At first spite, p.1
At First Spite, page 1
Dedication
For my caring, whip-smart therapists, past and present: Wendy, Cathy, and Katie, I’m endlessly grateful to you and for you.
And for my husband, who climbed into the shower with me, grabbed the soap, and helped take care of me when I couldn’t take care of myself. Jag älskar dig så mycket, min piffiga man.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Announcement
About the Author
Praise for Olivia Dade
Also by Olivia Dade
Copyright
About the Publisher
Author’s Note
If you’re a reader who appreciates learning about sensitive content ahead of time, this note is for you. Otherwise, please skip ahead to the prologue!
. . .
. . .
Still here? All right, this is what you should know:
At First Spite addresses grief and clinical depression. It also mentions the accidental death of a young child, although that death does not occur on the page. If you’re sensitive to any of those topics, please read with care, and please know that I’ve done my best to balance the painful bits of the book with lots of laughter and love.
For more detailed content guidance concerning this book and all my books, please visit my website: oliviadade.com/books/content-guidance.
Hugs and 🖤,
Olivia
Prologue
After exchanging generic, polite greetings with an older couple and accepting their congratulations on her engagement, Athena retreated to a dimly lit corner of the museum, pushed her glasses to the top of her head, and produced her phone from her dress’s deep pocket.
Finally. Ever since she’d driven over the tall, windswept, godforsaken bridge that led to this island, the question had been niggling at her.
Abbott Island Bridge Maryland, she discreetly typed into Professor Google’s search box. Safety issues.
A few link-clicks later, she had her answer.
Very few vehicles had hurtled over the narrow crossing’s low barriers and sunk into the dark river far, far below. Which surprised her, since that wide riverbed should be bristling with rusted-out trucks and submerged SUVs. Like a reef, only with fewer rainbow-hued fish and more bumper stickers proclaiming proud parentage of schoolchildren.
Reluctantly, she slid her phone back in her pocket and perched her glasses back on the bridge of her nose.
In general, she didn’t try to hide her search-engine inquiries—curiosity isn’t a polite hunger, content to be fed at convenient, socially acceptable intervals—but even she knew better than to conduct research during her own damn engagement party. If the guests at this gathering noticed her in the corner, discreetly tapping at the screen of her cell, they might interpret the sight as boredom, rather than what it was: an insatiable need for information.
To be fair, also a certain amount of boredom.
But to be fair to her, her boredom stemmed from entirely justifiable causes. Everyone in attendance seemed to know each other already, and after introducing themselves to her, they’d immediately clustered in insular little groups. Her pediatrician fiancé, Dr. Johnny Vine, had vanished into one of those groups half an hour ago, swallowed headfirst by crowds of friends and well-wishers. No surprise there. Johnny could charm a tree out of its growth rings, and he’d been born and bred in this area.
Harlot’s Bay, the water-steeped southeastern Maryland town that had raised her fiancé, lay just over that too-narrow bridge. It was the nearest community to Abbott Island, whose small but elegant art museum was hosting their happy event.
Her own friends were celebrating the holidays in Virginia with their families. Her parents were at a cardiology conference, she was an only child, and her remaining relatives lived too far away to attend, so . . . there would be no familial backup that evening either. Not for her, anyway. Eventually, Johnny’s older brother—Matthew, who co-owned the pediatrics practice where both men worked—would arrive from an after-hours appointment that ran late, but she neither knew nor liked the man.
Thank goodness for Professor Google, tireless purveyor of information, dependable provider of undemanding company.
With a sigh, Athena lovingly patted her phone-filled pocket. Then she girded her loins, or whatever part of her contained her willingness and ability to generate small talk. Crowds didn’t normally bother her, and she wasn’t shy. Johnny or no Johnny, she needed to make an effort.
Emerging from her tucked-away corner of the room, she approached a nearby couple. The two women appeared to be in their late thirties, close to Athena’s own age, and they smiled in welcome as she drew near. Smiling back, she shook their hands, introduced herself, and thanked them for coming to the party.
“Well, we heard there was an open bar,” the taller woman said dryly. She winced as her companion elbowed her in the ribs. “We also wanted to support Johnny and welcome you to the community, obviously. I’m Yvonna, Matthew’s friend and business partner. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Athena.”
Athena did her best to keep smiling.
Ugh. Matthew.
She wouldn’t know her fiancé’s brother from Adam. They’d never met, and she’d never seen a photo of him either, not even on Johnny’s cell. Which she’d normally consider a bit odd, since the brothers lived in the same town and worked together, but her romance with Johnny could accurately be termed whirlwind. He’d proposed only two months after they’d first met. Even following their engagement, between the three-hour driving distance separating their homes and her packed teaching schedule, she’d only been able to visit Harlot’s Bay twice before today.
Matthew’s schedule hadn’t accommodated a meeting. Either time. Johnny had blamed that on his brother’s workaholic tendencies, but she knew better. Matthew had been criticizing her to Johnny, sight unseen, ever since they’d gotten engaged in October. Frankly, he sounded awful. Rigid. Judgmental. Controlling.
But she’d do her best not to hold that against Yvonna, his friend.
The museum’s soft lighting set the other woman’s smooth ebony skin aglow, and her black-coffee eyes were sharply focused on Athena, friendly but assessing. Her partner, a bespectacled woman with a tawny complexion and a glorious Afro, was watching Athena too, curiosity bright in her warm, golden-brown gaze.
“I’m Jackie, and I work at the university library,” she told Athena. “What my wife meant to say is: We’re delighted to celebrate your engagement, and we wish you and Johnny a lifetime of happiness.” She paused. “I don’t care about the open bar. The buffet, however . . .”
Athena grinned. “I’m a high school teacher, so I get it. Offer us soggy deli subs and limp potato chips, and we’ll all trample one another to attend mind-numbing, endless after-school staff meetings.”
Heaven help everyone if a cookie tray made an appearance. Then it was basically Black Friday at Walmart, only with more stapler-based weaponry.
Jackie laughed. “Librarians are exactly the same. By the way, we’ve been admiring your lovely dress all evening. Is that silk?”
“Yes.” When Athena gave them a little twirl, the dress floated around her in a bell. “Thank you so much. It’s new, and I love it.”
Her wardrobe was simple. Flowing cotton dresses in pretty patterns and colors that she wore with or without a cardigan and leggings, depending on the weather. Tonight, however, her flowing dress in a pretty little strawberry print was indeed made of silk, and her crimson cardigan was cashmere, because that was how you could tell it was fancy. She’d even made an effort with her grooming: red lipstick, black winged eyeliner, hair blown straight.
She was still wearing her usual Keds, though. Her best pair, bright white and unscuffed. As Emily Dickinson—and later, Selena Gomez—had informed them all: The heart wants what it wants. As did the feet, Athena had discovered.
“We hear you’re moving to Harlot’s Bay next summer,” Yvonna said. “Do you know how our town got its name?”
Of course Athena knew. Five seconds after Johnny had mentioned the town where he lived and worked, she’d feverishly consulted Herr Professor, because Harlot’s Bay?
She wanted to move to Johnny’s hometown for so many reasons, most of them selfish beyond words, but the siren song of that name would have drawn her there no matter what. And when he’d told her the name of his practice, Strumpet Square Pediatrics—Strumpet. Freakin’. Square!—she’d nearly burst with joy, like a gleeful human glitter-bomb.
So, yes, suffice it to say that she’d done her research. Nevertheless, she shook her head, in hopes of prolonging the easiest conversation she’d had all night.
“If you want all the details, come visit me at the library’s archives,” Jackie said, and the invitation sounded sincere. “This is just a quick overview.”
“Quick. Right.” Yvonna snorted again. “I’ve heard you tell this story a dozen times, and it usually requires hours.”
Jackie’s eyes narrowed
“About some things, maybe. Not history.”
“Watch me.” Jackie turned back to Athena. “In its current iteration, the town was founded in the late 1690s by two runaway women, Sarah Marshall and Eleanor Abbott, in cooperation with the remaining Piscataway inhabitants. And at some point—”
“They became a couple,” Yvonna interrupted. “Even though, until just recently, historians and biographers kept insisting they were simply friends. Friends who spent decades living with one another, slept in the same bed, and wrote letters that were the colonial equivalent of sexting whenever one of them traveled.”
Jackie’s head tipped to the side. “I thought you wanted this explanation to be quick.”
Yvonna raised a shoulder. “Sue me.”
“Anyway.” Jackie returned her attention to Athena. “Somehow, word got around about the tiny new settlement, and other desperate and runaway women began arriving. At first, they called their town Ladywright, because of a local shipyard. Then, in the 1760s, the British colonial governor changed the name to Harlot’s Bay, in condemnation of the town’s founders and citizenry.”
“But the joke was on him, because apparently everyone living there liked the change,” Yvonna concluded. “That’s been our name ever since.”
Jackie nodded. “And to this day, Harlot’s Bay contains more than its fair share of people, especially women, who’ve moved there to start over after burning down their lives somehow.”
“It’s our thing. We attract hot messes of all genders.” Yvonna smiled. “But you’re still welcome in our town, Athena, even though you have your life together.”
Athena almost choked on thin air. Shit, if only they knew. She might have a fiancé and a home waiting for her in Harlot’s Bay, but as far as work . . .
Well, there were probably sentient mold colonies who had their professional lives more together than she did. Once the school year ended and she moved, she had no further plans. No plans and no clue what to do next.
“That’s an amazing story,” Athena told the two women, and she meant it. “Thank you for telling me, and thank you for welcoming me to Harlot’s Bay.”
“What do you know about our local spite house?” A new gleam lit Jackie’s clear brown eyes. “Because if you haven’t heard the story, you should. It’s—”
“Dearest.” Yvonna smiled down at her spouse. “Athena’s engaged to Johnny, who shares an actual wall with the Spite House. I’m sure she knows the story.”
Yvonna was right. Athena had already seen the bizarrely narrow row home—hard to avoid it, since it was attached to her fiancé’s house like a ten-foot-wide, four-story-high barnacle—and heard about its colorful history. Johnny had shared the tale during her first visit to Harlot’s Bay, then discussed the house at regular intervals since then.
“The next time the Spite House is for sale, I want to buy it,” he’d mused on multiple occasions. “Just think how amazing it would be to tear down the dividing wall and have all that extra space and sunlight.”
“I know the basics, but I’d love to hear the perspective of an archivist, Jackie,” Athena said. “It can be hard to separate speculation from facts actually confirmed by surviving documentation.”
“The next time we meet, I’ll set Jackie loose on you.” Yvonna ducked her head and planted a consoling kiss on her wife’s temple. “But for now, we’ve monopolized the poor bride-to-be long enough. Let’s eat some mini-crabcakes and claim our free booze.”
Jackie heaved a clearly fake sigh. “Fine. For the sake of mini-crabcakes, I’ll go. Athena, it’s been a pleasure, and I look forward to chatting with you again once you’ve settled into your new home.”
“Have Johnny give you our numbers,” Yvonna said with a firm nod. “Nice meeting you, Athena. Best of luck with your move.”
After a few more words of farewell, the couple turned toward the buffet, and Athena was alone again. Alone and—after all that talk of crabcakes—increasingly hungry.
Well, her parents had paid for the food. She shouldn’t waste their generosity.
Along her path to the hors d’oeuvres table, she stopped for casual chitchat with other guests. She didn’t linger, though, because . . . there they were, at long last. The centerpiece of the entire event, as far as she was concerned. Crispy potato medallions topped with chive-flecked smoked salmon and crème fraîche. Most had already disappeared, and she didn’t intend to wait any longer for her share of the bounty.
From a potato crisp’s perspective, the rest of this evening was about to become Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None.
To her left, another guest stood perusing the offerings. When she glanced his way, she couldn’t quite recall whether they’d already met, probably because he was kind of . . . generic. A besuited, tie-clad white guy, maybe in his late thirties. Medium height. Dark hair cut short. Lean. Pale. A few crinkles at the corners of his equally dark eyes, probably from frowning rather than smiling, since he looked like the solemn sort.
Hmmm. If they’d already met, introducing herself again would tell him she didn’t remember him, and that was rude. Better to proceed as if they’d already encountered each other at least once before.
“When the Romans talked about the ambrosia of the gods, they clearly meant fried potatoes.” She popped a medallion in her mouth and considered the matter as she chewed. Once she’d swallowed, she added, “Although I’m not actually sure whether Europe had potatoes back then. It’s not a question I’ve ever posed to Professor Google. Do you happen to know?”
The stranger swiveled to face her, blinking.
Then . . . he smiled, and good gravy.
That man wasn’t generic. Not in the slightest.
Freed from what seemed to be a habitual frown, his lower lip turned full and soft, and the planes of his face transformed from severe to finely sculpted. His eyes, when lit with amusement, weren’t merely dark, but the warm brown of a beer bottle held to the light.
“I’m not certain,” he said, his voice low. Velvety. “And now that you’ve raised the question, not knowing the answer will bother me all night. We should look it up.”
It was her turn to blink at him.
Johnny, bless his heart, only cared about exactitude when it came to medicine. Any other topic, he was more than willing to throw out his best guess, usually based on nothing.
The evening they’d first met—she was visiting her parents in Bethesda; he’d been invited to the informal reception they always held after the annual pediatrics conference in D.C.—Johnny had joined her in the kitchen, studied her childhood home and its sleekly curved, simple teak furnishings, and confidently complimented her family on their elegant art deco aesthetic.
“Midcentury modern,” she’d told him flatly.
He’d grinned, entirely unrepentant. “What’s a few decades between friends?”
They weren’t friends. They weren’t even acquaintances. But by the end of the night, he’d coaxed her into giving him her number. Soon enough, he’d coaxed her into giving him much, much more than that.
And from the very beginning, from that very evening, his careless imprecision had driven her to distraction. Her occasional soliloquies sharing the results of a rendezvous with Professor Google did the same to him, though, so fair enough.
It wasn’t that she wanted to change her fiancé. Just that . . . she wouldn’t mind him displaying a bit more curiosity about their world. More of a preference for factual reality over conjecture. But he was so young still, thirty to her thirty-six, and maybe that made a difference.
The man beside her now, his lean form clad in a slightly-too-loose navy suit and subtly striped tie, looked close to her own age. Possibly even a year or two older. Not that it mattered.
She swallowed before belatedly responding to him, her throat suddenly drier than a staff meeting on attendance policies. “We should definitely look it up. To save you from further emotional distress, if for no other reason.”
“You’re a true humanitarian.” His smile widened into a near-grin. “While I’m a shameless pedant, as my brother frequently informs me. My apologies.”
She frowned in exaggerated puzzlement. “I don’t see what’s pedantic about discovering the geographical origins and historical spread of a very important staple crop via a consultation with Professor Google.”
