved every moment of that series, and she’d bought his book. She was about to ask Matt another question when the crowd fell silent and the group of children started playing their recorders.
Because she was still looking at Alec, Frankie witnessed the exact moment Ryan turned his head and saw Emily. It was a rare moment of unguarded emotion. Everything he felt showed in his eyes. She wondered how anyone had the courage to give that much of themselves.
Emily finally reached the front and Frankie automatically checked the bouquet. Considering how little time she’d had, and the restricted materials, she was satisfied. The shape ensured that it drew the eye away from Emily’s bump, not that either she or Ryan seemed to be disguising the fact that she was pregnant. Ignoring protocol, Ryan lowered his head to Emily’s and kissed her until the little girl standing next to them gave his jacket an impatient tug.
Brittany grinned at her in sympathy. “Ryan, you’re supposed to kiss the bride after the ceremony,” she said, and the little girl giggled.
She was holding the posy Frankie had made; her blond hair was caught