“Welcome to Fair Harbor,” Abigail said as the bride, groom, mother of the bride, and the impossibly handsome godfather of the bride made their way up the front walk. Sarah and George stood next to her, dressed in exactly what Abigail had instructed them to wear: the raspberry linen sheath for Sarah and the green gingham tie from their wedding plus a blue blazer for George. Abigail, in a Samantha Sung floral-print dress secured through Poshmark, stood at attention, all five feet three inches of her. The Blakemans were ready to receive their guests.

The New York Contingent, as Abigail had been referring to them all day, arrived a half hour early as instructed, so the families could have time to connect before the crowd descended. Chase had assured her that Penny’s family always ran on time because they were in the business of getting to the airport early or meeting in the lobby at a specific time, but Abigail had her doubts. She was grateful, and a touch envious, to see the big black town car pull up at the appointed hour. At least she wouldn’t have to deal with what she saw as a significant character flaw: tardiness.

The afternoon was warm and slightly humid for June, a teaser for the July weather to come. The heat of the last few days had pushed Abigail’s roses to a first bloom, and she couldn’t have been happier. Her own dress featured pink roses, and she thought she looked smashing, matching the landscaping. “We’re so happy to have you here at our home for this wonderful occasion.”

She was laying it on thick, but the presence of an actual British lord thrilled her. Even as a proud Daughter of the American Revolution, she was a sucker for members of the peerage. But first Abigail had to make her way through Penny, Chase, and Alexa. The MOB was dressed in yellow palazzo pants and a matching top with sparkling but sensible sandals and enough gold jewelry to sink a galleon. She had a vintage striped market bag in her hands, which she handed to Abigail.

“Thank you for hosting. Please accept some olive oil and very special honey from my home island in Greece as a token of our appreciation,” Alexa claimed in the same sort of forced language that Abigail had used. Then she loosened up. “Our family on Patmos keeps us well supplied, but we only share with people we like because the honey is credited with the amazing longevity of the Diamandis clan. And the olive oil is so pure, I use it on my skin. It’s luscious.”