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Title Page

Dedication

To my summer “mommune”:

Jessica Wilder, Dorothy Coleman, Caroline Mooring, Heather Wiggins, and Megan Fader.

Raising our kids together has been the greatest joy.

PROLOGUE Charlotte The May Flower Moon

It was the cicadas that sold me. That, or maybe the May Flower Moon. The May Flower Moon. Has there ever been a more beautiful term? Even now, I can close my eyes and picture the otherworldly orangeness of it, the way it glistened on the surface of the ocean. I remember leaning my head on my husband Bill’s shoulder, watching our daughter, Iris, walk down the beach a few yards away with a neighbor girl.

Thinking of our friends back in New York City—the place I thought I would call mine forever—unable to leave their apartments, I felt guilty. I envisioned them finding scraps of joy by performing nightly singing and cheering rituals for the healthcare workers leaving the hospital, world-weary in their hazmat suits. It was a small dose of reality, of remembrance that what they were living was terrifying, that what we were facing, even down here, was unprecedented.

What had given us the foresight to escape to Bill’s stepmother’s house in Juniper Shores, North Carolina, while we still could, I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that that apocalyptic scene felt a world away right now as the spring warmth wrapped around us, the cicadas singing their song in a way that, if you listened closely, felt in time with the ebb and flow of the tide, in rhythm with the croaking of the bullfrogs, in step with the sweet sound of crickets.

Iris hadn’t wanted to leave the city, of course. But even she—at the sometimes surly but often very sweet age of eleven—had managed to make new friends in this socially distanced world we had been dropped into. Everything was outdoors here anyway. Covid numbers were low. I knew how intensely lucky we were.

Lulled into contentment by the feel of Bill’s arms around me, the sand beneath my bare feet, that mesmerizing flower moon, I didn’t hesitate when Bill broke the silence. “Maybe I’m crazy, but, well, what would you think about building a house here, in Juniper Shores? With everything virtual, my work is online. I could fly back to the city some, maybe keep a smaller place there?”

He said it quickly, the way he did when he was nervous, a fact I knew about him so very well after thirteen years together. I marveled at that, at how one person could come to know another person so intimately that their quirks and tiny traits simply were. They required no thought at all.

“Yes,” I said. Yes. As easy a yes as when he asked me to share his banana split the night we met. As easy a yes as when he asked me to marry him. As easy a yes as when the doctor asked if I was ready to bring Iris home from the hospital. Above me a million stars shone, showing off for the flower moon, as if declaring that they still belonged amid its fierce beauty.

Bill pulled away from me and looked down at my face. “Yes? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” I said. “Sure, in some ways it feels like we’ve plunged into an alternate universe, but it’s a universe where, against all odds, I want to stay.”

If you had asked me, even during the chaos of the beginning of the Covid-19 pandemic, if I would move to a sleepy beach town in North Carolina, my home state, I would have said no way. Not a chance. But here, now, I felt like I had found where I was meant to be.

We were a family here. We were happy here. We were part of a small town that, somehow, seemed like it could protect us.

That’s the thing about protection, though. It’s fleeting. Because the people who know best how to protect you also know the very thing that will rip your heart out.

At that moment, though, I only knew the happiness of the sand beneath my feet, the water lapping my ankles, that mesmerizing flower moon. And the cicadas singing me into complacence, chanting a lullaby that I would hear forever, even in my dreams.

JUNIPER SHORES SOCIALITE

@junipershoressocialite

Sharing bad behavior and delicious drama in North Carolina’s most exclusive coastal zip code. DM with tips, pics, and juicy deets.

AUGUST 24, 11:08 A.M.

1 Post

4 Followers

0 Following

You didn’t hear it from me, but…

PIC 1: Which hunky investment guru’s multimillion-dollar waterfront gem is covered in caution tape? If you guessed Bill Sitterly’s, you guessed right. Juniper Shores’ beloved Member Guest Golf Champion is socializing at a brand-new club: Club Fed. Can’t pay the Amex Centurion bill? No biggie. Just swipe from your clients’ retirement funds! But the big question remains: With Bill, um, otherwise occupied and their house a crime scene, where are Charlotte and Iris Sitterly?

PIC 2: High school heartthrob Merit McDonald is looking as draft-pick-worthy as ever at preseason football practice. Is this the season our beloved Marlins win State? More important, is it true that this junior star has snagged the hottest senior girl in school? Stay tuned for Friday Night Lights—and quite likely some fireworks.

PIC 3: Sources say that Alice Bailey has been spending an awful lot of time at St. Mary’s Episcopal Church. Could our own widower Father Matthew be the Black Widow’s fourth… victim? Hold on to your vestments, Father Matthew. It could be a bumpy ride!

PIC 4: The RoséStream in Juniper Shores Village’s Airstream Park is closed for renovations. To all the soccer moms who can’t get through the afternoon without a rosé slush: thoughts and prayers.

Stay tuned for news about which Juniper Shores golden boy has returned to our sun-drenched slice of heaven.

TNT (’Til Next Tide… and maybe a little dynamite!)

JUNIPER SHORES SOCIALITE

Charlotte The Low Point

This was my low point. Even I knew that. Standing in the lobby of Suncoast Bank, saying, in a louder-than-appropriate voice, “But why should I be punished for what Bill did? It wasn’t like I had anything to do with it!” was pretty much the closest to a total meltdown I had come. Three days ago, I’d arrived home from dropping my daughter at tennis lessons to find police cars and FBI swarming the five-bedroom, four-and-a-half-bath cedar-shake beach house that we had just spent two years building. Two years of paint samples and fabric choices with one of the country’s finest designers, flown in from Palm Beach, to give my family our dream home.

And in an instant, it had become a nightmare.

The fact that I was in a bank lobby nearly yelling this at Enid Plyler, who was in her late sixties with short gray hair and had, it seemed, been born behind the loan officer desk at Suncoast Bank, made it even worse.

I loved Enid, stopped by her office to chat each week when I came in to make deposits and get cash. We were a bit of a study in contrasts. Enid was short and wore an ill-fitting lady’s suit, paired with tan orthotic shoes that I would need too if I were pacing back and forth on this beautiful but very hard white marble floor every day. I am nearly five ten, so I was towering over her in my three-inch wedges paired with one of my old dresses I had found stashed at my parents’, a little rose-pink number with a deep V-neck that I knew complemented my summer tan. I should not have been taking my panic out on her. Fortunately, while I was losing it, Enid remained very calm. “Charlotte, I hear you, sweetheart. And I want to help you. I do. But I think you understand that convincing the board of directors at a financial institution to hire a woman who is married to a man awaiting trial for stealing massive sums of money from his clients might be a hard sell.”

Ten points for frankness. “So, what am I supposed to do, Enid?” I asked in a frantic, high-pitched voice that made Paul Lucas and Gabe Montoya, who were both waiting in the teller line, turn and take notice. Well, that was just great. Of all the women who had been unfriendly and unwelcoming to me when we moved here from New York three years ago, their wives might have had spot number one and number two on the list. I was sure they would just love this. “I’ve called everyone,” I said, suddenly feeling light-headed, the room starting to go soft and blurry around the edges. “All those big New York firms who promised they would have a job for Charlotte Nicholson who stepped away from finance too soon? No one will touch me now.” Enid grimaced, and I shuddered at the thought that I might be back to my maiden name. Would I be a Nicholson again? But, no, Iris was a Sitterly. I would remain one too. I continued, realizing that I was sounding more like a lunatic by the second: “My degree is in finance. My master’s is in finance. My job history is in finance. I realize an investment firm might not be jumping to have me, but I assumed my local bank might throw me a bone. All my assets are frozen.” My voice going an octave higher, I added, “I have a child to raise, Enid.”

Enid took my elbow and said, “Why don’t we step into my office?” It was a kind gesture. I wasn’t being exactly polite, after all. I took a deep breath, tried to calm myself, realizing that all the tellers, several with cash in their hands, were staring at me. The lobby had gone silent.

“Actually,” an even voice from behind me said, “Charlotte, why don’t you come with me?”

I turned to see a woman I was sure I knew, but couldn’t quite place. She was petite and thin, a little older than I was, and had this sort of ethereal glow about her. She had on no makeup, her hair was long and looked as if it had perfectly, naturally fallen into waves, and she was wearing a loose, flowing dress that screamed I live at the beach. She had a preternaturally calm presence that I obviously needed right now. The room was starting to come back into focus, and the full weight of my humiliation was sinking in. What was I doing? “I’m sorry, Enid,” I whispered. “This isn’t about you.”

Enid smiled encouragingly. “I know, sweetheart. I will see what I can do to help you,” she promised. “It’s going to be okay. This town loves you.”

I turned back to the woman behind me, realizing that what Enid said wasn’t really true. I wasn’t from here, wasn’t “local,” and, while everyone knew who I was—well, everyone knew everyone, to be fair—I wasn’t exactly beloved.

“From church,” the woman behind me said. “You know me from church.”

A little laugh-sound escaped from my nostrils. “I know,” I said, as if it had been obvious to me from the beginning. “You’re in the choir.” I snapped my fingers, actually recognizing her. “Your solos always make me cry!”

That was true. She had the most angelic voice. I smiled at her and ran my fingers through my hair, trying to seem relaxed and nonchalant to mitigate some of the damage I had done with my outburst. Just what I needed: everyone in town would be talking about this now. Well, that was great. Maybe that would be more interesting than Bill’s arrest, the tidbit that, much to my chagrin, they were still discussing three days later. Not that that was a long time, of course. In fact, it was probably just enough time for the news to have reached fever pitch. In a larger place, full of scandal, people moved on to the next thing. Here, there was no next thing to move on to. Well, no, maybe that’s not true. The usual appetizers of small-town bad behavior—who left his wife for the babysitter, who got way too drunk at Coterie Club and skinny-dipped in the pool, whose facelift was entirely too drastic—were always available to gobble up. But Bill’s arrest was an entrée that everyone was eating in teeny, tiny bites.

“My name is Alice Bailey.”

“I’m Charlotte Sitterly,” I replied. Under my breath, I added, “But I think everyone in the country—or at least the state—knows that.”

“Things are never as bad as they seem,” she said. Then she scrunched her nose. “I don’t know why I said that. Sometimes things are even worse than they seem.”

That made me laugh—and remember. There was something shadowy about this Alice person. I tried to ignore rumors because this town had so many of them, but she definitely had a story. And I got the feeling that Alice knew all about things being worse than they seemed. But I didn’t have time to sit around and share sob stories. I had to figure out my next move.

“Okay, well… I think I’ll call the Shores Shuttle and head back to the hotel now. Maybe yell at an unsuspecting waiter.” I was trying to lighten the mood. I knew I was lucky that the town offered a public transportation system that I could call for pickup, but I was dreading waiting in the parking lot for it to come. I was dreading going back to the modest hotel that I could afford for two more weeks. Then what?

Just a few weeks ago, I had been ignorant about the lack of affordable housing here. I had also taken the basic, simple amazingness of car ownership completely for granted.

“I’ll drive you,” Alice said.

I gestured toward the teller. “Don’t you have banking to do?”

Alice shrugged. “It’s okay. I can come back later.”

I was about to protest, but then I thought better of it. I was used to having enough money and agency that I didn’t need anyone else. I was going to have to depend on other people if I was going to make it through. So I said, “I would appreciate that so much, Alice. That’s very kind of you.”

We walked outside, Alice hit the unlock button on her key fob, and I got into the passenger side while she slid into the driver’s seat. She pushed the start button. “Charlotte,” she said. She looked at me, and I found myself locked in her cool, appraising gray stare. I saw something there. It wasn’t pity, wasn’t sadness. It was something more like determination. “I can help you.”

I had always been leery of people who wanted to help other people. I knew that said something unflattering about me. Yet now I was surprised to find that those words out of Alice’s mouth made every tense and tightened muscle in my body and jaw relax just a squidge. “Why would you do that?” I asked.

“Let me rephrase that,” Alice said. “Charlotte, I think maybe we can help each other.”

Now, that was more like it. Pity was hard; transactional relationships I could manage. “I like the sound of that, Alice,” I said, feeling a smile grow across my face. “What did you have in mind?”

Charlotte The Mommune

It was a basic life rule: never get into a car with a stranger. But Alice wasn’t a stranger really, was she? I mean, it was true that I had seen her sing in the choir at church. Of course, church affiliation, as every good Southerner knew, didn’t equal a lack of bad behavior. But there was something so warm in Alice’s face, something so soothing. She had this dewy, glowing skin and long dark hair with a strip of gray that framed her face and made her look terribly elegant. I guessed she was maybe seven or eight years older than I am, forty-five to my thirty-eight? I wondered if the gray was natural or if she dyed it that way. It made her seem enigmatic. Bewitching, even. Oh! That was one of the rumors I had heard about her: she was a witch. But what did that even mean? I hoped she could cast a spell to take me back to a few days ago, when life was perfect.

“Charlotte, do you have anywhere to be?” Alice asked in her warm, syrupy voice. Just the sound of it soothed me. I wanted her to keep talking. I closed my eyes, leaning my head against the passenger seat.

“Court,” I said.

She laughed. “Okay. Well, besides that.”

I opened my eyes and looked out over the water beyond the road, remembering that we lived in one of the most beautiful places on earth. Usually that calmed me. Now, nothing could dislodge the boulder that was sitting on my chest. What in the world was I going to do?

“I have to pick Iris up at two thirty,” I said.

“I can take you.” There was a question in Alice’s voice.

“What?” I asked.

“I hope this doesn’t hurt your feelings…”

I laughed. “Alice, if anyone is going to hurt my feelings, it certainly isn’t going to be you.”

“Well, it’s just… how do you not have any friends to loan you a car, take you to run errands, set up a job interview?”

“Well, Alice, I have been asking myself that same very pertinent question.”

“I know you haven’t been here long, but I would think you’d make friends quickly.”

That second part was untrue, though I wasn’t quite sure why. Juniper Shores seemed like an idyllic place to live. It was obvious that this was a beautiful Southern coastal town with a charming beachfront village and white sandy beaches, great restaurants, historic churches, and stunning houses. But what I hadn’t quite understood was that Juniper Shores was a town caught in the in-between, old versus new, the families whose cottages had dotted the oceanfront for a hundred years who wanted nothing to change and the people like Bill and me, the newcomers, who wanted to build their dream home and stay forever. Development was everywhere you looked; that wasn’t our fault. But some of the women who felt like natural friends for me saw us as part of the problem.

I didn’t let it bother me that much, though. Overall, people were friendly. We were regulars most places. Everyone knew our names. I got all the cozy small-town feels I was looking for. I just hadn’t quite found my best friends yet.

Bill was my only true confidant, the only person I trusted. And now I had to face the fact that maybe even he had betrayed me. Maybe. I felt the tug around my heart that I felt every few minutes lately. I closed my eyes and pretended, as was my habit now, that he was wrapping his arms around me. Could the man who’d always made me feel so safe really have done this?

I opened my eyes and looked out the window, at the charming Juniper Shores Village, the downtown area, which was filled with work-and-live spaces with shops on the bottom and condos on the top, the old-timey light-blue lifeguard station, the beach volleyball court, and the Airstream Park that held food trucks and pop-up shops and won this town more awards than I could count.

I didn’t know quite how to explain my complicated feelings about my place here to Alice. So I said, “We’ve been here three years, but two of those were in the midst of Covid. We moved to Bill’s stepmom’s house as a respite from our New York apartment once everything went virtual. It was supposed to be temporary, but we fell in love with it.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Alice asked.

I smiled. “Iris wasn’t in school here, so I wasn’t meeting school moms at first. I quit my job when Iris was born, so I don’t have a job to help me meet people—or, as I’m now seeing, to get me out of scrapes. I certainly have acquaintances. I’m in a book club, a mah-jongg group. But I don’t have anyone I can call to say, ‘Help! Can I come live with you?’ ” I paused. “But does anyone have a friend that good?”

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