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The final barrage of rockets soared skyward, filling the night with cascading light and thunderous applause. Kelsey leaned into Mac’s solid warmth and watched the spectacle with a curious sense of rightness.
“Not one,” she said, and meant it.
The last of the guests departed just after midnight, leaving a wake of empty glasses and the lingering scent of perfume mixed with whiskey. Kelsey helped Amy gather Truman’s gifts while Mac tipped the departing caterers.
“Best party I’ve had since VE Day,” Truman declared, his voice raspy from hours of storytelling and laughter. Despite his insistence that he wasn’t tired, his eyelids drooped heavily.
“Let’s get you home, old man,” Mac said fondly, then helped his grandfather to his feet by his elbow.
“I can still outlast you youngsters,” Truman protested. He immediately yawned widely. “Just… perhaps not tonight.”
The four of them made their way to Mac’s Range Rover, Amy and Kelsey flanking Truman while Mac carried the gifts. The drive back would be a short loop—Kelsey’s cottage first, then Amy’s, and finally Truman’s.
“Did you see Eleanor’s face when Joe started dancing?” Amy asked from the back seat, where she sat beside Truman. “I thought she was going to faint from shock.”
“Joe Martin always could cut a rug,” Truman replied. “Even with that new hip of his.”
Kelsey smiled, watching the moonlight play across the coastal road as Mac drove. His hand rested on the console between them, and she found herself wanting to reach for it, to maintain the connection they’d forged during the fireworks. Instead, she kept her hands folded in her lap, quiet in the intimate confines of the car.
“I think everyone had a wonderful time,” she said. “You’re well-loved, Truman.”
“Bah,” the old man waved dismissively, but his pleased expression belied his gruff response. “They just came for the free food.”
Mac turned onto the lane leading to Kelsey’s cottage. As they rounded the final bend, the official markings of a sheriff’s department cruiser in their headlights cut through the night. A uniformed deputy stood on her front porch, holding a large manila envelope.
“What on earth?” Amy murmured from the backseat.
Kelsey’s heart lurched sickeningly. “Noah,” she whispered, fumbling with her seatbelt before Mac had fully stopped the car. “Something’s happened to Noah.”
She was out of the vehicle before it came to a complete stop, stumbling slightly on the gravel as she ran toward the deputy.
“Ms. York?” the deputy asked. His expression was carefully neutral.
“Yes,” she gasped. “Is it Noah? Has there been an accident?”
The deputy shook his head. “No ma’am, nothing like that. I’m here to serve you with these papers.” He held out the manila envelope. “I’m required to deliver these personally and confirm receipt.”
Relief washed through her, quickly followed by confusion. “Papers? What papers?”
“Court order, ma’am. That’s all I know.”
With trembling fingers, Kelsey tore open the envelope, vaguely aware of Mac approaching behind her. In the harsh porch light, the legal letterhead swam before her eyes until she forced herself to focus.
EMERGENCY ORDER OF TEMPORARY CUSTODY, the heading read. As she scanned the document, certain phrases leapt out: granted to Margaret Prescott… immediate effect… pending further hearing… concerns regarding maternal fitness.
“No,” she whispered, her voice breaking on the word. “No, this can’t be right.”
She fumbled through the remaining papers and found a stack of photographs paper-clipped together.
Photographs that made her stomach lurch. There she was with Mac on her front porch, on the boat, and walking along the shore. Others of her and Noah coming home after dark, a pizza box in her hand, another speaking to Noah with a cross expression on her face while Noah stood before her with his head bowed.
The images blurred as tears flooded her eyes. “They’ve been watching us? Taking pictures of us?”
Mac’s hand touched her shoulder. “Kelsey, what is it? What’s happening?”
She thrust the papers at him, unable to speak as the full horror of the situation crashed over her. They had Noah. They had taken custody of her son while she was celebrating, drinking champagne, almost kissing Mac under the fireworks. Her knees buckled.
“They took him,” she choked out, sinking to the porch steps. “They took my son.”
