The Brookshire Country Club sat on two hundred acres of manicured lawn overlooking the harbor, the kind of view that costs more per square foot than most people’s entire homes. The main building was a colonial mansion that had been expanded, wing by careful wing, over two centuries into a sprawling complex of dining rooms, ballrooms, and — I knew from a membership I’d let lapse twenty years ago — an Olympic-sized pool and eighteen holes of championship golf.
I’d resigned that membership the year Sarah died. Didn’t see much point in any of it after that.
As we pulled up the long gravel drive, I noticed Michael’s hands were trembling slightly against the wheel.
“Dad, I should tell you — Jessica’s family can be a bit traditional.”
“Traditional,” I repeated. “That’s a generous word for it.”
“They’re good people,” he said quickly, almost too quickly. “Jessica’s amazing. I love her. It’s just — her parents have certain expectations, and I know I don’t exactly meet them.”
