A slender woman stood nearby: blonde, with lovely green eyes, she had the kind of face and bearing that shouted private schooling and wealth. Or maybe it was her waterproof jacket. Though that, in itself, wasn’t unusual in this crowd. All the ­old-­timers as well as many of the younger crew had brought along waterproof gear when they saw the clouds on the horizon.

What made the blonde stand out was that her waterproof gear likely cost something like five ­times—­no, that was being ­conservative—­it was probably more like ten times the price of what everyone else was wearing.

She also wore a black knit cap, which had survived being soaked through, so she’d been smart enough to pull the hood of her jacket over it while outside. Her facial bones were the kind that would age beautifully. But she wasn’t beautiful, this woman. She ­was… elegant. That was when it clicked, the woman’s identity.

Jemima Baker, Vincent’s wife.

Anahera had seen her in the photos Vincent had posted on his social media page. In those photos, however, Jemima was always dressed to the nines and out at some charity gala or other ­black-­tie event. Her hair was usually a sleek blonde sheet, glossy and without a strand out of place, her makeup flawless.

In the last image Anahera could remember seeing, the other woman had worn a black sheath dress, a string of pearls around her neck. In her hand had been a little clutch with the double C logo that defined Chanel.

No wonder Anahera hadn’t immediately recognized her; today, despite her expensive gear, Jemima Baker stood as damp and bedraggled as everyone else. On her feet were worn-­in hiking boots suitable for this climate and area, and the backs of her hands bore fresh scratches, as if she’d pushed through the dense growth looking for Miriama.

Shame pricked ­Anahera—­she, along with all their friends, had just assumed that Vincent had married Jemima because she fit the mold of what his parents would’ve wanted for him: an educated, lovely woman who’d be the perfect hostess, but who was also smart and intelligent enough to rise with him as he climbed the political ladder. The timing of the ­marriage—­a bare year after the elder Bakers’ ­deaths—­had only cemented that general opinion.

None of them had ever considered that Vincent might’ve fallen for his wife because she had a heart as down-­to-­earth as his own. Seeing Jemima as she stood looking at the search map with worry carved into her features, Anahera resolved to do better, to get to know this woman her friend had married. “Here.” She handed Jemima a mug of freshly poured coffee. “You look like you could use this.”

Jemima’s fingers brushed hers as she took the mug. They were like ice. “I hope Miriama isn’t out in this,” the other woman said in a soft tone that wouldn’t reach Matilda. “It’s getting cold out there. Really cold.”

“Which section were you in?” Anahera asked, and was surprised when Jemima mentioned a location quite distant from Vincent’s. As if reading her surprise, Jemima said, “I arrived a little after ­Vincent—­I wanted to make sure the children were settled.”

Anahera kept forgetting Vincent was now a father. “I’m Anahera, by the way.” She held out her hand. “The one who’s been in London for a while.”

Jemima’s face softened as they shook hands, her grip firm but not crushing. “I was so sorry to hear about your husband.”

Anahera still didn’t know what to do when people offered their sympathies about Edward; it wasn’t as if she could open her mouth and say, “I’m not sure I’m grieving for the bastard. You see, I found out he was a lying, cheating piece of scum two hours after I stood trembling over his body in the morgue.”

His lips had been blue, his face so waxy he hadn’t looked real. A mannequin shaped like Edward, that’s what her brain had kept trying to tell her. Just a mannequin. Not real. Nothing to do with her.

One hundred and ­twenty-­seven minutes later, ­forty-­nine minutes after news of Edward’s death hit the media, she’d opened the door of their home to a sobbing stranger who’d collapsed into her arms with a wail of grief.

23

Anahera’s tight smile seemed to satisfy Jemima.

The other woman sipped at her coffee, then said, “Not the kind of homecoming you would’ve wished for.”

“No.” She’d expected and been prepared for old memories and older anger, but not this. “I remember Miriama as a young girl, but I’ve only met her twice as an adult.”

Jemima’s eyelids lowered, her hands cupping her mug as she took a deeper drink. When she looked up again, her gaze was softer yet oddly difficult to read. A woman, Anahera thought, who was used to putting on a mask that didn’t look like a mask. Necessary for someone who wanted to stand next to the man who would be prime minister.

“I’m afraid I’ve never really gotten to know her,” Vincent’s wife admitted. “She’s so much younger. Just that age gap where we don’t really have anything in common, you know? I feel so old saying that.”

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” Anahera said, liking the ­self-­deprecating woman under the polish and spin. “There’s such a difference between nineteen and ­twenty-­nine. Ten short years but a lifetime apart.”

“It’s even worse between nineteen and ­thirty-­one.” Jemima’s smile was quick, bright. “I married a younger man,” she whispered.

“Sorry, you fail the scandalous test. Unless you were sixteen and Vincent was fourteen when you met, and I know that didn’t happen.”

Jemima’s smile deepened, reaching the sea green of her eyes. “After this is all over”—­the smile rubbed away, her gaze going to the map before meeting Anahera’s ­again—­“and I mean when it’s settled in a good way, with the best news, I hope you’ll come up to the house for a coffee or to have lunch.”

Anahera hesitated; she hadn’t come to Golden Cove to make friends. She’d come here to lose herself in the shadows.

In front of her, Jemima’s expression began to grow distant and Anahera knew suddenly that the other woman was used to rebuffs from Vincent’s ­friends—­or perhaps it was from all of the locals. She certainly didn’t seem the kind of person others would shut out, but on the other hand, she was wealthy and lovely and an outsider; just because she’d married one of their own didn’t mean she would’ve been welcomed with open arms. Still, it was odd, given how well Vincent was liked.

“I’d like to,” she found herself saying. “I may not be the best company, ­though—­I’m not sure I’m at the point where I can socialize.”

Jemima’s expression fell. “Oh, God, I’m stupid. I should’ve realized.” She touched her fingers hesitantly to Anahera’s hand. “Whenever you’re ready, the invitation is open. Here”—­she dug around in a jacket pocket, found what she was looking ­for—­“this has all my contact details.”

Anahera took the crumpled card, slipped it safely away. “Thank you.” She could detect nothing false in Jemima, which made the fact that she seemed to have been braced for rejection even less understandable.