Free Fogged Inn by Barbara Ross Page A

Sit’n’Knit. Livvie had decided if I was going to stay in Busman’s Harbor permanently, I needed to make friends, and she’d put herself in charge of the operation. I wasn’t so sure. I had a new business and a new boyfriend, and I could have immersed myself entirely in those endeavors. But Livvie didn’t think that was healthy, and when Livvie had strong opinions, things usually went her way.
    I stood outside her car, looking at her in the light of the dash. My rebellious little sister had grown into a gorgeous twenty-eight-year-old woman, with a strong face, chiseled cheekbones, a straight nose, and long auburn hair. She was expecting her second child in February, almost ten years to the day after she’d given birth to her first. While I’d gone on to prep school, college, business school, and a job in Manhattan, Livvie had stayed in Busman’s Harbor, married her high school sweetheart and raised a child.
    I’d always been the good girl and she the wild one, but in the decade since the birth of my beloved niece, Page, somehow our roles had reversed. Now I was dating the bad boy with a past and she was the stable wife and mother. In that time, our ages had reversed as well. Now she was the older, wiser sister and had taken to bossing me around. Or at least trying.
    I wasn’t so sure about the Sit’n’Knit. It was conceived as counterprogramming to Sam Rockmaker’s poker night and was roughly composed of the wives and girlfriends of the men who played in the game. For the most part, the women were married and had children, and the talk tended toward colic and daycare. I wasn’t bored by it, but despite Livvie’s best intentions, it made me feel even more like an outsider.
    I started to make my excuses. “I don’t think I can go tonight,” I said.
    â€œGet in the car.”
    â€œNo, really. I’m so terrible at the knitting.”
    â€œIt’s not about the knitting, Julia.”
    â€œI haven’t eaten. I called a Greek salad into Hole in the Wall.”
    â€œWe’ll pick it up on the way.”
    Game. Set. Match. I still wasn’t used to losing to my sister. I went back to my apartment and grabbed the bag that contained my knitting things. As I climbed into Livvie’s minivan, I said, “What I’m really worried about is everyone grilling me about the body in the walk-in.”
    â€œIt’s not always about you, Julia,” Livvie said, stepping on the gas.
    * * *
    After we picked up the salad, we drove halfway up the peninsula. Livvie turned off the highway and bumped carefully down a dark lane toward the home of this week’s hostess. I was glad I wasn’t trying to find the place on my own. Finally, we turned into a circular drive and saw warm lights shining from every window of a large, Cape Cod–style house. When we got out of the car, I caught one of my favorite aromas—wood burning in a fireplace nearby.
    We entered through a breezeway between the house proper and the garage into a spacious mudroom. Following Livvie’s lead, I left my work boots in a line of similar footwear and padded into the house in my socks.
    As soon as I entered the kitchen, I realized the house was newly built, not an old Cape. What I’d taken as the second floor was actually an illusion. The rooms on the main floor soared to the roofline, full of windows and skylights that must have made the house bright even on a winter day.
    Most of the knitters were already there, drinking mulled wine from blue mugs around the kitchen island. The evening’s hostess, Kendra Carter, greeted me warmly. Then she took the pitiful to-go container of Greek salad and deftly emptied it into a green-trimmed soup bowl. As she did this, I apologized for not eating before I came.
    â€œDon’t even think about it. You’ve had a tough day, I know.”
    Kendra led us into a spacious great room dominated by a fireplace, which