Barefoot

Josh was glad he wasn’t working at the airport. How the kids could stand on that asphalt al day without feeling like they were sausages on a griddle, Josh had no idea. Even the beach wasn’t much of a reprieve. The sand was too hot for Blaine to walk across, so Josh had to carry Blaine in addition to his usual load. The three of them abandoned their routine and spent al morning swimming in the shal ows. The water was as warm as a bathtub, and strewn with tangles of seaweed. It cooled down a little at night, but there was no breeze. The humidity hung in the air in damp sheets, and the mosquitoes hatched. Josh’s Jeep had no air-conditioning, so he and Melanie made love on the beach, where they got eaten alive. They were sticky and sweaty, and their skin became breaded with sand.

“Yuck,” Melanie said. “This is when you want the Four Seasons.”

Josh’s house had no air-conditioning either, so Tom Flynn set up a big square fan at one end of the table that blew on them while they ate. Josh liked the fan; its noise took the place of conversation.

“Hot one,” Tom Flynn would say when he sat down. Josh was making cold things for dinner: Italian subs, tuna fish, sliced watermelon; the iceberg salad had never tasted so good.

“Hot one,” Josh agreed.

Maybe it was because of the noisy fan, but Tom Flynn did not bring up Didi’s visit at the table. Instead, he caught Josh in the morning, as Josh was getting out of the shower. It was Saturday, not a day Josh worked, and so he was in no particular hurry. Josh came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist to find Tom Flynn standing in the hal way. Waiting for him. His presence was so surprising, Josh sucked in his breath.

“Jesus, Dad. You scared me.”

“Do you have a minute?” Tom Flynn said. This was very much the rhetorical question, and Josh tensed. He knew what was coming, sort of.

“Can I get dressed?”

“By al means,” Tom Flynn said. “I’l be out on the deck.”

“The deck” was off Josh’s parents’ bedroom. Because it was on the second floor, it caught the breeze. It was by far the most comfortable place in the house in this kind of weather, and yet Josh never used the deck, and as far as Josh knew, his father never used it, either. In fact, it had been a year, maybe two, since Josh had set foot in his father’s bedroom at al . He wasn’t exactly surprised to find that it was stil the same—same dark-patterned bedspread that Josh and his father had bought at Sears in Hyannis shortly after Josh’s mother died, same neat-as-a-pin dresser, same lineup of shoes in the closet. A picture of Josh’s mother hung on the wal , a picture of her from high school, in which she was barely identifiable as the woman Josh had known. Stil , Josh stopped and looked at the picture on his way out to the deck.

Do you hate her? Vicki had asked.

Tom Flynn was already outside, his arms crossed on the railing, his head focused in the direction of Miacomet Pond and the eleventh hole of the golf course in the distance. He was wearing a white undershirt and a pair of belted khakis. He was barefoot. Josh couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his father barefoot. If Tom Flynn could be described in any way, it would be as tightly laced, buttoned up. But half dressed and without shoes, Tom Flynn seemed vulnerable, human. For this reason, Josh relaxed a little.

“Hot one,” Josh said, trying to be funny.

Tom Flynn nodded. “Your mother loved summer.”

Again, Josh tensed. His neck was so stiff, it felt like a steel column. Your mother loved summer: It was a perfectly innocuous statement, but Josh could count on one hand the number of times his mother had been mentioned in the past ten years.

“I know,” Josh said. “I remember.”

“Someone once suggested she had that seasonal mood disorder,” Tom Flynn said. “People suffer from it when they don’t get enough sunlight.”

He paused. Josh thought, Wel , she did kil herself in December. He pictured her on the beach with her glass of wine. We have to enjoy it now.

Before winter comes. “It’s probably a bunch of bul shit.”

“Probably,” Josh murmured.

Tom Flynn’s hair was damp and held teeth marks from his comb. He smel ed of aftershave and hair oil. The hair oil alone was enough to place Tom Flynn in a separate category of man from Josh. A different generation. Tom Flynn had been in the military in the eighties—he had been stationed near Afghanistan for two years—something about intel igence and aircraft. Josh wasn’t sure what his father had done, but Josh attributed most of his father’s behaviors—his silence, his promptness, his stiff upper lip, even his neat dresser and closet—to this time in the military.

Although Tom Flynn was a supremely competent and dedicated air traffic control er, he made it clear to Josh that the job at Nantucket Memorial Airport, even on the most hectic summer days, was too easy; it was a walk in the park compared to what he’d done “before.” The military, then, felt like Tom Flynn’s “real job.” Nantucket was a pale replacement, time put in until retirement.

Tom Flynn took a deep breath and stared down at his bare feet as though he were surprised to find them there, sticking out past the cuffs of his pants. Josh fol owed his father’s gaze. His father’s feet were pale and fishy-looking, the nails square-cut and yel owing. Josh looked up. As hard as it was for Josh to listen, it would be even harder for Tom Flynn to speak.

“What is it, Dad?”

“I don’t know if I should even bring this up,” Tom Flynn said. “You are an adult, after al .”

“What is it?”

“The Patalka girl stopped me in the parking lot at work,” Tom Flynn said. “Yesterday, on my way home. She told me you’ve been seeing one of the women you work for. There’s one who’s pregnant?”

Josh nodded.

“But it’s not your baby?”

“No. God, no.”

“I’ve noticed, obviously, that you’ve been leaving the house quite late and getting back in at God-knows-what hour. Every night, it seems like. So I figured there was a girl. But this . . . woman? Older than you? Pregnant with another man’s child? Do you know what you’re doing, Joshua?”

Josh stared at the thin blue ribbon on the horizon that was Miacomet Pond. Under other circumstances he might have been supremely embarrassed. He and his father never talked like this; there hadn’t even been a sex talk when Josh was growing up. Now, however, he was relieved. He’d denied everything to Didi, but he wouldn’t be able to lie to his father. It might feel good to talk about it.

“I thought I did at the beginning,” Josh said. “But now I’m not so sure.”

“This woman, she has a husband?”

“They’re separated.”

“But the baby . . .”

“Right. It’s complicated.”

“How old is she?”

“Thirty-one,” Josh said. “Although how old she is doesn’t matter.”

“It’s unusual,” Tom Flynn said. “And the fact that she’s pregnant . . .”

“Dad, I know, okay? It just happened, I’m not sure how, and now I’m in it. I love her.” Even as Josh spoke the words, he was surprising himself.

Did he love Melanie? Maybe he did. One thing was for sure: He had never felt as alive—happy, self-aware, conflicted, engaged—as he did this summer, with those three women. Maybe love wasn’t the right word for it, but it was the only word he had.

Josh thought his father might laugh at this declaration, but Tom Flynn’s expression held steady.

“I didn’t argue when you said you wanted to quit the airport. I figured you knew what you were doing. Babysitting a couple of little kids . . . wel , you’re a people person and the money was good and I know the mother is sick and you felt invested, for some reason, in helping her out.” Here, Tom Flynn stopped and took another breath. This was a marathon of talk for him. “Now I’m wondering if there’s something else at work.”

“What do you mean?”

“These women . . .”

“You mean sex?”

“I mean, why were you drawn to working for these women? Maybe it was about sex. But they’re a lot older than you, Josh. And it crossed my mind

—even before I was accosted by the Patalka girl—that you’re out there in ’Sconset trying to find your mother.”

“Jesus, Dad . . .”

“I’m the last person to deal in Freudian bul shit,” Tom Flynn said. “But I’m not blind and I’m not stupid. You lost your mother at a young age. I dealt with it the best way I knew how, but maybe not the best way there was, you know what I’m saying?”

Josh nodded.

“Maybe we should have talked about your mother until we were blue in the face. Maybe we should have raked ourselves over hot coals about why she did it. Was it something I said or did, was it something you said or did, was it seasonal fucking mood disorder, what? What was it? Maybe we should have cried about it, screamed, yel ed, hugged, maybe we should have punched holes in the plaster, smashed the toaster oven, ripped up the snapshots. Maybe those were better ways to deal with it, healthier ways. Instead of what we did, which was one foot in front of the other. Head up, eyes forward. There are lots of things we’l never know, never understand, and why your mother took her own life is one of them.” Tom Flynn lifted a hand—it was trembling—and put it on Josh’s shoulder. “I can tel you one thing for sure. Your mother loved you.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to go out and about looking for that love elsewhere, Josh. Your mother loved you, and wherever she is now, she loves you stil .”

She loves you still. This was a huge statement, especial y considering the source. It was a gift from his father. And yet, it was too much to process on a flat, hot morning at the end of the most tumultuous summer of his life. He would have to pocket the statement and think about it later.

“Right,” Josh said. “But I don’t think what’s happening this summer has anything to do with . . .”

“That may be,” Tom Flynn said. “It was just a thought I had.”

“Okay,” Josh said. “Thanks.”

Tom Flynn stood up to his ful height and squared his shoulders. “As for being in love, I’m out of practice. I don’t have any fatherly advice other than: Be careful.”

“Be careful,” Josh repeated. “Okay. I wil .”

Heat and humidity were no friend to the pregnant woman. Melanie couldn’t stand to be in her own skin. She felt fat and sweaty and lethargic. The cottage was unbearable, it was a kiln, even with al of the windows open and the three oscil ating fans running on high. Melanie made two or three trips to the market per day—primarily for cold juice, Cokes, and Gatorade for herself and Vicki, but also because the market was air-conditioned.

She went to the beach and swam, but it wasn’t unusual for Melanie to feel faint walking home, confused, fatigued, forgetful. It was less than half a mile from the beach back to Number Eleven Shel Street, but Melanie arrived home feeling like she’d been lost in the desert.

And so, on the day that she saw Peter standing at the front door, she thought she was hal ucinating.

She saw the cab first, an Atlantic Cab right in front of Number Eleven, and a cab, general y, meant Ted. But it was a Wednesday, not Friday, although Melanie had some vague sense that Ted was coming earlier than planned for his vacation so that he could be with Vicki for her post-treatment CT scan. But that was stil another week away, wasn’t it? This was the kind of thing Melanie kept forgetting. Stil , when she saw the cab, she thought: Ted. Because who else could it possibly be? They never had visitors.

It took another few seconds for Melanie to notice the man standing in the shade of the overhang, a very tal man in a suit. From the back he looked like Peter. Melanie blinked. It was always like this at the end of her walk home; her vision splotched. She was thirsty and tired. She had been out with Josh the night before, back home so late it was early.

The man turned, or half turned, searching the street. Melanie stopped. It was Peter. Her stomach dropped in a quasi-thril ing way, like she was careening down a rol er coaster. The voice in her head screamed: Holy shit! It’s Peter! Peter is here! How was this possible? He took off from work? He flew here? He thought it would be okay to show up without asking? There had been phone cal s, three to be exact, not counting the cal that Melanie had placed from the market, not counting the cal that Vicki had answered. So five cal s in total—but not once did Peter hint that he was thinking of doing this. He asked Melanie when she was planning on coming home—and that was the correct question. That left Melanie in control.

She would come home when she felt like it, and at that point they would deal with the detritus of their marriage. Melanie could not believe Peter was standing by the front door of the cottage. She imagined the baby inside of her doing backflips . How dare he! she thought. And simultaneously, she thought, Thank God Josh is gone for the day. Josh. A second later she realized that she was not only horrified by Peter’s arrival, she was flattered by it. Before everything happened with Josh, this was exactly what she had wished for.

She couldn’t make herself move forward; she wanted to remain in this moment of seeing Peter but being unseen herself. The front door of Number Eleven was always unlocked. Had he tried the knob? Had he knocked? Vicki would be asleep with the kids, Brenda was probably stil out.

Melanie stood in the shade of the neighbor’s elm tree, watching him. He looked distinctly out of place in his suit, but the suit also brought to mind the fact that Peter was an adult, a man with a job in the city—and not a col ege student.

Melanie remained there a few seconds longer, but she was a hostage in her own body. She was dying of thirst—and, as ever, she had to pee.

She moved forward, pretending not to have noticed him and trying not to worry about her appearance. She hadn’t seen the man in nearly two months. She was bigger now, with a swel at her abdomen. She had been swimming at the beach, and her hair looked like . . . what? When she touched it, it was curly and stiff with salt. The skin of her face was tight from too much sun. And yet, Melanie felt beautiful. Because of Josh, she told herself. She felt beautiful because of Josh.

She opened the gate and strol ed down the flagstone walk. Peter saw her, she could feel his eyes on her, but she would not look at him, she would not acknowledge him, she would not be the first to speak.

“Melanie?”

His voice was not fil ed with wonder, as she had hoped. Rather, his tone was the one he used when he wanted to cal attention to something that was right in front of her face. Earth to Melanie! She responded to this not by acting surprised but by cutting her eyes at him, then quickly looking away. She reached past him for the doorknob and he touched her shoulder. His voice softened considerably.

“Hey, Mel. It’s me.”

“I can see that.” She looked at him. It was both familiar and strange, the way her neck arched so she could look him in the eye. Peter was tal , six foot six, whereas Josh was just a few inches tal er than Melanie. Peter’s skin was a warm, golden color, despite his claims that he’d been trapped in the office al summer, and she’d missed his almond-shaped eyes, the intricate creases of his eyelids. This was her husband. The man she’d been with for nearly ten years.

Before she knew what was happening, he bent to kiss her. She closed her eyes. The kiss was distinct from the thousands of other kisses of their marriage, many of which had been dutiful, passionless, dry, quick. This kiss was searching, lingering, it was exploratory and apologetic. It took Melanie’s breath away.

But come on! Melanie told herself. She was not such an easy mark. She pushed into the house. Peter had to duck to get through the doorway.

“Be quiet,” Melanie said. “Vicki and the kids are sleeping.”

“Okay,” Peter whispered. He fol owed Melanie into the big room. She noticed he was toting an overnight bag. “This is a cute place. Not exactly what I imagined, but cute. Old-fashioned.”

“I love it,” Melanie said defensively, as if Peter had been insulting it. “It was built in eighteen oh-three. Vicki’s family has owned it for over a hundred years.”

“Wow,” Peter said. Because of the low ceilings, he was hunched in the shoulders. Melanie watched him take in the details of the room—

fireplace, bookshelves, coffee table, sofa, kitchen table, rotary phone, silver-threaded Formica, sixty-year-old appliances, braided rugs, ceiling beams, doors with glass knobs leading to various other rooms, presumably rooms as smal and precious as this one. He stood there, nodding, waiting maybe, for Melanie to invite him into her room.

“Where are you staying?” she asked.

“Oh,” he said as if she’d startled him. “Actual y, I haven’t booked a place.”

“It’s August,” Melanie said. “It would have been smart to make a reservation.”

“I thought I would stay here,” he said. “With you. I thought . . .”

Melanie cut him off with some high-pitched laughing. Laughing because she didn’t know what to say or how to feel. She had to pee.

“You’l excuse me one second?” she said.

“Uh, sure.”

She shut the door of the bathroom and locked it for good measure. I thought I would stay here. With you. Melanie pictured Frances Digitt with her cutesy-butch haircut and her lively blue eyes. Frances had always asked about Vicki’s in vitro in a confidential sotto voce. How’s it going? My sister, Jojo, in California, the exact same thing. Must be so tough . . . For months, Melanie had thought that Frances Digitt was genuinely sympathetic, but it was clear now that Frances Digitt hadn’t wanted Melanie to conceive at al ; most likely, her sister, Jojo, in California, was fictional. Frances Digitt skied the backcountry of the Canadian Rockies; she was dropped into remote mountain terrain by helicopter. She was a person who sought out danger—so, another woman’s husband? Sure, why not? Frances Digitt’s chocolate Lab was named Baby; she was one of these women whose dog was her child. The dog probably knew Peter by now, the dog probably licked his hands and rested his head in Peter’s lap and whined to be stroked between the eyes.

I thought I would stay here. With you.

Melanie flushed the toilet. When she stood, her legs were jel y. She staggered to the brown-spotted mirror and smiled at herself. She looked okay; she looked better than okay. Her fury was empowering—and she was furious! She was about to pitch a fit like a little kid. How dare you! You bastard! You asshole! No doubt Peter expected Melanie to happily invite him back into her bed. He was, after al , her husband and the father of her child.

Melanie didn’t care!

She washed her hands and face, patted them dry with a towel, and drank from the children’s bathroom cup. Vicki could wake up at any moment, and Brenda would come home. Melanie had to figure this out, and soon.

Peter was standing right where she’d left him. A giant in the dol house. The cottage was hot, she realized. He must have been sweltering in his suit.

“Would you like a drink?” she said.

“I’d love one.”

She poured two glasses of lemonade and added ice. She sucked hers down and poured herself more. She col apsed in a kitchen chair; she couldn’t stand up another second. Peter remained standing until she nodded to the chair across from hers. He took off his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and sat.

“How do you feel?” he said. “You look great.”

“What are you doing here, Peter?”

He rol ed up his shirtsleeves. There were things about him that she’d forgotten—the muscle tone of his forearms, for example, and his brushed-chrome Tag Heuer watch, which he always kept facedown and jangled on his wrist when he was nervous. She’d forgotten how smooth his skin was, practical y hairless; he only had to shave twice a week. And the glossy pink wetness of his lips and the faint scar on his nose, a half-inch white line with hash marks (he’d gotten the cut as a child in a bus accident). Melanie had touched that scar innumerable times, she had kissed it, licked it, batted it with her eyelashes. This was her husband. Before Frances Digitt, what had that meant? At first, they’d lived in Manhattan, they rode the subway, ate take-out food, went to movies and readings, worked out at the gym, volunteered at a soup kitchen and a shelter. They tried new restaurants and met in hotel bars for drinks with people from Peter’s work, people like Ted and Vicki. They had shopped for things: a new sofa, window treatments, a birthday present for Peter’s mother, who lived in Paris. They had plenty of money, and, more important, they had plenty of time. They spent hours reading the paper on Sundays and going for long walks in Central Park. Once they moved to Connecticut, they raked leaves and mowed the lawn, painted the powder room, and worked in the garden. But something was missing, a connection, a purpose to their union beyond the acquisition of things , the completion of tasks . Children! Melanie wanted children. That was when her marriage came into focus, or so it had seemed to Melanie. She and Peter embarked on a quest; they were united by their wanting. The gifts and the trips that arrived in place of a child—the orchids, the truffles, the oceanfront suite in Cabo—were meant to console Melanie, to make her happy. But they had only served to anger her. She was, in the final months, a woman who could not be made happy, except by one thing. The lovemaking became a job; Melanie did everything short of bringing her basal thermometer, calendar, and stopwatch to bed. Was it any wonder Peter had begun an affair with someone young, someone daring and fun, someone whose idea of a child weighed a hundred pounds and was covered with brown fur?

Yes, to Melanie it was a wonder. Peter was her husband. She’d assumed that meant they owned if not each other, then at least the relationship.

The marriage was something they had agreed to value, like a Ming vase; it was something they were entrusted to carry, each holding equal weight.

But Peter had dropped his end.

“I wanted to see you,” Peter said. “You’ve been gone forever . I miss you.”

“That’s bul shit.” Melanie touched her bel y. “You’re only here because I’m pregnant.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh, God, of course it is. Why pretend otherwise?”

“It’s over with Frances,” Peter said.

Melanie did not respond to this, though she was keenly interested by it. Did Peter end the relationship with Frances because he was overcome with love and longing for his wife? Or did Frances Digitt simply meet someone else at her share in the Hamptons?

“I said, it’s over with . . .”

“I heard you.”

“I thought you’d be . . .”

“What? Overjoyed? Relieved? I don’t trust you, Peter. You cheated on me and you cheated on our marriage and although you didn’t know it, you cheated on this baby.”

“I knew you’d overreact.”

Now, there was the Peter she recognized. It was as though he was torn between the mean person he real y was and the kind, conciliatory person he was trying to be.

Melanie smirked. “Right. I’m sure you did. Get out of here, Peter.”

“Sorry,” he said. “Sorry, sorry.” He leaned forward and gave her a look that could only be described as beseeching. “I love you, Mel.”

“You do not.”

“I do. I want you to come home.”

“I don’t want to come home. I’m happy here.” She took a breath and counted to three, the way she did each afternoon before she plunged into the ocean. “There’s someone else.”

“There is?”

“There is.” Melanie’s stomach made some weird squelching noise, loud enough to offer some comic relief, but Peter’s expression remained shocked, incredulous.

“Who is it?”

“It’s none of your business,” Melanie said. Already she was chastising herself—Josh was secret from everybody, and that meant secret from Peter, too. But Melanie couldn’t help herself. She had wanted to tel Peter about Josh since the first night of her and Josh together, in the garden of the ’Sconset Chapel. She wanted Peter to know that she had settled the score. She had a lover, too!

“Wel ,” Peter said. “Okay then.”

“Okay then,” Melanie said.

“He stays with you here?” Peter said.

“No,” Melanie said. “But that doesn’t mean that you can stay here.”

Peter held up his palms. “Say no more. I get the picture. I’l book myself a room. Maybe at that place out by the airport.”

Melanie tilted her head. She was torn, too, between the nice person she real y was and the mean, spiteful person she wanted to be. “They might not have anything available.”

“I’l check.”

“Why don’t you just go home, Peter?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “I’m not giving up that easily.”

“This isn’t a game, Peter. I’m not a trophy you can win back.”

“I know that,” he said. “But I’m not leaving this island until you’re certain with every cel of your body that I love you. I’m a genuine person, Mel.”

“You are not.”

“I am genuine in this,” he said. He came around the table and folded himself in half to embrace her. The hug was awkward, but like the kiss, there was something distinct about it, something earnest.

“Let me take you out,” Peter said. “Anywhere you want to go.”

This was the old Peter talking. Let me spend money on you.

“No,” Melanie said.

“So, what are you saying? I get to see you for five minutes and that’s it? You won’t even eat with me?”

“That is correct.”

“Oh, come on, Mel. I took off from work. I flew al the way up here.”

“No one asked you to. If you had cal ed, I would have told you to stay home.”

“You have to have dinner with me. Please?”

“You don’t get it, Peter. You hurt me. You broke my heart. You destroyed my trust in you.”

“I know, Mel, I know. I’m trying to tel you it’s over and I’m sorry. That’s why I’m here. Just let me stay and have dinner with you. That’s al I’m asking for. Dinner with you. Please, Mel.”

“Fine,” Melanie said. “But we eat here.”

“With Vicki? And . . .”

“Her sister, Brenda. Yes.”

“Ahhhh,” Peter said. He didn’t want to have dinner with Vicki and Brenda, of course he didn’t, but this was the first test. “Okay. Sure thing.” He hoisted his overnight bag. “Would it be okay if I changed my clothes?”

“Peter!”

Melanie ground her molars together as Blaine launched himself into Peter’s arms. Here was something Melanie hadn’t considered. Vicki and Brenda might not mention Peter’s presence to Josh (she would ask them not to, for what reason, Melanie had yet to conjure)—but Blaine would tel Josh immediately, first thing.

Peter laughed. “At least someone is happy to see me. How’re you doing, buddy?”

“Good,” Blaine said.

Peter set Blaine down. “You’re getting tal . How old are you now? Seven?”

Blaine beamed. “I’m four and a half.”

“See? You’re so tal I thought you were seven.”

“Did you come with my dad?” Blaine asked.

“No,” Peter said. “I came by myself. I wanted to see Melanie.”

Blaine looked puzzled. “What for?”

“Melanie’s my wife. Remember?”

“She is?”

“Wel . . . ,” Melanie said.

“What?” Peter said. “You are my wife.”

Vicki and Brenda were as quiet as thieves in the kitchen as they pul ed dinner together. They had been shocked by Peter’s presence, but Melanie couldn’t tel if they were happy for her that her husband had come back, or if they were angry and disapproving. Brenda had been more visibly stunned, Vicki more openly cynical with Peter, but she had known him a long time.

“And the baby in here,” Peter said, patting Melanie’s bel y, “is my baby and Melanie’s baby.”

“It is?” Blaine said.

“Amazing,” Brenda said from the kitchen. Her voice was just loud enough for Melanie and Peter to hear.

Angry, Melanie thought. Disapproving.

“Peter brought some wine,” Melanie said. “Brenda, would you like some? Vicki?”

“Yes,” Brenda said.

“Yes,” Vicki said.

Melanie poured three glasses. She was dying to take a sip herself, but no, she wouldn’t.

Blaine said, “Want to go outside and throw rocks with me?”

“Sure,” Peter said. “I love to throw rocks.”

The front screen door slammed behind them.

“I’d like to throw some rocks at him,” Vicki said.

“Vick . . . ,” Melanie said.

“Sorry,” Vicki said. “Couldn’t help myself.”

“I don’t feel sorry,” Brenda said. “You spent so many weeks feeling miserable because of that jerk, I think we have a right to be angry. I mean, what is the deal with the show-up-out-of-the-blue tactics?”

“He knew if he asked, I’d say no.”

“You should have told him to go to hel ,” Brenda said.

“He’s not staying here,” Melanie said.

“He got a hotel?” Vicki said.

“I think he’s planning on staying out by the airport,” Melanie said, though she knew Peter had done nothing about booking a room. And not only that, but Peter’s overnight bag was resting possessively on the other twin bed in Melanie’s room.

“I see they gave you the nun’s quarters,” Peter had said when he walked into Melanie’s room. “Do you and your lover share a twin bed?”

“I told you, he doesn’t stay here.”

“I can see why,” Peter said. He’d proceeded to make himself comfortable, changing into shorts and a polo shirt right in front of Melanie. Watching him undress had seemed strange, and she’d nearly excused herself from the room. But he was her husband. How many times had she seen him undress before? Hundreds. Thousands.

“Who is it?” Peter said. “Some rich guy with a house on the beach?”

“I’m not tel ing you who it is,” Melanie said. “It doesn’t concern you.”

“It does concern me. You’re my wife. You’re carrying my child.”

Melanie poured herself a club soda. What would she do about Josh? Would she go to him tonight? Would she tel him? Was Melanie prepared to go back with Peter? She felt like the answer should be no, but he was her husband. Was she wil ing to raise this child alone, as a single parent, without a father?

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Melanie said to Brenda and Vicki. “And I’m going to ask you to respect that. I’m playing this by ear. I’m going to hear what the man has to say for himself. I’l think about it. I’l make him go home tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Vicki said.

“And there’s something else I want to ask you.”

“What?” Brenda said.

“Please don’t tel Josh that Peter came here.”

“Why not?” Brenda said.

“Why not?” Vicki said.

They were both looking at her.

Melanie took a sip of club soda and fervently wished for some vodka.

“Al the things I’ve said to Josh about Peter, he’d feel like you two do, but he’s young, you know, and he’s a guy. He won’t get it.”

“You have feelings for him,” Vicki said. Her eyes were so dead-on certain she could have dril ed holes through a two-by-four. “You have feelings for Josh.”

Brenda’s expression bloomed with what looked like childish delight. “You mean feelings feelings?”

Melanie could feel her face turning the color of the tomatoes in the Caprese salad. She forced a laugh. “For God’s sake, Vick. Would you please give me a break?”

“Am I wrong?” Vicki said. Her tone was more curious than judgmental, but that would change if she knew how far things between Melanie and Josh had progressed.

“Just please don’t mention it to Josh, okay?” Melanie said. “Please keep Peter’s visit between us.”

“Feelings feelings,” Brenda said. “I can’t believe it.”

“Brenda,” Vicki said.

“What? You’re the one who said it.”

The front screen door slammed. The women al turned. Peter said, “Oops, sorry. Am I interrupting something?”

There was conversation at dinner—Melanie may even have participated in it—but afterward, she didn’t recal a thing that was said. Her mind was whol y occupied with the enormous mess she’d made of things. It was a bal of yarn, tangled in her lap. Slowly, she thought, she would have to unravel it.

After dinner, Peter did the dishes. Vicki excused herself to give the kids a bath, read them stories, and put them to bed. Brenda lingered in the kitchen for a while, finishing up the bottle of wine, watching Melanie a little too closely. Final y, she gave up, much to Melanie’s relief. Melanie and Peter were polite to each other—washing the dishes, drying them and putting them away, wiping down the Formica, wrapping up the leftovers—

they were too boring for Brenda.

“I’m going to read,” she said. “Good night.”

It was nearly nine o’clock. Dark outside, now that it was August.

“Want to go for a walk?” Peter said. “I’ve been here al day and I haven’t seen the beach.”

“Have you cal ed for a hotel room?” Melanie said.

He walked toward her, wrapped his arms around her waist. “No.”

“You’re not staying here, Peter.” Melanie tried to lean back, away from him, but he hugged her tight. She held her body rigid, resisting. In an hour, she would have to sneak out to see Josh.

“You have two beds. I’l just sleep in the other bed. Al very innocent.”

“No,” Melanie said. “The answer is no.”

“I love you, Mel.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He bent down and kissed her hair. “I’m sorry about Frances.”

“I can’t even stand to hear her name, you know that?” Melanie said. “Thinking about her makes me want to vomit. It makes me break out in a rash.”

Peter held Melanie apart so he could look at her. “What I did was wrong. I was confused and angry and frustrated with you, Melanie, and with the whole process you were putting us through. The only thing that seemed to matter to you, at al , was having a baby. There were times, lots of times, in bed and otherwise, when I was pretty sure you didn’t even see me, I mattered to you so little. We lost each other, Mel, and I’m not blaming you for what happened because it was my fault. I did the wrong thing. I take ful responsibility and I am now asking you to forgive me.”

“Now, because I’m pregnant.”

“That’s not it.”

“Wel , why now, then? Why not my first week here? Why not when I cal ed you sixteen times?”

“I was angry that you’d left.”

Melanie laughed. “That is so rich.”

“I was confused. Did you know you were pregnant when you left?”

“I did.”

“See? I could be furious with you, too. But I’m not. I forgive you and I want you to forgive me.”

“What if I can’t forgive you?” she said.

“Ah, but I know you, Mel. And I know that you can.”

“Except every time you cal to say you’re working late, or have to stay in the city . . .”

“Frances is leaving New York,” Peter said. “When I ended things, she put in for a transfer. She’s going to California to be closer to her sister.”

“There wil be someone else,” Melanie said. “Even if Frances goes, there wil be someone else.”

“Yes,” Peter said. “There wil be you. There wil be our child.”

Melanie sighed. She heard the crunch of tires on shel s out on the street and she cocked her head. Josh? She looked out the window. The car moved along down the street.

“You have to go,” Melanie said. “To the hotel. I’m not wil ing to let you stay here.”

Peter whipped out his cel phone. “Fine,” he said. He sounded angry and officious. “I’l just cal the cab and have him take me someplace.”

“Good idea,” Melanie said. “I’m going to bed. I’l pack your things and set them outside the door.”

“Wil I see you tomorrow?” Peter asked.

“Maybe just for a minute,” Melanie said. “Cal me in the morning and tel me where you’re staying. I’l come to you. But you should go home tomorrow, Peter. Ted comes on Friday and this house is too smal for . . .”

“Come home with me tomorrow,” Peter said.

“No,” Melanie said. “I’l be home in a few weeks.”

“You’re staying because of your . . .”

“I’m staying because I’m happy here.”

“Happy with him?”

“Happy here.”

“But you wil come home?”

“Eventual y, Peter . . .”

“I love you. What can I say to make you believe me?”

“Wil you get out of here, Peter?” Melanie said. “Please?”

Peter stood on the flagstone walk until his cab pul ed up, but by then it was nine-thirty. Melanie watched him from her bedroom window. Josh: She had to tel Josh. Melanie lay back on her bed. She was exhausted. Josh would not take the news wel , even though they had both acknowledged that theirs was a summer romance. He was going back to Middlebury right after Labor Day; the story of Josh and Melanie ended there. To take it any further was comical. Melanie pictured herself and her newborn baby bunking with Josh in his dorm room. Absurd. Ridiculous. They had two and a half weeks left. Then it was over. Melanie closed her eyes. It would have been better if Peter had waited, she thought. Why he felt compel ed to come now . . .

But, she thought, the heart wants what it wants.

When Melanie woke up, soft light was peeking in around the edges of the shades and the damn wren was chirping. She sat up in bed and checked the clock. Six-thirty. Her feet tingled, and it felt like she was suffering from an irregular heartbeat. She had missed Josh, again. And on the worst possible night. Melanie fel back against her pil ows; she was stil in her clothes, and hence, her body had that stiff, grungy, slept-in-her-clothes feeling. She would have to corner Josh this morning somehow. But she would have to be so, so careful because of Vicki and Brenda. Vicki knew, or thought she knew, but how? Did cancer give a person a sixth sense, or was Melanie simply transparent to her best friend? It didn’t real y matter.

Melanie would deny it—and certainly Josh would deny it. But they would have to redouble their efforts to keep it a secret.

Melanie heard voices in the living room. Blaine was awake. Melanie rose from bed and undressed. It was stil hot, stil muggy; even with open windows, her room was a roasting pan. She put on a robe. Outdoor shower, she thought. Talk to Josh, go to Peter’s hotel (meet him in the lobby, where it was safe), get Peter to the airport.

Melanie stepped out into the living room. Her bare feet hit the buttery floorboards at the same time that Peter cleared his throat and launched into Make Way for Ducklings in a soft but charming reading voice. No, Melanie thought. Not possible. But yes—Peter was sitting next to Blaine on the blue sofa, reading. Melanie stopped in her tracks. Peter’s overnight bag sat open behind the sofa; he was wearing his light-green pajamas. Had he slept here? Not possible. Melanie had stood at the window until the cab whisked him away.

Melanie approached the sofa. Peter’s voice was engaging and whimsical as he recited the names of the ducklings: Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack, and Quack. . . . For someone who claimed he had never wanted children, he was doing a remarkable job.

“What are you doing here, Peter?” Melanie said.

He looked up, as though astonished to find her there. “Good morning!” he said. “We’re reading.”

“I told you . . . you said that . . . I thought . . .”

“No hotel rooms,” Peter said. “Every room on the island, booked.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“So did I. But it was true. Because of the heat wave on the East Coast, I guess. So I came back. The door was open. I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“I do mind,” Melanie said.

Blaine’s facial expression was pained; he looked like he was going to burst. “I want Peter to finish reading,” he said. “Please?”

“By al means,” Peter said. He smiled triumphantly at Melanie and continued regaling Blaine with the plight of the Mal ard family.

Melanie stormed out to the shower.

When Melanie emerged, clean and dressed and ready to take Peter to the airport—because this was where they were going, most immediately, before Josh showed up—Blaine was at the kitchen table eating his Cheerios. It might have been any other morning, except for the presence of Peter’s overnight bag, which was as unsettling as a dead animal in the room. Melanie smiled at Blaine; the poor child had been through enough this summer, he did not need to witness the decaying insides of Melanie’s marriage.

“Where’s Peter?”

“At the beach,” Blaine said. “He wanted to see it. And he was wearing his bathing suit. He’s going swimming. I wanted to go with him but he said I had to stay put.”

Melanie sank into a kitchen chair. It was seven-fifteen. She could take the Yukon to the beach, pick up Peter, bring him back to shower and change and get him out of here. But could she do it in forty-five minutes? Would Peter sense urgency and wonder about it, and resist? Would Vicki or Brenda wonder why Melanie was so eager to get Peter out of the house by eight o’clock?

She took a breath. This is all going to blow up in my face.

“Blow up?” Blaine said.

“Did I say that aloud?” Melanie asked.

“What’s going to blow up?” Blaine said.

“Nothing,” Melanie said. “Nothing.”

B e careful. That was the best advice his father had to offer, and the more Josh considered things, the more he realized these were the only words anybody could offer to someone in Josh’s position. Josh wrote the words in his journal: Be careful.

Melanie had pul ed a no-show again last night—so that was twice now. Josh had only waited around until ten-thirty, and he, pointedly, did not drive past Number Eleven on his way home. He had better things to do with his evening hours than track Melanie down. Maybe tonight he would be the one to stay home. Or better stil , maybe he’d cal up Zach and some of his other buddies from high school and go to the Chicken Box. Drink beer, check out the summer girls, dance. But as ever, Josh gave Melanie the benefit of the doubt. She was pregnant after al and, hence, legitimately tired. Or maybe there had been some kind of medical emergency—maybe she had pains, maybe something happened with Vicki.

Melanie wouldn’t stand him up on purpose; she wasn’t like that.

Josh pul ed up in front of Number Eleven. He smel ed bacon and his stomach rumbled. The paper cup of pebbles was in the middle of the flagstone walk. Josh picked it up on his way in.

“Hel o?” Josh said. He set the cup of pebbles in its customary place high up on the windowsil , out of Porter’s reach.

“Hi, Josh,” Vicki said. Her back was to him, she was at the stove, but her voice sounded different. It sounded strained, stressed, stretched. Josh looked over and saw a man at the kitchen table eating a stack of blueberry pancakes.

“Hi,” Josh said. Porter was in his high chair with his bowl of mush, and Blaine was in the seat next to the unfamiliar man, rol ing a Matchbox car along the edge of the table.

The man seemed eager to stand. He bumped the table, and his napkin slid off his lap to the floor as he reached over Blaine and Porter to shake Josh’s hand. The man had extremely long arms.

“Hey,” he said. “How’re you doing? I’m Peter Patchen.”

“Josh Flynn,” Josh said.

He was grateful that his name came automatical y, because shortly thereafter, Josh’s mind switched over to white noise. Peter Patchen. Peter Patchen.

“Hungry?” Vicki said.

“Ummmm,” Josh said. “Ahhhh. Actual y, not real y.”

“No?” Vicki turned around.

Josh shook his head, or he meant to shake his head, but he was too busy staring at Peter Patchen, who was very tal , who was eating blueberry pancakes that in other circumstances would have been meant for Josh. Peter Patchen’s hair was wet, his hair was very black, it was Chinese-black. The man was Asian. So this couldn’t be Peter Patchen because Melanie had never mentioned that Peter Patchen was Asian. Though why would she? Peter Patchen was wearing a white T-shirt with writing on it, some kind of event T-shirt, Corporate Chal enge or some such. And shorts.

Regular khaki shorts. He was in bare feet. So he was staying here, he had stayed here, he had showered here. Josh cast his eyes around the room

—he was a detective, looking for clues, and too, he was looking for Melanie. Where was Melanie? He wanted to see her. She couldn’t keep a secret and she didn’t know how to lie, so her face would tel him what was going on. But come on! Josh told himself. It was apparent what was going on—Peter Patchen, the cheating husband, was here on Nantucket, here in this house, eating pancakes meant for Josh and buddying up to Blaine—asking him about his Matchbox car, which, it just so happened, was a miniature Shelby Cobra that Josh had bought for Blaine when Vicki was so sick with her fever. Peter was holding the car now, turning it in the light, whistling with admiration.

It was very, very hot in the kitchen.

“Hey, Josh.” Brenda passed by him, lightly touching his back, on her way to her coffee. “You met Peter? Melanie’s husband?”

“Yep,” Josh said. Be careful was flashing in neon lights behind his eyelids, and this flashing was accompanied by a high-pitched ringing, like an alarm. But stil , he couldn’t help himself. He said, “Where is Melanie, anyway?”

Both Vicki and Brenda turned to look at him. He could feel them looking, but his eyes were trained on Peter Patchen, Melanie’s husband.

If he answers, Josh thought, I will beat the shit out of him.

But everyone was quiet—extra quiet?—and al Josh could hear was bacon sizzling in the pan, hissing and spitting like it was angry.

Blaine looked up. “She went for a walk,” he said.

What to do? Josh had taken care of the boys for seven weeks, and yet he stood in the kitchen with Vicki making breakfast and Brenda fil ing her thermos with coffee, and Porter and Blaine, and Peter Patchen, who was devouring pancakes like some kind of hungry animal—and Josh couldn’t imagine what his next word or deed should be. Continue on as normal? It was impossible.

Vicki brought a plate of bacon, draining on paper towels, to the table. “Josh, are you okay?”

“You look sick,” Brenda said. “Do you feel al right?”

“Fine,” Josh said.

“Do you want to get stuff ready for the beach?” Vicki said.

“Beach!” Blaine shouted. He looked at Vicki, then at Josh. “Is it al right if Peter comes?”

If Peter comes? Josh thought. He should tel everyone he was sick. He should go home.

“I just went to the beach,” Peter said. “And I have to leave today.”

“Leave today?” Blaine said. “You just got here.”

“This was a quick visit,” Peter said.

“To see Melanie?” Blaine said.

“To see Melanie,” Peter said.

One more word, Josh thought, and I’m going to kill him.

Vicki took Josh’s elbow. “Why don’t you get stuff ready for the beach,” she said. Her voice was kind and indulgent.

She knows, he thought.

“Okay,” he said. “Right.”

Towels, cooler with lunch, snacks and juice, lotion, umbrel a, blanket, orange shovel, pacifier, buckets, change of clothes, extra diapers. Josh knew the routine by heart, he could do it in his sleep, and yet it took him forever to pul it al together. Blaine was chomping at the bit, Porter was in a smiling mood; it should have been ful -steam ahead. But Josh dragged his feet. He was waiting for Melanie to get home. Where was she? He tried to surreptitiously peer into the black overnight bag behind the couch. This was Peter’s bag? Josh felt grateful that it was behind the couch and not in Melanie’s bedroom. Josh wanted to say something to Peter before he left—but what? Peter was stil at the kitchen table yapping to Vicki about this person and that person, friends and enemies back in Connecticut and “the city.”

Josh stood at the front door. He tried to hoist an arm. “Okay, we’re going.”

Vicki looked over. “Okay.”

Peter did not acknowledge Josh’s impending departure. You’d better not be here when I get back, Josh thought. Or I will kill you.

“Do you need anything from the market?” Josh asked. “On the way home?”

Vicki smiled mildly. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Okay,” Josh said. Where was Melanie? “See you.”

Stil no flicker of interest from Peter. Peter thought of Josh as the help. A servant, a slave. Whereas Peter was the husband, the neighbor, the peer, the equal, the chieftain in Melanie’s real life. But Peter Patchen was also a genuine crumb who cheated and lied— that was Melanie’s real life.

Josh trudged down the street, Porter in one arm, his pack-mule load in the other, beach umbrel a slung across his back. The white shel s of the street reflected the sunlight in a way that hurt Josh’s eyes. The glare made Josh squint and gave him a headache; he’d had nothing to eat and his stomach was sour, and he was transporting a hundred pounds at least. He felt weak and shaky in the knees. He was stupid, an idiot; he should have declared himself sick when he had the chance. He encouraged Blaine to walk in the shade.

Josh found Melanie waiting for him at the rotary. She was leaning against the railing outside Claudette’s, where he couldn’t miss her. He saw her and flooded with relief and love, but this was replaced with a rush of fury and suspicion. Be careful blinkered in his mind.

“There’s Melanie,” Blaine said.

“I see her.”

She was al decked out for power walking—the stretchy shorts, the white sneakers. Her hair was in a ponytail, but she’d been sweating and curls fel around her face. Her cheeks were hot and pink. She took up stride alongside of them and reached for the handle of the cooler.

“Let me help.”

“I’ve got it.” Josh’s voice sounded angry, so he said, “You’re carrying your own load.”

“Josh?”

He stopped in his tracks and turned to her. “What?”

Blaine stopped, too, and looked up. “What?”

They both looked at Blaine and continued walking.

“I didn’t know,” she murmured. “I had no idea. It came as a total shock. You have to believe me.”

“What about last night?” he said. “Where were you?”

“I fel asleep.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Where did he stay? With you?”

“He said he was getting a hotel, but he couldn’t find a room, so he came back—this was after I fel asleep—and crashed on the sofa. When I woke up this morning, he was there. No one was more surprised than me . . .”

“Are you guys talking about Peter?” Blaine asked.

“No,” Josh and Melanie said together. The parking lot of the public beach was up ahead. “The beach is crowded today,” Josh said to Blaine. “Do you want to run ahead and save our spot before someone else takes it?”

“Takes our spot?” Blaine said, clearly worried. “Okay.” He dashed off.

“Be careful!” Josh cal ed out.

Be careful. To Melanie, Josh said, “I think we should end things.”

“No,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was thick; his throat felt like it was coated with a film or mucus. “It’s going to be over in a couple of weeks anyway.”

“But that’s a couple of weeks . . .”

“Melanie,” he said. “You’re going back to Peter. He came to take you back.”

“He came to take me back,” she said. “But I said no. I’m staying here until . . .”

“But you wil go back to him eventual y. When you leave.”

She was quiet.

“Right?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“You’re going back to him. Just say it.”

“I don’t want to say it.”

Girls, women, Josh thought. They were the same. Lure you in, trample your heart, but instead of letting you break away clean, there was al this muddling confusion, al this talking.

“I have feelings for you, Josh.”

“I have feelings for you, too,” he said. “Obviously.” He had cal ed it love to his father and he might have used the word with Melanie if it hadn’t been for this morning.

“It’s only two more weeks,” Melanie said. “What’s the point of ending it now?”

What was the point in ending it now? Wel , for one thing, Josh felt in control right now. Sort of. Peter’s visit was a blessing in disguise, maybe; it gave Josh the impetus to get out while his head was stil above water—because the possibility of drowning in Melanie, in his feelings, his love for her, was very real.

Suddenly, Melanie screamed.

Up ahead, Blaine was running through the parking lot toward the sandy entrance of the beach. A car, a behemoth green Suburban with a Thule car carrier and tinted windows, was backing up. There was no way the driver could see Blaine.

Josh yel ed, “Blaine!” He dropped his load and handed Porter to Melanie.

Blaine stopped, turned around. The Suburban was stil backing up. Josh ran, yel ing, “Stop! Get out of the way! Stop! Stop!”

The Suburban bucked to a stop a few feet shy of mowing Blaine over. Josh raced to Blaine, scooped him up. The window of the Suburban went down, and a woman who looked sort of like Vicki poked her head out, her hand to her chest.

“I didn’t see him,” she said. “Thank God you yel ed. I just didn’t see him at al .”

Josh was too keyed up to speak. He clung to Blaine for a second, while the vision of Blaine struck in the head by the Suburban’s bumper and Blaine crumpling to the ground before being flattened under the Suburban’s crushing weight played its course, then evaporated with a shudder.

Thank God, he thought. Thank God. There was bad like he was going through with Melanie, and then there was really bad.

“You have to be careful, buddy,” Josh said. Relief flowed through him so fast, it made him dizzy. “Jesus God, Lord Almighty, thank you. Holy shit.

Oh, man, you have to watch. You could have been kil ed. Geez.”

Melanie hurried over to them; Porter’s legs were straddling her. “Thank God you’re okay,” she said. “Thank God you didn’t get hit.”

Blaine looked like he was about to dissolve into tears. He grabbed Josh around the waist. “I was trying to save a spot at the beach, like you told me to.”

“Right,” Josh said. “I know. It’s not your fault. But you have to watch.”

“I’m sorry,” Blaine said.

“I shouldn’t have told you to run ahead.” Josh took Porter out of Melanie’s arms. He’d been lucky, this time. He felt like that was some kind of sign.

“Okay.” He corral ed Blaine into the space beside him. “Stay with me.”

Melanie touched Josh’s arm. “We’l talk about things . . . later?” she said.

“No,” Josh said. “I don’t think so.”

“What?”

“Good-bye, Melanie.” And without turning back, he headed up over the sand dune with the kids, to the beach.

Vicki’s last dose of chemo should have been cause for celebration. She had seen other patients show up on the day of their final treatment with roses for Mamie or banana bread for Dr. Alcott. But Vicki was too anxious to feel relief about the end of her regimen, and hence, she did nothing to mark it. She was used to doing things correctly, completely, and in a timely fashion—however, in regard to her chemo, she had failed. There was the day she’d skipped, fol owed by the five days of fever, and the subsequent lower dosage. The most important protocol of her thirty-two years, short of giving birth, and she’d gone at it half-assed. If she went for her CT scan and they found cancer al through her lungs, she shouldn’t be surprised. She would deserve it.

The CT scan was scheduled for Tuesday, and Ted would be there. He had arrived on Friday, as usual, but this time with greater fanfare because he was staying. He was staying for the rest of the summer, until it was time to pack up the Yukon and drive it back home to Connecticut. He seemed different—happier, giddy even, at times. He was in vacation mode. Vicki could only guess how good it felt to leave the pressure of the market and Wal Street behind, along with the concrete blocks of Manhattan baking in the sun, the drudgery of the commute on the train, the confines of summer-weight suits, and, in Ted’s case, the big, empty house. He reveled in being cut loose from al of that; he would final y be able to enjoy summer without the pal of Sunday evening hanging over his head. He walked around the cottage in his bathing trunks and a polo shirt and his flip-flops. He sang in the outdoor shower, he roughhoused with the boys, he suggested they go for ice cream every night after dinner. Vicki enjoyed his good mood, but she was worried by it, too. Because it was evident that part of Ted’s gleeful demeanor was due to his unflagging belief that Vicki was getting better.

You look great, he kept saying. God, you look wonderful. You’ve beat it, Vick. You’ve beat it.

Ever since Vicki was diagnosed, she’d been hearing about the power of visualization and positive thinking. But Vicki’s mind had never worked that way. She was afraid to imagine herself clean of cancer—because what if she tempted fate? Jinxed herself? What if the CT scan showed her lungs riddled with diseased cel s, worse than ever? Or what if the tumor was exactly as it had been back in the spring—stubborn, immovable, straddling the line of surgical feasibility?

Ted’s good mood would not be deterred. He kissed Vicki’s scalp where her hair was slowly but surely growing back in—though the color was darker than Vicki’s original blond, and it was tinged with gray. Ted’s sexual appetite had returned with a vengeance; he basical y bribed Brenda with cash to take the kids on Saturday and Sunday mornings so he could lounge in bed with Vicki. You look great, he said. You look beautiful.

You’re yourself again. You’ve beat it.

“I haven’t beat it,” Vicki said angrily to Ted on Monday. In fact, when she woke up that morning, her breathing was labored, her chest was tight; she had to suck air in and squeeze it out. The mere fact that she had to think about her breathing was a very bad indicator. “Even if the tumor has shrunk, they stil have to operate.”

Ted looked at her like she’d insulted him. “I know,” he said. “Baby, I know.”

As the hour of her appointment on Tuesday approached, Vicki grew more and more tense. Her hands shook as she flipped pancakes and turned bacon for Ted’s breakfast. Josh came and took the kids. Josh had been quieter than usual over the past week. He seemed withdrawn, though Vicki didn’t have the time or wherewithal to ask him if everything was al right. Stil , Josh made a point of giving Vicki a hug and a kiss before he left with the kids for the beach.

“Good luck today,” he whispered.

“Thanks,” she whispered back.

Later, she spent a long minute locked in an embrace with Melanie, who looked dangerously close to weeping. There should be a handbook, Vicki thought, for the friends and relatives of people with cancer, and in this handbook it should be mandated that the friend/relative be neither too upbeat (Ted) nor too gloomy (Melanie) about one’s chance of survival. The friend/relative, Vicki thought as Melanie clung to her, should act like Josh. Josh had wished her luck. Luck was useful. Luck, perhaps more than anything else, was what she would need.

“I’m going to be okay,” Vicki said. “I’m going to be fine.” This is just great, Vicki thought . I’m the one whose head is on the chopping block and I’m comforting Melanie.

“Oh, I know,” Melanie said quickly, wiping at her eyes. “It’s just al this stuff. The summer. Peter, the pregnancy. You. It’s a lot, you know?”

“I know,” Vicki said.

Brenda insisted on coming along with Ted and Vicki. “I’ve been with you al summer,” she said. “And I am not missing today. Today is the big day.”

Yes, the big day. There had been any number of big days in Vicki’s life: her first day of kindergarten; the opening night of the school play with Vicki in the lead; the night of her first school dance, where she received her first kiss. There were Christmases, graduations, first days on the job, there was the day Duke won the NCAA Tournament, there was her wedding day, the nine perfect days of her honeymoon in Hawaii, there was the day she found out she was pregnant, the day she gave birth, the day she and Ted closed on the house in Darien, there were nights of charity benefits, three of which she had co-chaired, there were nights in New York City at restaurants and Broadway shows. There were days cluttered with commitments (the Yukon serviced, root canal, a field trip with Blaine’s preschool, free box tickets for the Yankees–Red Sox game). Al of these were big days, but none as big as today. Today would be the day Vicki looked at her cancer a second time and heard Dr. Alcott, or Dr. Garcia on a conference cal from Fairfield Hospital, say, Better? Worse? Live? Die?

Nothing prepared a person for this, Vicki thought as she fastened her seat belt. Ted was driving; Brenda was in the backseat. When Vicki checked on Brenda in the rearview mirror, she saw Brenda’s lips moving.

Nothing.

As they pul ed into the hospital parking lot, Brenda’s cel phone rang.

“That would be our mother,” Brenda said.

“I can’t talk to her,” Vicki said. “I’m nervous enough as it is. Can you talk to her?”

“She doesn’t want me,” Brenda said. “She wants you.”

“Give her to Ted,” Vicki said.

Ted swung into a parking spot and took the phone from Brenda. That was for the best. El en Lyndon would be reassured by Ted’s optimism.

Brenda took Vicki’s hand as they headed for the door. She patted her bag. “I brought the book.”

Vicki raised a questioning eyebrow.

“The Innocent Impostor. My good luck charm. My talisman.”

“Oh,” Vicki said. “Thanks.”

“And I’ve been praying for you,” Brenda said. “Real y praying.”

“Praying?” Vicki said. And that reminded her. “You know, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Yeah?” Brenda said. “What is it?”

Ted strode up alongside them. “Your mother wants us to cal her as soon as we know anything.”

“Okay,” Vicki said.

“I don’t get it,” Brenda said. “Does she think we’l forget about her?”

“She’s a mother,” Ted said.

“What did you want to ask me, Vick?” Brenda said.

Vicki shook her head. “Later,” she said. Though she was running out of time.

“Later for what?” Ted said.

“Nothing,” Vicki said.

Brenda narrowed her eyes at the front of the hospital, the gray shingles, the white trim, the blue-and-white quarterboard that said NANTUCKET

COTTAGE HOSPITAL. “Do you realize this is the last time we’re coming here?” she said. “Strange, but I think I’m going to miss this place.”

For al the anticipation and al the worry, for every strained breath and the eight fitful hours of sleep the night before, Vicki found that the actual CT

scan itself wasn’t that bad. The hospital was short-staffed, it seemed, because the person who administered the CT scan was . . . Amelia, from oncology.

“Yeah,” Amelia said in a bored response to Vicki’s excitement about seeing a familiar face. “I cover in radiology when they need me. What can I say? I’m multitalented. Now, everything above the waist comes off, including your . . . necklace.”

The necklace was a piece of blue yarn strung with dried rigatoni that had been colored with Magic Marker, a present from Blaine on Mother’s Day that he’d made in preschool. Vicki didn’t have a good luck charm like Brenda did; the necklace would have to suffice. Vicki removed her clothes, put on the paper robe that Amelia handed her, and clenched the necklace.

Amelia spoke formal y, like an operator from a catalog, the ones whose cal s were being monitored for customer service purposes. “Would you please lie on the examining table?” she said, indicating the narrow table with a Vanna White–like flourish of her hands.

Vicki complied, adjusting her paper robe. Amelia manipulated the machine into place. “I suggest you take four to five deep breaths in preparation.”

“In preparation for what?” Vicki said.

“I’m going to ask you to hold your breath for twenty seconds,” Amelia said. “Some patients find they like to exercise their lungs before commencing this process.”

“Okay,” Vicki said. She sucked air in and squeezed it out; her lungs felt like faulty bel ows.

“In those twenty seconds, this machine wil take nearly five hundred pictures of your lungs.” Now, Amelia’s voice was smug; she was obviously proud of the machine.

Could Vicki hold her breath for twenty seconds? She took one look at the ebony and silver stud protruding from Amelia’s lower lip, and closed her eyes. Last night, in bed, Vicki had promised herself that she wouldn’t think about Blaine and Porter, but as she silently counted out twenty Mississippis, they came to her anyway, only they weren’t little boys; they had transmogrified into insects with gossamer wings. They flew, they dove, they hovered over Vicki as she lay on the table. They were dragonflies.

Nothing prepared a person for this. The five hundred pictures from the CT scan were loaded onto Dr. Alcott’s computer, but he said he wouldn’t have a conclusive answer for Vicki until later in the day. He wanted to look the results over; he wanted to think about them. Dr. Garcia would be examining the scan simultaneously in Connecticut, and the two of them would confer by telephone. Discuss the next step.

“How long do you think that wil take?” Vicki asked. She had expected the answer to be clear-cut; she had expected an immediate verdict. She wasn’t sure she could wait any longer than a few minutes.

“I real y can’t say. Depending on what we see, a few hours to a day or so.”

“Another day?” Vicki said. “So we just can’t . . . go out into the waiting room?”

“I’l cal you at home,” Dr. Alcott said. His voice was serious, businesslike. He was not his usual chummy, fisherman self. Vicki’s spirit cracked and oozed like an egg.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Ted said. They shook hands.

Vicki couldn’t bring herself to say anything, not even good-bye. The delay disheartened her. It’s over, she thought. Palliative care.

They filed out into the hal way, and Dr. Alcott closed his door. Brenda groaned.

“Here comes that girl,” she said.

Vicki was so racked with anxiety that she didn’t ask which girl Brenda was talking about. But then she saw a girl walking toward them, scowling.

She was blond and disheveled-looking. Vicki remembered her now, though only vaguely, from their first visit here. The port instal ation.

“She stopped me in the ladies’ room one day,” Brenda whispered. “And accused me of al kinds of nonsense. I guess she knows Josh.”

Vicki nodded. She could not have cared less. She sucked air in and squeezed air out. Breathing was so difficult, she thought she might flatline right there. And her hand hurt. She gazed down. Ted was squeezing her hand so hard her fingers were turning white. He sensed bad news, too.

Pal iative care. Hospice. Outside, an ambulance whined, there was a flurry of activity as they walked past emergency. In one of the waiting rooms, the TV news was on : The president was cracking down along the Mexican border.

Vicki closed her eyes. Everything around her, absolutely everything, fel on her List of Things That No Longer Matter. Everything except her life, everything except her children. Blaine and Porter would be at the beach with Josh, digging in the sand, enjoying their snack, playing with their summer friends. But when Vicki tried to picture them ensconced in this idyl ic scene, nothing came. Her mind was black. She thought about the boys as dragonflies. (To see them as dragonflies had been comforting, but why?) Again, nothing. She opened her eyes and turned to Ted. “Do you have a picture of the boys?”

Ted’s eyes were trained on the girl from admitting; she was approaching them with purpose. She wore a red cotton sundress that was too short and a pair of battered gold bal et slippers with ribbons that laced up her ankles. Vicki blinked—the girl’s bra straps were showing, she wore hastily applied makeup, her blond hair was uncombed. What did she want? Ted absentmindedly handed Vicki a snapshot of the kids from his wal et.

Brenda narrowed her eyes at the girl and shook her head. “Whatever you have to say, we don’t want to hear it.”

“I think you do want to hear it,” Didi said.

“No, we don’t,” Brenda said.

“What is it?” Ted asked.

“Josh is sleeping with your friend,” Didi said. “The one who’s pregnant.”

“Whoa-ho!” Ted said. “That’s a pretty big accusation.” He looked at Vicki first, then Brenda. His brow creased. “You’re talking about Melanie, right? Melanie? How do you know this? Did Josh tell you this?”

“Go away,” Brenda said. “Please.”

“My brother saw them together,” Didi said. “Out in Monomoy. In the middle of the night.”

“Your brother?” Ted said.

“She’s ful of shit, Ted,” Brenda said. “I don’t know what your problem is with our family, but we real y need you to leave us alone. We’re under a lot of stress here.”

Stress, Vicki thought. There should be another word.

“Fine,” Didi said. She crossed her arms over her chest in a way that seemed diffident. “But I’m not ful of shit. They are sleeping together.” She spun on her heels and marched away.

Yes, Vicki thought. The girl was probably right. Josh and Melanie. Strange, nearly unbelievable, and yet Vicki had picked up on a bunch of clues that made her believe the girl was correct. Josh and Melanie together: It should have been the biggest revelation of the summer, but Vicki threw it into the basket with everything else. It didn’t matter.

At home, the routine went to pot. Josh returned with the kids.

“How did it go?” he asked.

“We don’t know,” Ted said. “The doctor is going to cal later.”

“Oh,” Josh said. He looked at Vicki quizzical y. “You okay, Boss?”

Melanie and Josh, she thought. Possible? She couldn’t waste time wondering. Palliative care. A year, maybe two. Blaine would be six, Porter three. Blaine would remember her, Porter probably not. There would be long hospital visits and drugs that put her mind on Pluto. Vicki felt like she was going to faint. She col apsed in a chair.

“Ted, can you take the kids out, please? I can’t deal.”

“Take them out where? What about Porter’s nap?”

“Drive him around until he fal s asleep. I can’t lie down. What if the phone rings?”

Josh cleared his throat. “Okay, I’m going to go, then.”

Blaine protested. “What about a story, Josh? What about Kiss the Cow?”

“You’re going with Daddy,” Vicki said.

Josh slipped out with a wave; he seemed eager to leave.

“I don’t know about this, Vick,” Ted said. “You’re going to sit here by yourself and obsess.”

“I’l take the kids,” Brenda said. “That way you can both sit here and obsess.”

Vicki felt like screaming, We are talking about my health, my body, my life!

“Go,” she said. She hid in her hot bedroom with the door closed. She opened the window; she turned on the fan. She sat on the edge of the bed.

Al over the world mothers were dying. Pal iative care: steps that could be taken to prolong her life. There was a question she needed to ask Brenda, but they never seemed to get a minute alone so Vicki could ask her. Because Melanie was always there? Melanie, twirling outside the dressing room. Are you sure there’s not something else going on? Melanie and Josh. But when? Where? And why wouldn’t Melanie have told her? But maybe the answer to that was obvious. She thought Vicki would be mad. Would Vicki be mad? She sat on the edge of the bed with her feet on the floor. Her feet, her toes, her body. Ted tapped on the door.

“Come in,” she said.

He handed her the phone. “It’s Dr. Alcott.”

So soon? But when she checked the clock, she saw it was quarter to four. “Hel o?” she said.

“Vicki? Hi, it’s Mark.”

“Hi,” she said.

“First of al , let me tel you that Dr. Garcia has scheduled your surgery for September first.”

“My surgery?” Vicki said. “So it worked? The chemo?”

Ted clapped his hands like he might have at a sporting event.

“It worked exactly the way it was supposed to,” Dr. Alcott said. “The tumor has shrunk significantly, and it has receded from the chest wal . The thoracic surgeon should be able to go in and get it al out. And . . . assuming the cancer hasn’t metastasized, your chances of remission are good.”

“You’re kidding me,” Vicki said. She thought she might laugh, or cry, but al she felt was breathless wonder. “You are kidding me.”

“Wel , there’s the surgery,” Dr. Alcott said. “Which is never risk-free. And then there’s the chance that the surgeon wil miss something or that we’ve missed something. There’s a chance the cancer wil turn up somewhere else—but this is just my ultra-cautious side talking. Overal , if the surgery works out like it should, then yes, remission.”

“Remission,” Vicki repeated.

Ted crushed Vicki in a bear hug. Vicki was afraid to feel anything resembling joy or relief, because what if it was a mistake, what if he was lying .

. . ?

“This is good news? I should feel happy?”

“It could have been a whole lot worse,” he said. “This is just one step, but it’s an important step. So, yes, be happy. Absolutely.”

Vicki hung up the phone. Ted said, “I’m going to cal your mother. I promised her.” He left the room, and Vicki sank back down on the bed. On the nightstand lay the snapshot of the boys, the one Ted had handed her at the hospital. It was of Blaine and Porter in a red vinyl booth at Friendly’s.

They had been eating clown sundaes, and Porter’s face was smeared with chocolate. Vicki had taken them for lunch one day last winter because it was cold and snowy and she had wanted to get out of the house. It had been just a random day, just one of hundreds she had al but forgotten. Just one of thousands that she had taken for granted.

Looking back, Brenda couldn’t believe she had ever been worried. Of course Vicki’s news was good, of course the tumor had shrunk, of course surgery would be successful and Vicki would beat lung cancer. The woman was the luckiest person on the planet. Her life was Teflon—mess happened, but it didn’t stick.

And why, Brenda wondered, should Vicki be the only one with luck? Why shouldn’t Brenda be able to emerge from her own morass of problems in a similarly exultant way? Why shouldn’t Brenda and Vicki be like sister superheroes, overcoming adversity in a single summer, together?

Ted had brought his laptop with him, but he only used it to send e-mail and check the market in the morning. Sure, Brenda could use it. Of course!

Because of the good news of the CT scan, the whole house was in a generous frame of mind. Brenda took advantage of this—she set herself up on the back deck with the laptop and a thermos of coffee and her stack of yel ow legal pads and she got to work typing in The Innocent Impostor, the screenplay. She was able to revise as she went along, she used an online thesaurus, she referenced a copy of The Screenwriter’s Bible that she had checked out of the Nantucket Atheneum. The movie script had started out as a lark, but it had become something real. Was this how Pol ock had felt? He’d dripped paint over a canvas in an approximation of child’s play—and somehow it became art? Brenda tried not to think about Walsh or Jackson Pol ock or one hundred and twenty-five thousand dol ars as she worked. She tried not to think: What am I going to do if I don’t sell it? Her mind flickered to the phone number she had programmed into her cel phone for Amy Feldman, her student whose father was the president of Marquee Films. To Brenda’s recol ection, Amy Feldman had liked The Innocent Impostor as much as anyone else; she had turned in a solid midterm paper comparing Calvin Dare to a character from Rick Moody’s novel The Ice Storm. Had Amy Feldman heard about what happened to Dr. Lyndon right before the end of the semester? Of course she had. The students were official y told that Dr. Lyndon resigned for personal reasons; the last two classes were cancel ed, and Dr. Atela took responsibility for grading the final papers. But the scandalous stories—

sex, grade inflation, vandalism—would have been blown up and distorted, told and told again until they reached cinematic proportions. What did Amy Feldman think of Brenda now? Would she pass the screenplay on to her father, or would she throw it into a Dumpster? Or burn it, in effigy, on Champion’s campus?

Brenda typed until her back was stiff, her butt sore from sitting.

Occasional y, the other people in the cottage checked on her. People passing to and from the outdoor shower, for example.

TED

How’s it going?

BRENDA

Fine.

BRENDA stops, looks up. She is eager to get some of her eggs out of Amy Feldman’s basket.

Hey, do you have any clients who are in the movie business?

TED

Movie business?

BRENDA

Yeah. Or made-for-TV movies?

One hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars, BRENDA thinks. She can’t be picky about medium.

Or just regular TV?

TED

Mmmmmmmmm. I don’t think so.

VICKI

(touching BRENDA’s back)

How’s it going?

BRENDA

Fine.

VICKI

Can I bring you anything?

BRENDA

Yeah, how about a pile of money?

BRENDA clamps her mouth closed. She hadn’t said anything to anybody about the money and she won’t until she is desperate. She isn’t desperate now; she is working.

VICKI

(laughing, as though what BRENDA said was funny)

How about a sandwich? I can make tuna.

BRENDA

No thanks.

VICKI

You have to eat.

BRENDA

You’re right, Mom. How about a bag of Oreos?

MELANIE

How’s it going?

BRENDA

BRENDA stops typing and looks up.

Fine. How’s it going with you?

There was the outlandish assertion by DIDI-from-admitting on the day of VICKI’s CT scan—BRENDA, unbeknownst to anyone, had cal ed the hospital administration to complain—and ever since then, BRENDA had been watching MELANIE closely, especial y when JOSH was around. But she saw no interaction between them. They barely spoke. When MELANIE walked into a room, JOSH walked out.

MELANIE

(taken aback by BRENDA’s sudden interest)

I’m okay.

MELANIE’s voice is melancholy. It harkens back to their first days in the house, when MELANIE moped al the time. There had been some recent phone cal s from Peter, but MELANIE spoke in a clipped tone and ended the cal s quickly.

I’m bummed about the end of summer.

BRENDA

Wel , that makes two of us.

MELANIE

What are you doing after we leave?

BRENDA

(focusing on the computer screen, ruing her decision to engage MELANIE in this much conversation) That remains to be seen. How about you?

MELANIE

Ditto.

There is a long pause, during which BRENDA fears MELANIE is trying to read the computer screen.

MELANIE burps.

MELANIE

Sorry, I have heartburn.

BRENDA

You’re on your own there.

JOSH

How’s it going?

BRENDA

Fine.

JOSH

Do you think you’l sel it?

BRENDA

I have no idea. I hope so.

BRENDA thinks, Hell, it can’t hurt.

You don’t know anyone in the business, do you?

JOSH

Wel , there’s Chas Gorda, my creative-writing professor at Middlebury. The writer-in-residence, actual y. He had his novel, Talk, made into a film back in 1989. He might know somebody. I could ask him when I go back.

BRENDA

Would you? That would be great.

JOSH

Sure.

BRENDA

When do you go back?

JOSH

Two weeks.

BRENDA

Are you looking forward to it?

JOSH

(staring into the cottage, where—by chance?—MELANIE sits at the kitchen table reading the Boston Globe) I guess so. I don’t know.

BRENDA

(thinking, Horrible Didi was right. Something is going on between them. Something the rest of us were too self-absorbed to notice.) BRENDA smiles kindly at JOSH, remembering back to when he lent her the quarter at the hospital, remembering back to when they kissed in the front yard.

Maybe someday I’l be adapting one of your novels.

JOSH

(looking at BRENDA but diverted by something—someone?—inside the cottage)

You never know.

BLAINE

(eating a red Popsicle)

Popsicle juice drips down BLAINE’s chin in a good approximation of blood.

What are you doing?

BRENDA

Working.

BLAINE

On Dad’s computer?

BRENDA

Yep.

BLAINE

Are you working on your movie?

BRENDA

Mmmhmm.

BLAINE

Is it like Scooby Doo?

BRENDA

No, it’s nothing like Scooby Doo. Remember I said it’s a movie for grown-ups?

BLAINE reaches out to touch the computer.

Ah, ah, don’t touch. Do not touch Dad’s computer with those sticky hands. Go wash.

BLAINE

Wil you play Chutes and Ladders with me?

BRENDA

I can’t now, Blaine. I’m working.

BLAINE

When you take a break, wil you play?

BRENDA

When I take a break, yes.

BLAINE

When’s that—

BRENDA

I don’t know. Now, please . . .

BRENDA checks the cottage. She wonders, Where’s Josh? Where’s Vicki? Where’s Ted?

Auntie Brenda has to work.

BLAINE

How come?

BRENDA

Because. (in a whisper) I have to make money.

Brenda finished typing in the screenplay for The Innocent Impostor on the third day, in the middle of the night. She was sitting on the sofa with Ted’s computer resting on Aunt Liv’s dainty coffee table. There was a breeze coming in through the back screen door. ’Sconset was quiet except for the crickets and an occasional dog bark. Brenda typed in the last page, the scene where Calvin Dare, as an older gentleman with his career behind him, enjoys an afternoon of quiet reflection with his wife, Emily. Dare and Emily look on as their grandchildren frolic in the yard. The scene was taken directly from the last page of the book; it was the scene that gave critics pause. Was it right for Dare to enjoy such bliss when he had al but coopted the life of the man that he had al but kil ed? Brenda meant to include some kind of questioning imagery in her cinematography notes—

but for now, dialogue and direction were . . . DONE! She stared at the computer screen. Fade out. Rol credits. DONE!

Brenda pushed Save and backed up the screenplay on a disc. It was twenty minutes after one, and she was wide awake. She poured herself a glass of wine and drank it sitting at the kitchen table. Her body ached from so much sitting; her eyes were tired. She cracked her knuckles. DONE!

Euphoria like she thought she would never feel again. This was the way she’d felt when she finished her dissertation; this was the way she’d felt when she finished grading final papers her first semester at Champion. Job completed, job wel done. Tomorrow she would worry about what to do with the damn thing; for tonight, she would just savor the euphoria.

She finished the glass of wine and poured herself another. The house was fil ed with the sounds of people breathing, or so Brenda imagined.

She thought about Walsh—then blocked him out. She found her cel phone on the side table and carried it and her wine out to the back deck. She scrol ed through her numbers.

What was she doing? It was quarter to two; any normal person would be asleep. But Brenda couldn’t afford to let that matter. She was excited about her screenplay now; in the morning, when it was printed out, she might find flaws, she might question its big-screen potential.

She dialed Amy Feldman’s number and tried, in the split second of silence before their lines connected, to remember everything she could about Amy Feldman. Brenda had now spent enough time with Blaine to know that Amy Feldman looked like Velma from Scooby-Doo. She was short and squat with a grandmotherly bosom, she had short hair, she wore square glasses with dark frames, and she kept the glasses on a chain so that, when the glasses were off, they rested on her bosom. Amy Feldman was like an intel ectual beatnik from forty years ago, and this, somehow, translated into her being cool, or if not cool, then at least accepted. The other girl-women in the class had seemed to like her; they’d listened respectful y when she spoke, though this may have been because of her father, Ron Feldman. Brenda’s class had been, she saw now, a class of aspiring actresses, playing themselves up not only for Walsh but for Amy Feldman. Amy Feldman was majoring in Japanese. What was she doing this summer? Was she traveling in Japan? Had she stayed in New York? If only Brenda had known that she would be fired, and sued, and then in the hole to the tune of a hundred and twenty-five thousand dol ars and hence dependent on the proceeds of a screenplay she had to sel , she would have paid more attention to Amy Feldman. As it was, what stuck in her mind were the glasses on a chain and the Japanese.

Like a thunderbolt Brenda recal ed overhearing Amy Feldman talking to Walsh about sushi, a place cal ed Uni in the Vil age that absolutely no one knows about, that was undiscovered and completely authentic. Just like the sushi they have on Asakusa Road in Tokyo.

You’ve been to Tokyo? Walsh, fel ow world traveler, had asked.

I was with my father, Amy said, in a voice that was meant to impress. On location.

Amy Feldman, quite possibly, had been in love with Walsh, too.

Three rings, four rings, five rings. Brenda wondered if she was cal ing Amy Feldman’s apartment or her cel phone. If she got voice mail, would she leave a message? A message was too hard to ignore, Brenda decided; Brenda wanted to connect with Amy Feldman in person.

“Yes?”

Someone answered! The voice was male, older, and overly pleasant, as if to say, in the nicest possible way, Why am I answering the phone at two o’clock in the morning?

“Hi,” Brenda said, in what she hoped was a sprightly voice, to let this person know that she was neither drunk nor an obscene cal er. “Is Amy there?”

“Amy?” the man said. Then, in a curious voice to someone else, he asked, “Is Amy here?” The other voice, female, murmured a response. The man said, “Yes. She’s here, but she’s sleeping.”

“Right,” Brenda said. Hold it together, Brenda thought. This was not Amy Feldman’s cel phone, nor was it her apartment (insofar as Brenda meant “apartment”: some col ege dive with roommates, laundry in the basement, and a hot plate). This was Amy Feldman’s home number, her family home, probably some extremely fine pad overlooking Central Park. Amy Feldman lives at home, Brenda thought. And I am now talking to her father, Ron Feldman.

Ron Feldman said, “Would you like me to leave Amy a message?” Again, his voice was so pleasant that there was no possibility he was sincere.

“This is Brenda Lyndon cal ing,” Brenda said. She was speaking very quietly because she didn’t want to wake up anybody in the cottage. “Doctor Lyndon? I was Amy’s professor last semester at Champion.”

“Ohhhh-kay,” Ron Feldman said. “Do I have to write this down or can you cal back in the morning?” It was clear he would prefer the latter, but Brenda was as shameless as a telemarketer. She had to keep him on the phone!

“Would you mind terribly writing it down?” she asked.

“Al right,” he said. “Let me find a pen.” To his wife, he said, “Hon, a pen. It’s a professor of Amy’s from Champion . . . I have no goddamned idea why.” To Brenda he said, “What’s your name again?”

“Brenda Lyndon. Lyndon with a y. ”

“Brenda Lyndon,” Ron Feldman repeated. The voice in the background raised an octave. Ron Feldman said, “What? Okay, wait. Honey, wait.” To Brenda, he said, “I’m going to put you on hold for one second. Is that al right?”

“Al right,” Brenda said.

The line went silent, and Brenda kicked herself. She was a complete idiot. She had decided, only seconds before making this phone cal , that she wasn’t going to leave a message, and here she was leaving a message. And this was the one and only time she would be able to cal ; she couldn’t stalk the Feldman household.

The line clicked. Ron Feldman said, “Are you there? Dr. Lyndon?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the one who got in al the trouble?” he said. “With the student from Australia? You’re the one who nicked up the original Jackson Pol ock?”

At that second, a light went on in one of the cottages that backed up to Number Eleven Shel Street. In the newly brightened window, Brenda saw the face of a woman her mother’s age who appeared to be throwing back some pil s and drinking water. Aspirin? Brenda thought.

Antidepressants? Pil s for arthritis? High blood pressure? Osteoporosis? When you peered into the windows of someone else’s life, you could only guess what was going on.

“Wel ,” Brenda said. “Yes, I guess I am.”

“We heard al about you,” Ron Feldman said. “Or my wife did, anyway. Amy told us you were a good teacher, though. She liked your class. She liked that book you taught.”

“The Innocent Impostor?” Brenda said.

“The Innocent Impostor, hon?” Ron Feldman said. “Um, we can’t remember the name, neither of us had ever heard of it. Anyway, Dr. Lyndon, it’s late, but we wil pass on to Amy . . .”

“Because that’s why I’m cal ing.”

“What is?”

“The Innocent Impostor, the book Amy liked, the book you’ve never heard of. I turned it into a screenplay. I have it right here in front of me, as an adapted screenplay.”

“Waaaaaaaait a minute,” Ron Feldman said. “Are you . . . ?” He laughed, but he no longer sounded overly pleasant or polite; he sounded suspicious, verging on angry. “Did you cal here to pitch me?”

“Ummmmm . . . ,” Brenda said.

“You cal here in the middle of the night pretending to look for Amy when real y you want to pitch me your screenplay?”

“No, no, I . . .”

“I’ve had people do it a hundred different ways. They leave the script with the maître d’ at Gotham, because that’s where I eat, or they bribe my doorman or my driver—or hel , they get jobs as my doorman or my driver just so they can get a script in my hands. I am not surprised to find that you, a recently fired Champion professor, have a screenplay, because everyone on God’s green earth has a screenplay, including my periodontist’s nephew, including my secretary’s brother who’s currently doing time in Sing Sing. But this is total y fucked-up. This is like nothing else. You . . . caught me with my guard down. Me! How did you get this number?”

“Your daughter gave it to me,” Brenda said.

“Dandy,” he said. “Dan-dee.”

“You said she liked the book, right?” Brenda said.

He paused. “What’s the name of the goddamned book?”

“The Innocent Impostor. ”

“There’s your first problem right there. You have to change the title. No one wants to see a movie about an innocent anything.”

“Change the title? ” Brenda said.

There was more yammering in the background. “Okay, right, yes. I stand corrected. My wife makes a point about The Age of Innocence. Edith Wharton, Martin Scorsese, nominated for an Oscar. Fine, okay, fine. Go ahead.”

“Go ahead, what?”

“Pitch it. I’l give you thirty seconds. Go!”

“Uh, wel ,” Brenda said, thinking, Speak! She knew the book inside and out; it was her passion, her baby. “It’s a period piece, seventeen hundreds, this man, Calvin Dare, our protagonist, is tying up his horse in front of a tavern and there’s lightning and his horse startles and kicks this other man, Thomas Beech, in the head and kil s him.”

“I’m practical y asleep.”

“So then the first man, Calvin Dare, goes through this process where he becomes Thomas Beech. He takes Beech’s job, he marries Beech’s fiancée, he lives Beech’s life for him, basical y, and sheds his own identity so that he can become Beech. Because Beech’s life was better than his, maybe. Or . . . because he feels guilty about kil ing Beech.”

“That’s it?” Ron Feldman said.

“Wel , no, but you’d have to read . . .”

“Thank you for cal ing, Dr. Lyndon.”

“Can I send you . . .”

“Here’s an idea: Write a screenplay about a professor who has sex with one of her students and then destroys mil ions of dol ars of university-owned art. We’re talking about smal release for sure, but that, at least, has half a story line. The other thing, no.”

“No?”

“Good night, Dr. Lyndon.”

“Oh,” Brenda said. In the other cottage, the light went off. The woman disappeared from view. “Good night.”

Josh was going to quit.

There was only a week and a half of babysitting left anyway, and now that Ted was around, Vicki had cut back Josh’s hours nearly every day.

Bring the kids home early. We’re going to take them out to lunch. Drop them off at the casino. Ted is playing tennis. Josh heard talk about another evening picnic out at Smith’s Point but he had yet to be invited, and if they did invite him, he would say no. And yet, the fact that they didn’t invite him bothered him. Was Josh no longer “part of the family”? Were they through with him? Was he expendable? Wel , yeah, he’d have to be an idiot not to sense things coming to a close. After al , Vicki’s chemo was over, it had been successful, she was gearing up for her surgery, which would be in Connecticut. Brenda had finished her screenplay and was now consumed with printing it, nestling it into cardboard boxes, and sending it out, cold, to studios. And Ted was here for his vacation. So there was no reason to include Josh on the family outing; they probably thought it wise to cut Josh loose from the kids now, otherwise the separation would be too hard on them. That was al fine and wel , and yet Josh was hurt. He had been more a part of this family than anyone knew, because of Melanie. And yet, it was because of Melanie that Josh, ultimately, wanted to quit. He couldn’t stand to be around Melanie, just to see her was excruciating. She had cornered him once since the day of Peter’s visit. She’d begged him to meet her at the beach parking lot, she’d be waiting there as usual, ten o’clock. They needed closure, she said. Closure, Josh was pretty sure, meant a long, painful conversation as wel as, probably, some good-bye sex, and that would be akin to ripping the Band-Aid off the fresh wound in his heart and would set it bleeding al over again.

Josh told Melanie no.

He was going to quit. The story of his summer was over.

When Josh walked into Number Eleven Shel Street with his resignation speech written in his mind, the house was silent. Ted, Melanie, and Brenda sat at the kitchen table, staring at one another. Through the screen door, Josh could see the kids in the backyard, rol ing a bal in the grass. This was highly unusual. Vicki didn’t like the boys hanging out in the backyard because she had found poisonous mushrooms along the fence line and the rosebushes attracted wasps. The front yard was much safer, according to Vicki, as long as they were always with an adult, which they always were. So out back, unsupervised—something was wrong.

“What’s wrong?” Josh said.

The three of them looked up—Josh looked at Ted’s face and Brenda’s face, both of which communicated dire happenings. Josh could not look at Melanie. And where was Vicki? The door to her bedroom was closed.

“It’s nothing,” Brenda said. “Vicki just has a headache.”

“Oh,” Josh said. A headache? That was the cause of the dolorous communion around the table like the three of them were government officials of a country that was col apsing? A headache? For this the kids had been either punished or bribed with unsupervised time in the fraught-with-peril backyard?

“She’s in a lot of pain,” Ted said. “She can’t tolerate the sunlight. She can’t stand the kids’ voices.”

“Oh,” Josh said. “Did this just come about out of the blue?”

“Out of the blue,” Ted said. “We cal ed Dr. Alcott for some pain pil s. He wants to see her.”

“See her?” Josh said.

“He wants to do an MRI,” Brenda said. “But Vicki, of course, refuses to go.”

Melanie was silent. She was as marginal to this drama as Josh was. That was part of their connection, that was how they’d found each other in the first place—involved but not connected. Connected but not related. Melanie’s eyes were locked on him in a way that was almost impossible to ignore.

“So . . . I should take the kids?” Josh said.

“Please,” Ted said.

“I’l go with you,” Melanie said. “To help.”

“No, that’s al right,” Josh said. “We’l be okay.”

“No, real y,” Melanie said. “I don’t mind.”

“Wel , I . . . ,” Josh nearly said “do mind,” but he already had Ted and Brenda peering at him curiously. “Okay, fine,” he said. “Whatever.”

As they ambled down Shel Street, Josh felt supremely self-conscious. He had walked this way dozens of times with Blaine and Porter—and yet with Melanie at his side, he felt like this was his family: Blaine and Porter his sons, Melanie his pregnant wife. The people they passed in front of the

’Sconset Market easily could have believed this was the case—and what was worse, Josh realized, was that a part of him wanted this to be the case. Part of him wanted to marry Melanie and have children with her. And yet, he was angry with her, he’d been hurt by her, and he resented the way she’d just insinuated herself into his routine with the boys, giving him no chance to protest or assert his control. Hence, he said very little. But that didn’t stop Melanie from blundering ahead.

“I miss you,” she said.

He met this with silence. He was happy to hear her say it, but it wasn’t enough.

“Do you miss me?” she asked.

“Melanie,” he said.

“What?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.”

“I’m not going to do this al morning. This ‘I miss you, do you miss me’ thing. Why did you even come with us?”

“I wanted to get out of the house. It was tense.”

Josh eyed Blaine. Blaine was in one of his rare mel ow, reflective moods—Josh could tel he wasn’t listening with his usual acuity.

“Is it serious?” Josh said. “The headache?”

“It could be, I guess.”

“Oh,” he said.

They walked in silence al the way to the beach parking lot.

“Do not run ahead,” Josh said to Blaine. “We’l al go together.”

“I know,” Blaine said.

Melanie sniffed. “I want you to meet me here tonight.”

“No.”

“It’s only for another week.”

“I know, so what does it matter?”

“It matters,” she said. “I want to be with you.”

Josh looked at Blaine. His head seemed to be cocked at the perfect angle for listening; maybe this was Josh’s imagination, but Josh didn’t care.

He shook his head at Melanie. Porter babbled in Josh’s ear.

Later, when Blaine was playing two umbrel as down with Abby Brooks and Porter was halfway through his bottle on his way to la-la land, Melanie hoisted herself up out of the chair and plopped down next to Josh on his towel. He readied himself for another onslaught, but Melanie was quiet and as stil as a statue, and yet she was most definitely there; Josh could smel her hair and her skin. They sat side by side, staring at the ocean and the people in it, and it should have been tense, but surprisingly, it was okay. Coexisting, without touching or talking. Josh found himself afraid to move, afraid to break whatever spel had been temporarily cast over them. Maybe this was what Melanie meant by closure. It wasn’t the rapture he’d experienced al summer—the night at the Shimmo house came to mind, rol ing around with Melanie on those sheets, holding her close as they stood on the deck taking in the view—but it wasn’t bad or painful, either. He felt like he was suspended directly between the best minutes with Melanie and the worst, and there was something comforting in the neither-good-nor-bad of it. Ten days from today Josh would be beside his father in their Ford Explorer, driving back to Middlebury. He would see his friends, girls, people he hadn’t thought of in three months, and they would ask him, How was your summer? And al he knew for certain as he sat, sharing his towel with Melanie, was that there was no way he would ever be able to explain.

First, there was the dream. Vicki couldn’t remember it completely. It was a surgery dream, the doctors were going to perform Vicki’s surgery right then and there and not on September first as they had planned. There was urgency, secrecy—somehow Vicki was told, or perhaps she discerned, that what they were removing from her lungs wasn’t tumors at al , but rather, precious jewels. Huge rubies, emeralds, amethysts, sapphires—the biggest in the world, right there inside Vicki’s chest, embedded in the healthy tissue of Vicki’s lungs. The doctors weren’t doctors, they were thieves of some international acclaim; they were planning on doing the surgery, she learned, without any anesthetic. Vicki would die from the pain; they were planning on kil ing her.

She woke up. Not with a start, like in the movies, not sitting straight up in bed gasping for breath, but quietly. She opened her eyes and felt tears on her cheeks. Ted was beside her, breathing like a man on vacation. With a crook of her neck, Vicki saw both her children asleep on the mattress on the floor. It hurt to breathe. Vicki wondered what the inside of her chest would look like after the surgery. Would there be a big hole where her lung used to be?

The surgery, now that it was a reality, was newly terrifying. It has to be done, obviously, Dr. Garcia had said months ago. If you want to live.

Funny how the surgery was what Vicki had wished for, it was the goal of the chemotherapy, and yet it frightened her beyond al comprehension. It made her insides twist, her pelvis tighten, it made her shoulders and wrists stiff with anxiety. The anesthesia alone was nearly impossible to come to grips with. She would be out, way out, for more than six hours. It was different from sleep, she understood that. It was forced unconsciousness, a place between sleep and death. Vicki would be kept there, in that purgatory of nothingness, while they cut through her chest muscles, spread open her rib cage, col apsed her lung, and then removed it. It was worse than a horror movie. A hundred things could go wrong during the surgery and a hundred things could go wrong with the anesthesia. What if the surgery was a success but they pushed her too far under with the anesthetic and she drowned in it? What if she crossed to the other side?

She lay in bed, ticking like an overheated engine. Was it any wonder she couldn’t sleep? Was it any wonder she had nightmares?

Next came the headache.

When Vicki woke up in the morning she felt like she was wearing a lead helmet. There was not only pain, there was pressure. Blaine launched himself onto the bed as he did every morning when Ted was there—no need to worry about Mommy not feeling wel when Dad was around—and Porter whined to be lifted up. He was stil too little to climb. Vicki opened one eye. This wasn’t intentional; it seemed, for whatever reason, that she could only get one eye open. And even that took a Herculean effort. And it hurt—sunlight coming in around the edges of the shades hurt, and Porter’s whining hurt. She tried to extend a hand to the baby, thinking she might haul him up onto the mattress with one arm despite the fact that he weighed nearly twenty pounds, but she couldn’t sit up to get leverage. She couldn’t lift her head.

“Ted?” she said. Her voice was dry and papery. She was just dehydrated, maybe. She needed water. She reached for the glass she kept on the nightstand, but her arms trembled and she could not lift her head to take a sip. Ted was busy with the kids, tickling and teasing, roughhousing and kicking—and he didn’t hear her. The glass slipped, or she dropped it, it got away from her somehow, and fel to the floor, spil ing everywhere, though it didn’t break.

“Jesus, Vick,” Ted said.

“My head,” she said.

“What?”

“My head,” she said, “is kil ing me.” This sounded col oquial—it was, after al , a popular turn of phrase—and hence there was no way Ted would know Vicki meant it literal y. Her head was kil ing her. Her head was trying to kil her.

“The light,” she said. “The kids.” She pul ed the sheet over her head but it was as effective at blocking out noise and sunlight as a Kleenex.

“Do you want aspirin?” Ted said. “Some chocolate milk?”

As if she had a hangover. There had been some wine the night before—wine every night since her CT scan—but this was not a hangover. Stil , Vicki wasn’t hearty enough to turn down the offer of medicine.

“I might have painkil ers left,” she said. Just eking out this sentence hurt.

Ted sloughed the boys off the bed and scooted Blaine out the door of the bedroom. “Go out. Mom doesn’t feel wel .”

“Again?” Blaine said.

Ah, the guilt. Blaine would probably end up in therapy due to Vicki’s cancer, but she couldn’t worry about that now. Get better, she thought. Then worry about it.

Ted held Porter in one arm and checked the prescription bottles on Vicki’s dresser.

“Percocet,” he said. “Empty.”

“Shit,” she said. She was pretty sure there’d been three or four left. Brenda? “Would you cal Dr. Alcott?”

“And tel him what?” Ted was like Vicki used to be: supremely uncomfortable around doctors. But since Vicki had begun regularly relying on doctors to save her life, her attitude had changed.

“Cal in more,” Vicki said. And then she became confused. Why was she asking Blaine to cal the doctor? Would he, at the age of four and a half, be able to do it? He wasn’t even good at talking on the phone with his grandmother. “Magic words,” Vicki reminded him.

Who knew how many painful moments passed? It felt like forever. Vicki moaned into her pil ow. She could hear noises from the rest of the house, domestic noises—the frying pan hitting the stove, eggs cracking, the whisk chiming against the side of the stoneware bowl, the butter melting, the refrigerator door opening and closing, ice in a glass, Porter crying, the rubber squeal of the high chair sliding across the linoleum, Blaine’s constant stream of chatter, Ted’s voice—yes, on the phone, thank God. So much noise—and al of it as loud and unpleasant to her ears as a jackhammer in the room. Vicki grabbed Ted’s goose-down pil ow and covered her head.

The pain was a hand squeezing water from the sponge of her brain. Let go!

There was a tap on the door. Brenda. “Vick, are you okay?”

Vicki wanted to scream at her sister for stealing her Percocet, but screaming was beyond her.

“Headache,” Vicki mumbled. “Unbearable pain.”

“Ted just cal ed Dr. Alcott. He wants you to come in.”

Come in where? Vicki thought. Come into the hospital? Impossible. The whole idea of getting out of bed, getting into the car, driving through the eyebal -bursting sunny day to the hospital, completely preposterous.

Ted’s voice was alongside Brenda’s now. “Dr. Alcott wants to see you, Vick.”

“Because I have a headache?” Vicki said. “What about the Percocet?”

“He’s cal ing them in,” Ted said.

Vicki felt something like relief, though it was difficult to identify under the blanket of pain.

“But he wants you to come in,” Ted said. “He wants to take a look at you. He said it might not be a bad idea to have an MRI.”

“Why?” Vicki said.

“I don’t know.”

That was a big, fat lie. Metastasis to the brain, she thought. Dr. Alcott’s suspicions were correct; she could feel it. The cancer was a hand, fingers spreading through her brain, pressing down. The cancer was a spider, nesting in her gray matter. The pain, the pressure, the increased sensitivity to sound, to light. This was what a brain tumor felt like; she had heard someone in her cancer support group describe it, but she couldn’t remember who. Alan? No, Alan was dead. It wasn’t Alan. Vicki said, “I had too much wine last night.”

“One glass?” Ted said.

“Water,” Vicki said. “Magic words. Please. Thank you.”

The pil ow was lifted. Vicki smel ed Brenda—what was it? Noxema. Piña colada suntan lotion.

“You’re not making sense, Vick. Open your eyes.”

“I can’t.”

“Try.”

Vicki tried. The one eye opened. There was a very blurry Brenda. Behind her, a form Vicki knew to be Ted, but could just as easily have been an international thief, come to cut her open and take the jewels.

“You stole my Percocets,” Vicki said to Brenda.

“Yes,” Brenda said. “I’m sorry.”

“I need them,” Vicki said. “Now.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Ted said. “I’l take the kids.”

“I’l get you water,” Brenda said to Vicki. “Ice water with paper-thin slices of lemon, just how you like it.”

“No hospital,” Vicki said. “I’m never going back.”

Brenda and Ted left the room. The click of the door shutting was like a gunshot. Brenda said to Ted, “Her pupil was real y dilated. What do you suppose that means?”

There’s a spider on my brain, Vicki thought. Brenda was whispering, but her voice reverberated in Vicki’s head like she was back at CBGB at a B-52’s concert standing next to the chin-high speaker, which was blaring at a bazil ion decibels. Quiet!

“I have no idea,” Ted said.

The drugs helped, at least enough so that Vicki could limp along through the next few days. Dr. Alcott had prescribed only twenty Percocets, and Vicki found that by taking two pil s three times a day the pain was ratcheted down from unbearable to merely excruciating. Her left eye final y did open, though the lid was droopy, as though Vicki were a stroke victim, and both of her pupils were as big as manhole covers. Vicki wore her sunglasses whenever she could get away with it. She didn’t want Brenda or Ted to know that it felt like she was wearing a Mack truck tire around her neck, she didn’t want them to know it felt like someone was trying to pul her brain out through her eye socket, and she especial y didn’t want them to know about the hand squeezing water from the sponge of her brain or the spider nesting. She wasn’t going back to the hospital for any reason, she would not agree to an MRI, because she absolutely would not be able to handle the news of a metastasis to the brain.

And so, she carried on. They had a week left. Ted was trying to cram everything in at the last minute; he wanted to spend every waking second outside. He played tennis at the casino while Josh had the kids, and he took Vicki, Brenda, and Melanie to lunch at the Wauwinet, where Vicki spent the whole time trying to keep her head off the table. Ted wanted to go into town every night after dinner, to walk the docks and ogle the yachts

—and one evening, impulsively, he signed himself and Blaine up for a day of charter fishing, despite the fact that the captain eyed Blaine doubtful y and told Ted he would have to come prepared with a life jacket for the little guy. Ted bought a sixty-dol ar life jacket for Blaine at the Ship’s Chandlery, seconds later.

Whereas Vicki once would have staged a protest ( he’s too little, it’s not safe, a big waste of money, Ted ), now she stood mutely by. Ted didn’t ask her how she felt because he didn’t want to hear the answer. There were only seven days of summer left; surely Vicki could hang on, could act and pretend, until they got home.

Vicki cal ed Dr. Alcott, Mark, herself, for more drugs.

“Stil the headache?” he said.

“It’s not as bad as before,” she lied. “But we’re so busy, there’s so much going on, that . . .”

“Percocet is a narcotic,” Dr. Alcott said. “For extreme pain.”

“I’m in extreme pain,” Vicki said. “I qualify as a person who needs a narcotic, I promise.”

“I believe you,” Dr. Alcott said. “And that’s why I want you to come in.”

“I’m not coming in,” Vicki said.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Dr. Alcott said.

Oh, but there was. Vicki said, “Is there anything else I can take?”

Dr. Alcott sighed. Vicki felt like Blaine. Can I have a hamster when I’m six? A skateboard? Bubble gum? “I’l cal something in.”

Later, out of desperation, Vicki cal ed the pharmacy. “Yes,” the pharmacist said, in a way that could only be compared to the Angel Gabriel announcing the impending birth of Christ to the Virgin Mary, “Dr. Alcott cal ed in a prescription for Darvocet and six-hundred-mil igram Motrin.”

“Is Darvocet a narcotic?” Vicki asked.

“No, ma’am, it’s not.”

“But it is a painkil er?”

“Yes, indeed, it is, and it can be taken to greater effect with the Motrin.”

Greater effect. Vicki was mol ified.

Ted lobbied for another beach picnic. He wanted to use his fishing poles one more time, he wanted lobsters again. This time Vicki could organize, right?

Right, Vicki said weakly.

That afternoon, when Josh dropped off the boys, Ted thumped him on the back and said, “We’re going back out to Smith’s Point tomorrow night for dinner and some more fishing. Wil you join us?”

“I can’t,” Josh said. “I’m busy.”

“Busy?” Ted said.

Vicki looked at Josh’s face. She was in the kitchen with her sunglasses on and everyone looked shadowy and dim, like actors in an old black-and-white movie.

“Real y?” she said. “We’d love to have you. It’s the last . . .”

“Real y,” he said. “I’m busy.”

Later, after Josh left, Ted said, “We could invite Dr. Alcott to the picnic. He likes to fish.”

“No,” Vicki said. “No way.”

Numbed by Darvocet and Motrin (ramped up with the addition of three Advil and two Tylenol), Vicki pul ed the picnic together in a near-exact replica of the previous picnic. Except, no Josh.

“Who’s coming?” Melanie asked.

Vicki said, “Just us.”

As Ted drove west toward Madaket and Smith’s Point, Vicki felt the summer ending. It was closing, like a door. The sun hung low in the sky, barely hovering over the tops of the scrub pines of Ram Pasture; its last rays dripped onto the rooftops of the huge summer homes in Dionis. Or so it seemed to Vicki, through her sunglasses. The world was slowing down, the light was syrupy. Melanie sat up front next to Ted, and Brenda and Vicki sat in the Yukon’s middle section, where they could tend to the kids in the way-back. Blaine had his hand arched over his head because Ted had asked him to take care of those rods and Blaine thought that meant he had to hold them for the entire ride. Porter babbled, alternately sucking on his pacifier and popping it out, which made a hol ow noise he liked. Babble, suck, pop. The car smel ed like lobster. Vicki had accidental y ordered an extra dinner—for Josh, she realized, who wasn’t coming. The car felt empty without him. Was she the only person who felt this way? The kids missed him. Melanie, probably, too, though Vicki hadn’t felt wel or brave enough to talk to Melanie about Josh. Maybe later, down the road, after surgery and the baby, maybe when they more closely resembled the people they’d been before this summer. (A memory came to Vicki out of the blue: a dinner party at Melanie and Peter’s house, a catered party that featured black truffle in every course. Peter had bought the truffle from a

“truffle broker” in Paris after another failed round of in vitro; it was his idea to hire the caterer and throw the party. Vicki had appeared at the party with an ounce of outrageously expensive perfume from Henri Bendel as a gift for Melanie. Melanie had seemed delighted by the perfume. Vicki guarded the conversation at that dinner party like the gestapo; every time one of the other guests mentioned anything having to do with children, Vicki changed the subject.)

They would never go back to those former selves. They had changed; they would change again. As if reading Vicki’s thoughts, Brenda let out a big sigh. Vicki looked her way.

“What?”

“I have to talk to you,” Brenda said. She slid down in her seat, and Vicki, instinctively, did the same. They were like kids again, talking below their parents’ radar, where they wouldn’t be heard.

“About what?” Vicki said.

“About money,” Brenda said.

The car’s radio was on. Journey, singing “Wheels in the Sky.” Vicki thought, Wheels in the sky? What did that mean, exactly? Did that mean the plan that God was endlessly spinning for us? In the front seat, Ted was blathering on to Melanie about the fishing trip he and Blaine were going to take on Tuesday. Apparently, Harrison Ford would be on the boat, too, with his nephew. Did wheels in the sky refer to the wheels turning in Vicki’s mind, the gears that were supposed to move at lightning speed, shuttling thoughts in and out, but that now kept getting stuck and going in reverse, as though they needed oil? About money? Why would anyone want to talk about money? Did wheels in the sky mean the actual sky? Outside, the sky was dark already. How was that possible, when just moments before, the sun . . . babble, suck, pop. Ted said, They can pretty much guarantee you’ll catch a bluefish, but everyone wants stripers. The car smel ed like lobsters. Seven mothers died when a bus on a Los Angeles freeway flipped and caught fire. Only seven? Josh was busy. Really, he said. I’m busy. Greta Jenkins had started tel ing a story about her daughter, Avery, four years old, taking dance lessons and what a hassle it had been to find the right kind of tights. Tights without feet, Greta said. A look of loss and despair had flickered across Melanie’s face (but just for a second because she was, after al , the hostess of this dinner party, with its shavings of truffle over everything—like shavings from a lead pencil, Vicki thought). Vicki had changed the subject, saying, Did anyone read the Susan Orlean article in The New Yorker about pigeon fanciers? Babble, suck, pop. About money? Vicki missed Josh. He was busy. It was dark everywhere now.

“Ted!” The voice was Brenda’s serious voice, even more serious than when she said, I have to talk to you. It was her urgent voice. Signaling: Emergency! “Ted, pul over right now. She passed out or fainted or something. I’m cal ing nine-one-one.”

“Who?” Ted said, turning down the radio. “What?”

“Vicki,” Brenda said. “Vicki!”

It wasn’t the sirens that woke her or the incredible rush of pavement beneath the ambulance’s tires, though Vicki could feel the speed, and the sirens were as upsetting as the screams of one of her children, hurt or terrified. What woke her was the smel . Something sharp, antiseptic.

Something right under her nose. Smel ing salts? Like she had fainted in a Victorian parlor? An unfamiliar young man, Josh’s age but with hair pul ed back in a ponytail (why such long hair on a guy? Vicki should have asked Castor, from the poker game, back when she had a chance), was gazing down at her, though he was blurry. Again, Vicki could only get one eye open.

“Vicki!” There, moving in to her limited field of vision, was her sister, and Vicki was relieved. Brenda. There was something important Vicki had wanted to ask Brenda al summer long, but she had been waiting for the right moment and, too, she had been afraid to ask, but she would ask now.

Before it was too late.

Vicki opened her mouth to speak, and Brenda said, “I’m sorry I brought up money. God, I am so sorry. Like what you need is more upset. And . . .

don’t kil me, but I cal ed Mom and Dad. They’re on their way up. Right now, tonight.”

Before it’s too late! Vicki thought. But her eyelids were being pul ed down like the shades on the windows of her bedroom at Number Eleven Shel Street. She was tired, she realized. Tired of fighting, tired of denying it: She was very sick. She was going to die. It had been mentioned in Vicki’s cancer support group that when you got close, fear vanished and peace settled in. Vicki was tired, she wanted to go back to where she’d been before she woke up, to the lost place and time, the nothingness. But resist! Stay with us a little longer! She had to ask Brenda something very important, the most important thing, but Vicki could not find her voice, her voice eluded her, it was gone, it had been stolen—and so Vicki just squeezed Brenda’s hand and thought the words and hoped that Brenda, as bril iant as she was, could intuit them.

I want you to take care of Blaine and Porter. I want you to take my little boys and raise them into men. Ted will be there, too, of course. He will do the ball games and the skiing and the fishing, he will talk to them about girls and drugs and alcohol, he will handle the guy stuff. But boys need a mother, a mommy, and I want that person to be you. You know me, I’m a list person, I always have been, even when I was pretending not to be. So here is the list. Remember everything, forget nothing: Kiss the kids when they fall down, read them stories, praise them when they share, teach them to be kind, to knock on a door before they enter a room, to put their toys away, to put the toilet seat down when they finish.

Play Chutes and Ladders, take them to museums and zoos and funny movies. Listen when they tell you something. Encourage them to sing, to build, to paint, to glue and tape, to call their grandmother. Teach them to cook one thing, make them eat grapes and carrots, and broccoli if you can, get them into swimming lessons, let them have sleepovers with friends where they watch Scooby-Doo and eat pizza and popcorn. Give them one gold dollar from the tooth fairy for each lost tooth. Make certain they don’t choke, drown, or ride their bike without a helmet. Volunteer in the classroom, always be on time picking them up and dropping them off, go to extra lengths with the Halloween costumes, the Christmas stockings, the valentines. Take them sledding and then make hot chocolate with marshmallows. Let them have an extra turn on the slide, notice when their pants get too short or their shoes too tight, hang up their artwork, let them have ice cream with jimmies when they’re good. Magic words, always, for everything. Do not buy a PlayStation. Spend your money, instead, on a trip to Egypt. They should see the Pyramids, the Sphinx. But most important, Brenda, tell them every single day how much I love them, even though I’m not there. I will be watching them, every soccer goal, every sand castle they build, every time they raise their hand in class with an answer right or wrong, I will be watching them. I will put my arms around them when they are sick, hurt, or sad. Make sure they can feel my arms around them! Someone once told me that having a child was like having your heart walk around outside of your body. They are my heart, Brenda, the heart I am leaving behind. Take care of my heart, Bren.

It’s a lot to ask, I know. It is the biggest, most important thing, and I am asking you because you are my sister. We are different, you and me, but if I can say one thing about you it’s that you know me, inside and out, better than Mom and Dad, better, even, than Ted. You are my sister, and I know you love my children and will take care of them like they’re your own. I wouldn’t ask anyone else to do this. To do this, there is only you.

Brenda was gazing down at her. Had she heard? Vicki released Brenda’s hand.

“Okay?” Vicki whispered.

“Okay,” Brenda said.

Brenda prayed, fast and furiously. Please, please, please, please, please. Ted was pacing the waiting room like a raving lunatic; they took Vicki upstairs for tests, but neither Ted nor Brenda had been al owed to accompany her. Melanie, in a moment of clarity that was previously unthinkable, volunteered to drive the kids back to ’Sconset, get them an ice cream at the market, pop in a Scooby-Doo video, and let them fal asleep in Ted and Vicki’s bed.

“Thank you,” Brenda said.

Brenda had cal ed her parents in the frantic moments before the ambulance arrived, with Vicki unconscious in Ted’s arms. What Brenda said to her mother was, “Vicki’s unconscious.”

El en Lyndon said, “We’re on our way.”

And Brenda, realizing that (a) it would be fruitless to dissuade her mother and (b) her mother and father were exactly what she needed right now, some backup, some help, some support, said, “Yes, okay.”

They wouldn’t be able to get to the island until the morning, though, and Brenda needed comfort now. There was a worm of guilt chewing a tunnel through Brenda’s brain. Brenda had brought up money; she had meant to initiate a conversation about the hundred and twenty-five thousand dol ars, and it was at that moment that Vicki lost consciousness. And it was now, ironical y, that Brenda realized money didn’t matter. Money was the last thing that mattered. (Why did human beings believe otherwise?) What mattered was family. What mattered was love.

Love.

Brenda pul ed out her cel phone and walked to the end of the hospital corridor. She dialed the number from memory. Al summer she had tried to forget that number, and yet, it came automatical y.

One ring, two rings.

And then, Walsh. “Hel o?”

His voice. It threw Brenda off balance. She took a stutter step backward. Rumor has it you committed the only sin that can’t be forgiven other than out-and-out plagiarism.

“Hi,” she said. “It’s Brenda.”

“Brindah.” There was a pause. “Brindah, Brindah.”

Oh, God. She was going to cry. But no.

“I’m on Nantucket stil ,” she said. “At the hospital. Vicki is upstairs having tests. Because one minute she was fine, and the next minute she was unconscious. It could be nothing, or it could be something awful. I’ve done a good job al summer. Taking care of Vicki, I mean. Not a perfect job, but a good job. I’ve been praying, Walsh, but I kind of get the feeling no one is listening.”

“Yeah, I know that feeling.”

“Do you?”

“Wel , I did,” he said. “Until now.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t cal ed,” she said.

“Ahhh,” he said. “Yeah.”

“I just felt like . . . al that stuff back in New York, with the university . . . it was al wrong. ”

“They made you feel like it was wrong.”

“There were things about it that were wrong,” Brenda said. “The time and place. We should have waited.”

“I couldn’t have waited,” Walsh said.

Could I have waited? Brenda thought. To save my career? To salvage my reputation? Could I not just have waited? Down the hal , Brenda watched Ted sink into a chair and drop his head in his hands. His ship was going down.

“I should go,” Brenda said. “My sister . . .”

“Is there anything I can do?” Walsh said.

“No,” Brenda said. “There’s nothing anyone can do.”

“Ahhh,” he said again. “Yeah.”

Love is all that matters, Brenda thought. Tell him! But she couldn’t. She was too rattled by the sound of his voice, she was too mired in the nonlanguage of ex-lovers. There was too much to say, so she would say nothing at al .

“Wel , okay,” Brenda said. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” Walsh said.

They were keeping Vicki overnight for tests, they said. One of which would be an MRI, in the morning, when Dr. Alcott could be present.

“Your sister has lung cancer,” the doctor, a trim, handsome Indian man visiting from Mass General, said. “We’re looking for metastases to the brain. Tumors in her brain.”

“Right,” Brenda said. “I understand that.”

“You can see her before you leave,” he said. “You can say good night.”

“Okay,” Brenda said. “I wil .”

Brenda and Ted took the elevator upstairs in silence to Vicki’s room. It was a private room, quiet and white. Vicki had an IV and wore an oxygen mask. Brenda kissed her cheek, and Vicki opened one eye.

“I was real y hoping I’d never come back here,” Vicki said into her mask.

“I know,” Brenda said. “I know.”

Ted sat down on the bed and wrapped Vicki up in his arms. “I love you, baby,” he said. “You have to hang in there. You have to get better.” Ted was crying and Vicki was crying, and watching the two of them together made Brenda choke up. One of her secret goals was to someday have a man love her the way that Ted loved Vicki. He always referred to her as “my bride” or “the beautiful mother of my beautiful boys.” If Vicki was in the room, she was Ted’s sole focus. He did act like an alpha male a lot of the time—with his hedge-fund-manager big-shot spiel—but real y, he was a man on his knees in front of his wife.

Brenda thought of Walsh. I couldn’t have waited.

No, she thought. Me either.

Josh was at the Chicken Box drinking Bud drafts, shooting pool with Zach, trying not to think about the beach picnic that was taking place out at Smith’s Point without him, although certain images flashed through his mind, unbidden: fishing poles sticking out of the sand, Blaine’s face in firelight, Melanie dripping and shivering from her nighttime swim. In the name of getting the night off to a good start, Josh and Zach had done a couple of tequila shots at Zach’s house before they went out, but what this had led to, in the car on the way to the bar, was Zach’s unwieldy confession that he had had sex with Didi twice over the summer and had paid her a hundred dol ars each time.

“And I don’t think I was the only one, man,” Zach said. “I think she’s a prostitute or something.”

Now they were stuck in an uncomfortable silence, which was only partial y ameliorated by the pool chat ( nine ball, side pocket) and by the Bruce Springsteen cover band wailing their hearts out on the far side of the bar. If this was what Josh had been missing al summer, then he was glad he’d missed it.

Josh was relieved when his phone rang. He checked the display: It was Number Eleven Shel Street cal ing. It was nearly ten-thirty. They were probably just back from the beach, carrying the sandy, sleepy boys off to bed. And they were cal ing him because . . . ? It was probably Vicki, cutting his hours, or it might be Melanie. She had missed him at the picnic, she had been remembering the first picnic, when they . . . and wouldn’t he meet her now, tonight, one last time? How could it hurt? Wel , it would hurt, it was like any addiction—you couldn’t keep going back for quick fixes, you had to cut it out al at once, cold turkey. Didn’t she see that? Didn’t she get it? She was the one who was married! Josh watched Zach, formerly his best friend, bent in half over the table, shutting one eye in concentration and jimmying his stick back and forth in front of the cue bal . Josh could total y blow Zach’s mind with the story of Melanie. As far as shock value was concerned, it would be an even trade for the news of Didi (a prostitute? ), but Zach wasn’t worthy of the information. Josh let the cal go to his voice mail.

Later, much later, after Josh had dropped Zach off at home (the two of them shaking hands, Zach saying in an upbeat, conciliatory way, reminding Josh why they’d been friends in the first place, Hey, man, it was good to see you. It was good to hang out), Josh listened to the voice message.

Josh, it’s Ted Stowe. Listen, some things have come up here at the house. Vicki is in the hospital, she had an episode, she’s in for testing, we don’t know what the hell is going on, but her parents, my in-laws, are coming over in the morning and they’ll take care of the kids. So you don’t have to worry about coming to work on Monday. Vicki probably has your address somewhere; I’ll write you a check for this week, plus a bonus.

Vicki said you did a great job, and I really appreciate it, man. You don’t know how critical it was to have rock-solid help, someone to fill in the gaps, I know it couldn’t have been easy, and man, the kids . . . they love you and Vicki loves you and she’s going to be okay. We just have to keep believing that. Anyway, thanks again for your help. And good luck at school. I can’t believe I’m leaving such a long message. I hate talking to machines.

Click. Josh listened to the message a second time as he drove home. It was a good-bye, good-bye a week early, which was fine, in theory, and Josh was certain he would be paid handsomely, but the good-bye bugged him. It had come from Ted, who was the wrong person. Ted, who suggested the only form of closure Josh might need was a check. What about saying good-bye to the kids? What about finding out if Vicki was okay or not? Episode? What kind of episode? An episode serious enough that she had to spend the night in the hospital? Serious enoughthat her parents were coming in the morning? Josh, helped along by the tequila and the beers he’d consumed at the bar, was both enraged and confused. It was another murky question—was he part of Number Eleven Shel Street or not? Could he be dismissed with a phone message? Apparently so.

Thanks again, good luck, good-bye. Josh was tempted to cal back and inform Ted Stowe of Josh’s importance to the women and children of that house. He had loved those kids and cared for them better than anyone else could have. He earned their trust; he knew them. He became their friend. He had pul ed Melanie out of a quicksand of self-hatred and misery; he gave her confidence. He made her feel beautiful and sexy. He had confided in Vicki, he had treated her not like a sick person, but like a person person. He’d made her smile, even when she was on death’s door. He had confided to her about his mother. And Josh was going to help Brenda with her career; he was going to ask Chas Gorda how to sel a screenplay. He had done al of that—and Ted had written Josh off, cut him loose with a phone message. As if Josh were the plumber, the exterminator, someone who could be cancelled. I’ll write you a check.

Be careful. Not just because of Melanie, but because of the whole family. He had loved the family, and the family had broken his heart.

At a quarter to seven the next morning, Brenda heard what sounded like a suitcase on wheels bumping down the flagstone path, and then the creak of the ancient plank door opening. But no, she thought. It was impossibly early. Even people who went to church weren’t awake yet.

Seconds later, there was a tap on her bedroom door. Brenda opened her eyes to see . . . El en Lyndon poking her head in. Her mother. Brenda sat up.

“Mom!” she said.

The room fil ed, immediately, with the aura of El en Lyndon: her frosted-blond hair cut into a lovely bob, sunglasses pushed on top of her head, her permanent scent of Coco Chanel and vanil a, her pale pink lipstick. Her left knee was sheathed in a blue neoprene brace, and she wore tennis shoes in lieu of her usual espadril es. But stil , her pink tank was crisp and fresh and there were matching pink embroidered turtles on her Bermuda shorts. Who looked this wonderful so early in the morning?

My mother, Brenda thought. She goes to bed beautiful, she wakes up beautiful.

El en limped over to the bed, held Brenda’s face, and kissed her on the lips. Brenda tasted lipstick.

“Oh, honey!” El en said. “I’ve missed you!”

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Brenda said. “Already.”

“First plane. We drove until midnight and stopped in Providence. And you know your father. Up at five-thirty.” El en Lyndon eased down on the bed, removed her tennis shoes, and said, “Scoot over. I’m climbing in.”

Wel , it wasn’t exactly the person Brenda wanted to be welcoming into her bed that day, but it was a kind of salve—even at age thirty—to be held by her mother. To have her mother stroke her hair and say, “You have been such a pil ar, honey. Such a support for your sister. What would she have done without you? She was so lucky to have you here.”

“I didn’t do al that much,” Brenda said. “Drove her to chemo, mostly.”

“And you watched the kids and you helped out around the house. And you gave her moral support.”

“I guess.”

“And you dealt with me, your wacky mother.”

“That I did. How’s your knee?”

“It’s fine. I’ve had a few setbacks that weren’t important enough to tel you about. My physical therapist, Kenneth, does not know I’ve crossed the state line, but when he finds out, he’s going to be very cross.”

“Because it’s too much,” Brenda said. “I wouldn’t have cal ed you, but . . .”

“Oh, God, darling, of course you were right to cal me. Half the reason why I’m not healing as I should is because of the stress of your sister. I’m distracted.” El en Lyndon lay on her back and stared up at the ceiling. “This used to be Aunt Liv’s room.”

“I know. I remember.”

“Liv was a strong woman. Stronger than your grandmother, even. She was a great role model for you and your sister.”

“Yes,” Brenda said. And if she’s been watching me the past year, she’s dumbfounded.

“I know they think Vicki might have a brain tumor,” El en said. “Nobody said that to me, but I know that’s what the doctors think.”

“I guess it’s a possibility.”

El en took a deep breath. “You know, as a mother, you’re never ready to hear that your child is sick. It is . . . the worst news.” She gazed at Brenda. “There’s no way for you to understand. Not yet. Not until you have your own children. And even then, I hope you never experience it.” El en Lyndon relaxed into the bed a little and closed her eyes. “But you know, it feels good just to be here. In this room, especial y. This was the nursery for your grandmother and Aunt Liv. The cradle of strong women. I can feel their strength, can’t you?”

“Sort of,” Brenda lied. In truth, Brenda felt weak and tired. The conversation with Walsh hurt, like a scrape on her knee, every time she thought about it.

El en Lyndon shifted her knee a little, and in another moment, she was breathing steadily, asleep. Brenda slipped out of bed and pul ed the sheet up over her mother’s shoulders.

Buzz Lyndon was in the kitchen with Ted, Blaine, and Porter, but no move had been made on breakfast. They were waiting for a woman to do it, Brenda supposed. El en Lyndon and Vicki had created these monsters themselves, but since El en was asleep and Vicki was gone, that left Brenda. Brenda hoped they liked cold cereal. She pul ed out the Cheerios and started pouring.

“Hel o, Daddy,” she said, kissing her father’s unshaven cheek. Unlike his wife, Buzz Lyndon looked like he had gotten five hours of sleep in a roadside motel. He looked like a long-haul trucker three years past retirement.

“Oh, honey,” Buzz said. “How are you?”

“Fine,” Brenda said. “Mom’s asleep.”

“Yes, she’s tired,” Buzz said. “When can we go see your sister?”

“Her MRI is at nine,” Ted said. “Which means I have to get going. She’l be finished by eleven. They should know more by then.”

Brenda fixed four bowls of Cheerios, she poured coffee and made a second pot, and she even managed to get Porter his mush. Melanie emerged and, after greeting Buzz Lyndon, made a plate of toast. A little while later, El en Lyndon shambled out to the kitchen, where she sat at the table, cutting up a fruit salad. The boys were bouncing off the wal s, thril ed by the unexpected presence of their grandparents. Here was a new audience!

“Wil you come to the beach with us?” Blaine said.

“Grandpa wil take you,” El en Lyndon said. “After we see your mommy.”

Brenda escaped to the back deck with her coffee. The kitchen was crowded and noisy, and although the arrival of her parents gave the day a festive air, it also felt strangely like a funeral. Everyone there except Vicki.

Please, please, please, please, please, please, she prayed. The backyard fluttered and chirped in response: butterflies, bees, rosebushes, a picket fence, green grass, blue sky, robins, wrens, sunshine. If God was anywhere, He was in this backyard, but there was no way to tel if He was listening!

Hands landed on Brenda’s shoulders. Firm, male hands. Her father. Buzz Lyndon dealt only in tangibles: Is there anything your mother can do?

Does anybody need money? Wel , yes, Brenda needed money, but what she realized now was that she wasn’t wil ing to ask anyone for it, not even her father. She would finance her debt, get a job, pay it off. She had spent enough nights in the cradle of strong women to know this was the right thing.

There was a voice in her ear. “Brindah.” The voice was a whisper; it was too intimate for her father. The hands on Brenda’s shoulders were not her father’s hands. Their touch was different. And then there was the voice. Brindah. Brenda was confused; she whipped around.

Brenda set her coffee down, afraid she would spil it. Her hands were shaking. Walsh was here! Not here in her mind, but here in person: His dark hair was close-cropped, his olive skin bronzed from the sun, and he wore a white polo shirt that she had never seen before. He smiled at her, and her stomach dropped away. It was him. Him! The only “him” that mattered: Walsh, her student, her Australian lover. I couldn’t have waited.

Walsh had come! He must have left New York as soon as he hung up the phone. Brenda wanted to know everything: how he got here, why he’d decided to come, how long he would stay, but she made herself stop thinking. Stop! He was here. The one person here just for her.

She put her hand over her mouth. She started to cry. He took her in. Brenda dissolved against his chest. Touching him, holding him, hugging him felt il icit. It had always felt sneaky, like she was getting away with something. Romantic or sexual relationships are forbidden between a faculty member and a student. But none of that mattered anymore.

We didn’t choose love; it chose us, right or wrong—and realizing this, for Brenda, was a kind of answered prayer.

Love was al that mattered.

As Josh got out of the water at Nobadeer Beach, shaking his hair like a dog, he wondered how he would ever write about what had happened to him this summer. He had been wounded so badly he deserved a Purple Heart, but the upside was that he had learned some things (hadn’t he?). He now understood the tragic hero.

You’ll sense the story like an approaching storm, Chas Gorda had said. The hair on your arms will stand up.

These words rang out distinctly—maybe because it looked like there was a storm approaching—dark, bil owy clouds were blowing in from offshore. It had been beautiful al day—clear, sunny, and windless—but this had only served to annoy Josh. He was hungover from his night out with Zach, and now that he was essential y unemployed, he felt aimless and without purpose. He’d spent al day trying to write his feelings down in his journal—but what this had turned into was a lot of sitting on his unmade bed, thinking of Number Eleven Shel Street, and then admonishing himself for thinking of it. His cel phone had rung incessantly—but three times it was Zach (cal ing to apologize?) and Josh let the cal s go to voice mail, and twice the display said Robert Patalka, and there was sure as hel no way Josh was going to take that cal .

He was relieved when five o’clock rol ed around. He was hot and discouraged—he hadn’t managed to get any worthwhile thoughts on paper ( Avoid being self-referential. Be wary of your own story). There was cleaning and packing and laundry to do before he left for school, but those tasks were too heinous to even consider undertaking in his fractious state of mind. The only thing he had to look forward to was his swim at Nobadeer; however, he made himself wait until he was sure most of the families and otherwise jol y beachgoers would be gone. He couldn’t stand to see other children at the beach, or other parents; he didn’t want to have to witness everyone else’s happy end-of-summer. He decided, bravely, on the way to the beach that he wouldn’t cook dinner for his father tonight. He would pick up a pizza on the way home, and if his father wanted an iceberg salad, he could make it himself.

Josh swam for the better part of an hour, and the swimming improved his mood. He was proud of himself for not cal ing Number Eleven Shel Street—if they didn’t need or want him, then so be it, the feeling was mutual—and he was glad he’d fought his urge to stop by the hospital to see if Vicki was al right. He couldn’t concern himself with their dramas anymore. He had to let go. He did feel pangs of regret when he thought about the boys, but he had their birthdays marked down on his calendar and he would send presents—big, loud monster trucks, he decided, the kind that had flashing lights and played rock music, the kind that would drive Vicki nuts. Just thinking of it, Josh smiled for the first time al day.

But then, as Josh climbed out of the waves, the sky grew cloudy and ominous, and Chas Gorda’s words came to him. Fat, warm raindrops started to fal . Josh grabbed his towel and raced up the stairs to the parking lot, cursing. Natural y, the top to his Jeep was down.

You’ll sense the story like an approaching storm.

The hair on your arms will stand up.

Josh held his towel over his head like a canopy when the real rain arrived. The hair on his arms was standing up. There was a flash of light and, a split second later, a crack of thunder.

“Shit!” he cried out. His Jeep was getting soaked.

“Josh! Joshua!”

His name.

“Joshua!”

He lifted his towel. There was his father’s green Ford Explorer, lights on, wipers whipping back and forth—and standing out in the rain without an umbrel a or hat, or anything, his father. They locked eyes for a moment, then Josh looked away; he looked at the ground, at his feet in flip-flops, at the dirt and sand and pebbles of the parking lot and the rushing rivulets of water and the puddles forming. No, Josh thought. No fucking way. He grew dizzy and he realized he was holding his breath. He was having an awful, horrible memory—not a picture memory so much as a feeling memory. What it had felt like when his father said—and Josh heard the exact words, though he would swear he hadn’t thought of them in more than ten years— Son, your mother is dead. Like a single blow to the gut. The rest, Josh assumed, came later; it may have been explained to him that she took her own life, that she hanged herself in the attic, or he may have been left to piece together facts from what was implied or what he overheard. Josh couldn’t remember. But he remembered the look on his father’s face. It was a look he never wanted to see again, and he hadn’t, until this very moment. Tom Flynn was standing out in the rain like he didn’t even notice it, he was here at Nobadeer Beach, instead of being in his rightful place behind his computer terminal five stories up in the airport control tower.

Vicki is in the hospital, Ted Stowe said. She had an episode.

Vicki.

Son, your mother is dead. Twelve-year-old Josh had vomited, right there on the spot, without thinking or even noticing. He had vomited al over his new sneakers and the living room rug. And now, thinking, Vicki, Josh leaned over and retched.

No, he thought. No fucking way.

“Joshua!”

Josh looked up. His father was motioning; he wanted Josh to get in the car. Josh would have given anything to turn away, but he was standing in the middle of a downpour—there was another crack of thunder—and Josh’s Jeep didn’t offer much in the way of refuge. Josh dashed to the Explorer and climbed inside.

His father got in next to him, and they both sat there as if stunned, staring at the rain pummeling the windshield. Tom Flynn wiped his face with a handkerchief. His dark hair was plastered to his head. He said, “I have some bad news.”

No, Josh thought. He put his hand up to let his father know he couldn’t stand to hear it. She had an episode.

Tom Flynn cleared his throat and said, “The Patalka girl . . .”

Josh jerked his head. “Didi?”

“She’s dead.”

Josh sucked in his breath. The truck was close and warm, but Josh’s body convulsed with cold. Didi? Not Vicki, but Didi? Didi dead?

“What?” Josh said. “What?”

“She’s dead. She died . . . early this morning.”

“Why?” Josh said. “What happened?”

“Drugs, they think. Pil s, with alcohol.”

“But not—”

“They’re pretty sure it was accidental.”

Tears sprang to Josh’s eyes. The mix of emotions that assaulted him was confusing; it was like too many keys played at once on a piano.

Discord. Didi was dead. Didi was dead? She had, by anyone’s estimation, made a royal mess of her life—car repossessed, behind on her rent, prostitution? But Josh had assumed she would get her act together eventual y; he had thought her parents would bail her out, or she’d meet some poor soul who wanted to take her on. Didi dead seemed impossible. She was such a force, so much herself—with the jean shorts with the white strings, front and center on the cheerleading squad, with the notes she used to pass to Josh between classes, marked with X s and O s and the stamp of her lipsticked mouth. With her hickeys and her adoration of her ferocious cat and her exhaustive knowledge of classic rock, the Al man Brothers, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Led Zeppelin. There was a time, a long period of time actual y, when Josh had used the word “love” with Didi. She had said the word more often and with greater conviction: I love you, I love you so much, you’re my true love, always and forever. Josh, being male, had responded with: Ditto. Roger that. Yep, me too.

Now, however, he knew more about love, and looking back at what he experienced with Didi, he could see its immaturity, its imperfection. So there was guilt mixed in with his shock and disbelief. He hadn’t loved her wel enough or genuinely enough. He hadn’t given her a strong foundation on which to build future relationships. He may, in fact, have crippled her—unintentional y—because she never moved on.

And, too, in the melee of what Josh was feeling was relief that the news wasn’t about Vicki. That was a horrible thought, and he didn’t quite know how to deal with it. He certainly wasn’t happy Didi was dead and Vicki was alive. He was just happy Vicki was alive.

Stil , there was loss. Stil , there was a hole inside of him. The funeral for Deirdre Alison Patalka was held two days later, and Josh attended, wearing his gray interview suit. He may have been imagining it, but he thought he sensed a buzz go through the church when he walked in; he saw heads turn, and the whispering grew louder, though not loud enough for him to make out any actual words. He had no idea how much people knew—

maybe they were whispering because they thought Josh and Didi were stil together and hence he would be cast as the devastated lover. Or maybe everyone knew of Josh and Didi’s fal ing-out, maybe they’d heard that Josh paid Didi off just so she would leave him alone, maybe they held him responsible for Didi’s demise, for her turn to drugs and alcohol, maybe they blamed him for not saving her. Josh had no way of knowing. He saw everyone he used to know—high school friends, teachers, his friends’ parents, doctors and administrators from the hospital, guys from Rob Patalka’s crew, and the actual Dimmity brothers themselves, Seth and Vegas, whom Josh hadn’t set eyes on since his mother ran their office.

Josh’s dentist was there, the ladies who worked in the post office, the manager of the Stop & Shop, the chef and waitstaff of the Straight Wharf, where Didi used to waitress in the summer, the librarians from the Atheneum. The police had to close off Federal Street because there were so many people attending Didi’s funeral that they spil ed down the church steps onto the sidewalk and over the sidewalk onto the cobblestone street and the far sidewalk. Didi arrived in a hearse, in a closed casket that was a somber navy blue, not at al a Didi color, Josh thought, which made it harder for him to believe that she was actual y inside. He was glad, however, that the casket was closed. He didn’t want to see Didi dead, al made-up by the mortician, wearing whatever “suitable” outfit Mrs. Patalka had picked out. He didn’t want to have to gaze at Didi’s face and acknowledge its unspoken accusation: You failed me.

After the funeral, there was an official reception at the Anglers’ Club, but Josh stayed only a few minutes, long enough to kiss Mrs. Patalka and receive, in a somber handshake, an envelope from Mr. Patalka containing two hundred dol ars.

“There was a note on her desk,” Mr. Patalka said. “Saying she owed you this.”

Josh tried to refuse the envelope, but Mr. Patalka insisted. Josh used some of the money to buy beer at Hatch’s; he was taking the beer to the house in Shimmo, where Zach was throwing the unofficial reception for “Didi’s real friends,” “the people who knew her best.”

Josh set the beer down on the passenger side of his Jeep, which he tried not to think of as Melanie’s seat. He took off his suit jacket and threw it into the back; even at four o’clock, it was too hot for it. He hadn’t cal ed Melanie to tel her about Didi, not only because of his self-imposed ban on cal ing Melanie but because Melanie knew nothing about Didi, and how cumbersome would it be to explain that Josh had had this friend—not even a friend, real y, but an ex-girlfriend, a person who defied easy categorization in his life—who had died? Melanie wouldn’t get it, but because she was Melanie, so incredibly kind, she would pretend to get it, and how could Josh find that anything but patronizing? Didi and Melanie were from separate parts of Josh’s life, they weren’t connected, and trying to connect them would require stretching something that might break and end up in a mess. Stil , on his way out to Shimmo, with his tie off now as wel as his jacket and the windows open, al owing the last of summer’s warm, fresh air to rush in, Josh fondled his phone. He scrol ed through his cal s received—there were the two cal s from Rob Patalka, three cal s from Zach, al to tel him the news, he now knew—until he found the cal from Number Eleven Shel Street, from Ted, and he nearly hit the button that would dial the house, but then it was time for him to turn, which he did, abruptly, and the beer slid off Melanie’s seat and clunked to the floor, and while Josh was half bent over trying to upright the beer, he saw Tish Alexander’s car in front of him and the moment to cal Melanie was lost.

It was another beautiful afternoon. If they hadn’t been attending a funeral, people might have come to the Shimmo house in bathing suits. They might have gone swimming right there in the harbor in front of the house. The water was very blue and calm; Josh had never seen water look more inviting. He stood for a minute in the driveway, gazing out across Nantucket Sound. He had been born and raised on this island; there was a sense that this view belonged to him and the others who grew up here. And if it belonged to them, then it belonged to Didi, too, but that fact hadn’t been enough to keep her on the straight and narrow, to keep her alive. Didi—and how many times had Josh uttered this sentence in his mind, hoping that it would start to make sense?—was dead.

Josh entered the house and took off his shoes. He tried to push away thoughts of his night here with Melanie. Strains of Bon Jovi floated down the stairs. Josh ascended, glad for the case of beer in his arms because it gave him something to hold. There were a few people in the living room, mostly girls, al of whom Josh had known forever, but whose names he could not, at that second, summon, crying on the sofa. Josh nodded at them.

Everyone else was out on the deck. The guys, like Josh, had their jackets and ties off, their shirts unbuttoned; they were drinking beer, talking quietly, shaking their heads, gazing off into the distance. Why? Josh heard someone say. And someone else answered, I don’t know, man.

Zach was in the kitchen, fussing like Martha Stewart. He was dumping bags of Doritos into fancy, hand-painted ceramic bowls, he was setting out cocktail napkins, he was sponging off the countertop. He saw Josh and said, “You got beer?”

“Yeah.”

“This fridge is ful ,” Zach said. “Can you put it in the fridge under the bar?”

“Sure.”

“They’re not smoking out there, are they?” Zach said. He craned his neck to spy on the activity on the deck. “There’s no smoking al owed anywhere on the property. Not even outside.”

“No one’s smoking,” Josh said. He carried the case of beer over to the bar, which brought him into close proximity with the girls who were crying.

Their talk stopped when he approached. It became silence studded with sniffles.

“Hi, Josh.”

He turned. Eleanor Shelby, Didi’s best friend, sat between Annelise Carter and Penelope Ross; it was the queen of sorrow and her two handmaidens. Eleanor’s voice, even in its greeting, was accusatory. Josh realized this should come as no surprise—Didi obviously shared every last thing with Eleanor, and with Annelise and Penelope as wel , probably—but he was unprepared for the blitz. He opened the door to the fridge under the bar and noted the slab of blue granite, the mirrors, the one hundred wineglasses hanging upside down. He pushed the six-packs into the fridge, he shoved them with some aggression because against his wil he was thinking of Melanie and their night here, in this house. They had made love in a bed in the next room, they had showered together, they had stood on the deck in robes, and Josh, anyway, had al owed himself the five-minute fantasy that al this was his, or could be.

Behind him, Eleanor cleared her throat. “We haven’t seen you around much this summer, Josh,” she said. “Rumor had it you were babysitting out in ’Sconset.”

He smiled at Eleanor in the mirror, not because he was happy or trying to be nice, but because he was freshly surprised by the difference between girls and women.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s right.”

Penelope Ross, whom Josh had known literal y al his life (they were born the same week at Nantucket Cottage Hospital, their mothers in adjoining rooms), said, “And there were other rumors.”

He glared at Penelope with as much disdain as he could muster. “I’m sure there were.”

“Like, you have a baby on the way.”

He scoffed. There was no point getting drawn into a discussion like this one, but the day had worn on him and he felt his fists itching. Part of him wanted a fight.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said.

“But your girlfriend is pregnant, right?” Penelope said. “Didi told us your girlfriend is pregnant.”

“And older,” Eleanor said. “Like, our parents’ age.”

Josh shook his head. Didi, now that she was dead, had a new, irrefutable authority, and an air of celebrity that she would have relished had she been alive. Josh could have pul ed out his ammunition against Didi—her money problems, her drinking problem, the prostitution—but what would that accomplish? Josh eyebal ed the girls and said in a quiet, serious voice, “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

This silenced them long enough for Josh to escape down the stairs and out into the driveway. He couldn’t stay. The party for “Didi’s real friends,”

“for the people who knew her best,” was not for him. He backed out of the driveway, trying to control his breathing. He was very, very nervous. He headed out Shimmo Road toward Polpis. He waited until he had turned onto Polpis Road before he picked up his phone. He told himself he could always change his mind.

But then, as he knew he would, he dialed the number.

An unfamiliar voice answered the phone. A singsongy, Julie Andrews–type voice. “Hel-lo!”

Josh was caught unprepared. Had he dialed the wrong number?

“Uh . . . hi,” he said. “Is Melanie available, please?”

“Melanie,” the voice said. “Yes. Yes, indeed, Melanie is available. May I tel her who’s cal ing?”

“Josh.”

“Josh,” the voice repeated. There was a pause, then an intake of breath. “Oh! You must be the young man who helped out this summer.”

“Yes,” Josh said. He heard Penelope Ross’s reedy voice. Didi told us . . . “Yes, I am. Who’s this?”

“Oooh, I’m El en Lyndon. Vicki and Brenda’s mom. They just raved about you. Raved! So, I thank you and their father thanks you. We would have been here ourselves if we could, but I had some ambulatory issues, knee operation and al that. And Buzz, my husband, has work. We only came now because it was a real emergency . . .”

“Right,” Josh said. “Is Vicki okay?”

Another sharp intake of breath. And then it sounded like the woman was trying to hold herself together. “She’s okay. Which is to say, she stil has cancer. But it’s just the regular old cancer and not any new cancer. We were al sure it was going to be new cancer, but no, the MRI was clear. She lost consciousness the other night in the car, and we al thought the cancer had gone to her brain. But the doctors said she had overmedicated, her blood was thinned, plus there was the heat and the stress. You know Vicki. She feels an enormous amount of pressure because of the surgery and whatnot.” El en Lyndon paused, and Josh heard her pluck a Kleenex from a box. “My daughter wants to live more than anyone I have ever known.”

She wants to live, Josh thought. Unlike Didi. Unlike my own mother.

“Because of the kids,” El en Lyndon said. “Because of everything.”

“Right,” Josh said. “I know.”

El en Lyndon’s voice brightened. “So, anyway! If you hold on one moment, I’l get Melanie.”

“Okay,” Josh said. “Thanks.”

Y ou should never underestimate the power of your mind, Dr. Alcott said. The cancer isn’t making you sick. You’re making yourself sick.

These words were delivered to Vicki, bedside, in the hospital. Coming from anyone else they would have sounded like an admonishment, but from Dr. Alcott—Mark—it just sounded like the truth, gently spoken.

“I’m going to release you,” he said. “But you have to promise me that, between now and the date of your surgery, you’l relax. You’l drink plenty of water and take the vitamins and eat right. You wil not self-medicate. You’l talk to someone when you feel anxious or upset. If you internalize your fear, it can turn around and destroy you.”

Vicki tried to speak, but found she couldn’t. She nodded, then choked out, “I know.”

“You say you know, but you don’t act like you know,” Dr. Alcott said. “You’re making the road harder for yourself than it needs to be. You took so many pil s you nearly put yourself into a coma.”

She tried again to speak but got stuck. Something was wrong with her voice. “S——orry.” Her tone was not what she intended; she sounded like an automaton on a recording.

“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to yourself.”

“I’m sorry, s——elf,” Vicki said. She was only half joking.

Dr. Alcott smiled. “I want you to take it easy, do you hear me?”

She nodded.

“Okay,” Dr. Alcott said. He leaned in and kissed Vicki on the cheek. “This is good-bye. I won’t see you again this summer. But Dr. Garcia has promised to cal me after your surgery. And”—here he squeezed Vicki’s hand—“I want you to come back and visit me and the rest of the team next summer. Promise?”

She couldn’t speak! Something was wrong with her voice, or maybe she’d damaged her brain. She nodded.

“Good. Those are the visits we like the best.” He held her gaze. “Because next summer you’re going to be healthy.”

Vicki’s eyes swam with tears. It wasn’t as easy as Dr. Alcott was making it seem. She was petrified; anxiety held her by the shoulders. She couldn’t just click her heels like Dorothy and make that go away. She could not relax; she was incapable of taking it easy. She was standing on a ledge, fifty stories off the ground; she couldn’t pretend that she was safe, or that everything was going to be okay. She couldn’t even speak properly; something had been lost, or altered, while she was unconscious. Maybe she’d had a stroke. Maybe the drugs had ravaged her central controls.

Vicki let a few tears drop. What she wanted more than anything was to be out of this hospital for good and back home with her family at Number Eleven Shel Street.

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

“You’re welcome,” he said.

At home, she stil had trouble speaking. She had a stutter. The words and sentences were fluid in her mind, but in delivering them, she hit the same frustrating stumbling block again and again, even with Ted and the kids, even saying phrases she had said thousands of times. Magic words. Hold on. Be careful. I love you. Vicki was concerned about this but she was incapable of articulating her concern, and no one in the cottage seemed to notice her speech impediment, or the fact that, in order to hide the impediment (she would not be able to tolerate another trip to the hospital or any more drugs), she said next to nothing. The announcement of no metastases had put everyone’s mind at ease; the implication that Vicki’s “incident”

had come at her own hands (overdoing it with the painkil ers) or that it was al in her mind made her feel like a malingerer. If she complained now of something else, no one would believe her. They would think she was making it up. At times she thought perhaps she was making it up. She whispered to herself in the shower, I’m making it up. She got stuck on the m and stopped trying.

Ted, in an attempt to wring every bit of fun out of what remained of the summer, cajoled Vicki into joining him and Blaine on the fishing trip. He arranged for El en to stay home and watch Porter. It would be good for Blaine to have Vicki there as wel as Ted; it would be good for the three of them to spend the day together. It would be good for Vicki to be out on the water; in years past, Ted had chartered a sailboat, and Vicki had loved it. Remember, Vick, how you loved it? Vicki couldn’t protest. She nodded. Ohhhhh——kay.

It was just the three of them—plus the captain and first mate—because Harrison Ford cancel ed. Ted was disappointed, but only for a minute, and Vicki found it nicer without any other people. It was like they had their own boat. Blaine was over the moon to be on a real fishing boat, with a fight chair and special holders for his pole and his very own can of Coke. He bounded from one side of the boat to the other, bundled in his brand-new orange life jacket. He had both his parents to himself for the first time in a long time, and Vicki could see that while he was feeling very adult to be on this excursion, he was also relishing his role as the only child of his two parents. He let Ted hold him up high as they motored out of the harbor, past the jetty and around the tip of Great Point.

It was a stunning day. With the drone of the engine making conversation unnecessary, Vicki was set free for long periods of time. She basked in the sun, she sat up to feel the spray of the waves and to see Nantucket as just a sliver of pale sand in the distance. She watched the business of catching a fish as though it were a movie. Ted was doing most of the fishing while Blaine sat in the fight chair, a captive audience through one, two, three bluefish. With the fourth fish, Blaine said, “Another blue.” His voice was weary and disappointed beyond his years. With a wink between Ted and Pete, the captain, it became clear that the mission was to now catch a striped bass. Pete motored al the way to the other side of the island; if they set up right between Smith’s Point and Tuckernuck, he said, they would have better luck. The first mate, a kid named Andre, sat next to Vicki.

He reminded her of Josh; he was on Nantucket for the summer, working. The fol owing week he would head back to the Col ege of Charleston.

At lunchtime, Vicki pul ed out the lunch she had made: chicken salad sandwiches, potato chips, cold plums, watermelon slices, and chocolate peanut butter cookies. Pete and Andre devoured the sandwiches and cookies Vicki had included for them, and Andre said it was the best lunch he’d had al summer.

“Leave it to my wife,” Ted said.

“Leave it to my mom,” Blaine echoed proudly.

Vicki smiled at them and felt happiness, fleeting though it was. After lunch, she went up to the bow of the boat and closed her eyes as the boat sliced through the water. This will not be my last day on the water, she thought. But then she had a vision of herself on the operating table, the surgeon brandishing a scalpel. Why not just cut me open with a saber? The night before, Vicki had watched Brenda and Walsh holding hands.

Walsh was the kind of person El en Lyndon referred to as a “gem,” or “a real treasure”; he was immediately recognizable as good, kind, and sensitive, as wel as extremely attractive (wel , there had never been any doubt about that)—he was the kind of person that it might be reasonable to lose one’s job over. Brenda and Walsh were so visibly happy together that Vicki thought, They will get married. But I won’t be alive for the wedding.

Where did these thoughts come from? How could she make them stop? Dr. Alcott was right about one thing: Fear was its own disease.

Vicki handed Ted his cel phone; she wanted him to check on Porter. It would stand to reason that since she was enjoying herself, something must be horribly amiss at home. Ted dialed the number and it rang once, then the connection cut out. Call ended. As Ted dialed again, Vicki pictured Porter’s face in a purple squeal. It used to be when Porter got upset, he would throw up, and though he hadn’t done this al summer, it was the vision that came to Vicki: Porter spewing pureed carrots al over El en Lyndon’s white linen pants and choking on the vomit until he stopped breathing.

The second cal didn’t go through at al , and Ted shook the cel phone in frustration. “There’s no reception out here, hon. Just relax. Everything is fine.”

You always say everything is fine, Vicki thought angrily. How am I supposed to relax when Porter is probably in the hospital on a respirator?

She was distracted from these thoughts by a shout from her other son. “Dad! Daddy!” It had only occurred to Vicki a hundred times since the day began that Blaine would fal overboard and be sucked under the boat by the power of the engines. When Vicki looked up, however, what she saw was Blaine holding on to the fishing pole for dear life. The line was taut, and Blaine was pul ing back in a professional way, bracing his bare feet against the side of the boat.

Ted said, “You’ve got a bite! Here, let me bring him in.”

Vicki thought Blaine might protest, but he handed the rod over to Ted right away, with relief. Vicki, too, was relieved. She didn’t want Blaine pul ed into the drink by the resistance of some monstrous fish, nor did she want to see Blaine lose the rod altogether, which was the more likely outcome. Vicki thought there might be a long, drawn-out Ahab versus Moby Dick–like struggle, but Ted landed the fish in a matter of seconds. Even in the overwhelming sunlight, Vicki could see the glint of silver scales. The fish was sleek but long, much longer than any of the bluefish Ted had caught.

“Striped bass?” Ted said uncertainly.

The captain whistled. “Better. You caught a bonito. She’s a beauty.” He pul ed out a tape measure and pressed the flopping fish to the deck with his shoe. “Thirty-seven inches. She’s a keeper.”

“What’s it cal ed?” Blaine asked.

“Bonito,” Ted said. “Bone-ee-to.”

“They’re good eating,” the captain said.

“Do you want to keep it?” Ted said. “Do you want to take it back to the docks so Grammie and Grandpa can see it?”

“We could gr——il it for dinner,” Vicki said.

Blaine sucked his lower lip as he studied the fish. In his sun visor with his hands on his hips and the look of deliberation on his face, he could have been fourteen. He could have been twenty-four.

“Nah,” Blaine said. “I want to throw her back. I want to let her live.”

They threw the bonito back, but to celebrate their day of fishing, Ted stopped at East Coast Seafood on the way home and bought salmon, swordfish, and tuna. It was their next-to-last night on the island, the evening of the last big dinner, and it would be real y big with the addition of Buzz and El en Lyndon and John Walsh.

When Ted pul ed the Yukon up in front of the house, Vicki blinked with disbelief. Josh’s Jeep was parked out front.

“Josh,” she said. His name came easily, al in one piece.

“Josh!” Blaine shouted.

“Good,” Ted said, unbuckling his seat belt. “I can give him his check.”

Vicki felt unaccountably happy when she walked inside. She expected a house ful of people, but the only person waiting for them was El en Lyndon, who was relaxing on the sofa, gimpy leg up.

“Hel o, al ,” El en said. “How was fishing?”

“We caught fish!” Blaine said. “Seven bluefish and one . . .” Here, Blaine looked to his father.

“Bonito,” Ted said.

“Bonito!” Blaine said. “But we let them go.”

“Josh?” Vicki said. Again, no stutter, no stumble.

“Josh?” El en Lyndon said.

“Is heeeee——here?” Vicki said.

“Yes,” El en Lyndon said. “Josh and Melanie took Porter for a walk.”

Josh and Melanie, Vicki thought.

“And Brenda and Walsh are at the beach,” El en said. “And I sent your father to the farm for corn, tomatoes, and blueberry pie.”

“We bought . . .” Vicki held up the fish to show her mother. She set the fil ets on the counter and immediately started thinking: eight adults for dinner if Josh would stay; she had to marinate the fish, chil wine, soften butter, set the table, and get a shower. Plus, food for the kids. Shuck the corn when her father got home, slice and dress the tomatoes. Would there be enough food? Should she run to the market for a baguette?

The lists were back. Vicki scribbled some things down on a tablet. But as she unwrapped the beautiful fish fil ets from the butcher paper, the terror returned. Terror! When Ted passed behind her, she turned and grabbed his wrist.

“What is it?” he said.

“We’re leeee——aving.”

“We have to go back sometime,” Ted said. “We just can’t stay here forever.”

Of course not, Vicki thought. However, back in Connecticut, reality awaited.

From her outpost on the sofa, El en Lyndon sang out, “Nantucket wil always be here, honey.”

Yes, Vicki thought. But will I?

Josh might have been more comfortable in the house with the women—Vicki, Melanie, Brenda, and Mrs. Lyndon—but he found himself, instead, out on the deck with “the men.” The men included Buzz Lyndon, Ted, and John Walsh, Brenda’s student, Brenda’s lover, who had (Josh learned from Melanie) shown up without warning a few days earlier. Initial y, Josh felt threatened by John Walsh, but it quickly became apparent that John Walsh was different from the likes of Peter Patchen, or even Ted. To begin with, John Walsh was Australian, and his accent alone made him seem cheerful and approachable, open, friendly, and egalitarian. When Ted introduced Josh, John Walsh stood up right away from the deck chair and gave Josh a hearty handshake.

“Hey, mate. Name’s Walsh. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Josh said.

“Beer?” Ted said.

“I’l get it,” Buzz Lyndon said. He handed Josh a Stel a.

“Thanks,” Josh said. He took a long, cold swal ow.

“Not your usual duds,” Ted noted.

“No,” Josh said. He was wearing the bare bones of his gray suit—the gray pants, the white dress shirt (unbuttoned at the neck, cuffs rol ed up), and his dress shoes with black socks. He had walked with Melanie and Porter to the beach in this unlikely outfit, and whereas he felt overdressed, the suit made him feel older, like an actual grown-up. “I had a funeral.”

“Who?” Ted said.

“Friend of mine from high school,” Josh said. “A girl. My ex-girlfriend, actual y. Didi, her name was. She worked at the hospital.”

Ted stared at him. “Blond girl?”

“Yeah.”

“I met her,” Ted said. “Briefly. When we were there for Vicki last week. That’s terrible. God, I’m sorry.”

John Walsh raised his beer bottle. “Sorry for your loss, mate.”

“Oh,” Josh said. “Thanks. She had . . . a lot of problems.”

“That’s too bad,” Buzz Lyndon said. “Young girl like that.”

“Was she sick?” Ted asked. “She didn’t look sick.”

“No, not sick. She overdosed. It was a combination of pil s and alcohol.” Already he had said more about Didi than he wanted to. He had hoped to leave behind the sadness of the funeral and the discomfort he felt around his high school friends, but that was proving to be impossible. Al summer, he’d tried to keep his job at Number Eleven Shel Street separate from his life at home, but he saw now it was pointless. The island was so smal that everyone intersected. Thinking back, Josh realized he wouldn’t even be working here if he hadn’t shown up at the hospital that day to lend Didi the two hundred dol ars. So in a way it was like Didi led him here. “It was an accident,” Josh added. “Her death was accidental.”

“When I think back on the stuff I tried as a kid . . . ,” John Walsh said. “It’s a bloody miracle I didn’t accidental y off myself.”

Ted swil ed his beer, nodding in agreement. Buzz Lyndon cleared his throat and settled in a deck chair. Everyone was quiet. The silence was similar to the silence Tom Flynn liked to immerse himself in; it was this silence that Josh had always found intimidating. But now, he savored it. Four men could drink beer on a deck and not say a word and not find it awkward. Women would talk, say whatever came next to their minds. Men could keep what was on their minds to themselves. And what was on Josh’s mind was . . . Melanie.

The anticipation of seeing her that afternoon had nearly strangled him; he felt like a half-crazed animal pul ing on its chain. As soon as Josh set eyes on her (a little rounder in the mid-section, a little tanner, a little more luminous), as soon as they were pushing Porter in the baby jogger down Shel Street, he fil ed with quiet elation. She asked about the suit, and he told her about Didi. Talking to Melanie was as therapeutic as crying. A sudden, unexpected death, the death of someone young, the death of someone Josh hadn’t always treated nicely, a death that caused him to fil with guilt and regret—Melanie got it; she understood. Josh and Melanie became so engrossed in talking about Didi that they managed, for a while, to forget about themselves. But then, when talk of Didi was exhausted, Josh felt he had to address the issue of their relationship.

“I hadn’t planned on coming back here,” he said.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” Melanie said. “I thought you were gone.”

“Wel ,” Josh said.

“Wel what?”

“I wanted to see you.”

Melanie smiled at the ground. They had made it al the way to the beach and were on their way back to Number Eleven. In the strol er, Porter was fast asleep. They could have turned right, back onto Shel Street, but Josh suggested they continue straight.

“Past the ’Sconset Chapel?” Melanie said.

“Yes.”

They walked for a while without speaking. Then Josh said, “You’re going back to Peter?”

Melanie pressed her lips together and nodded. “He’s my husband. That counts for something. The vows count for something.”

“Even though he broke them?” Josh said.

“Even though he broke them,” Melanie said. “I realize that must be hard for you to hear.”

“It’s hard for me to think of you getting hurt again,” Josh said.

“He won’t . . . wel , he said he wouldn’t . . .”

“If he does,” Josh said, “I’l kil him.”

Melanie leaned her head against Josh’s shoulder. The church was in front of them; there were white ribbons fluttering on the handrails of the three stone steps that led to the front door. The vestiges of someone’s wedding. “Finding you was the best thing that could have happened to me,” she said.

It was another line that rendered Josh speechless. As he stood now on the back deck drinking his beer, he thought: Yes. It had been the best thing for both of them, as unlikely as that might seem to outside eyes.

Josh was startled when the back door opened and Vicki poked her head out to say, “Josh? D——inner? You’l . . .” She nodded at the picnic table.

“Sure,” he said. “I’d love to.”

At dinner, Josh sat between Melanie and Vicki. Melanie kept a hand on Josh’s leg while Vicki loaded his plate with food. Talk was light: Josh heard al about the fishing trip, the bluefish, the bonito. Then Buzz Lyndon told some fishing stories from his youth, then John Walsh told fishing stories from Australia, which quickly turned into stories about sharks and saltwater crocodiles and deadly box jel yfish. Josh had consumed no smal amount of wine—Ted, at the head of the table, kept leaning forward and fil ing Josh’s glass—and the wine, along with the candlelight and the pure lawlessness of Melanie’s hand on his leg, gave the evening a surreal glow. Over the course of the summer he had made a place for himself at this table—but how? He thought back to the first afternoon he set eyes on them: Three women step off of a plane.

Brenda sat in the crook of Walsh’s arm with a contented smile on her face. Scowling Sister. Except now she seemed happy and at peace. Vicki

—Heavy-breathing Sister—seemed melancholy and very quiet, though now Josh understood why. The summer had left Vicki physical y transformed (her blond hair was gone, and she was leaner by at least twenty pounds), but she stil retained what Josh thought of as her “mom-ness,” that quality that brought everybody together and made sure every detail of the day was tended to. She was the glue that held everyone here together. If they lost her, they would break apart, splinter off. Fal to pieces. That was the cause of her melancholy, perhaps: She understood how important she was to other people and she couldn’t stand to let them down.

Final y, next to him, touching him, was Straw Hat. Melanie. He liked to think he had saved Melanie, but it was probably the other way around.

Melanie had taught Josh things he never even knew he wanted to learn. She would go back to Peter—that fact was as real and hard and smooth as a marble that rol ed around in Josh’s mind—and Josh would be heartbroken. He was on his way to heartbreak now, sitting here on this last night, but that heartbreak—along with everything else that had happened today—made him feel older and more seasoned. He had his story; nobody could take that away. Chas Gorda would be proud.

After dinner, there was pie, ice cream, the last of the wine, and smal er glasses of port passed around for the men. Buzz Lyndon produced cigars.

Ted accepted one, though Josh declined and so did Walsh. Brenda said, “Daddy, cigars stink.”

“Keeps the bugs away,” Buzz Lyndon said.

Vicki stood up. “I have to . . .” She touched the top of Blaine’s head. “Josh? Wil you r——ead?”

Blaine, who was almost asleep on his grandmother’s lap, revived enough to say, “Stories! Please, Josh?”

Melanie squeezed his knee. Josh stood up. “Ohhhh-kay,” he said.

He lay down with Blaine on the mattress on the floor of Ted and Vicki’s bedroom. Porter was already fast asleep, sucking away on his pacifier.

Vicki sat on the bed. She handed Josh Sylvester and the Magic Pebble.

“It’s sad,” she said.

“Mom cries whenever she reads it,” Blaine said.

“Does she, now?” Josh said. He winked at Vicki, then cleared his throat and started to read.

The story was about a donkey named Sylvester who finds a shiny red pebble that turns out to have magic powers. When Sylvester wishes for rain, it rains; when Sylvester wishes for the rain to stop, it stops. One day, when Sylvester is out, he sees a hungry lion approaching, and in a moment of panic, he wishes he were a rock. Sylvester turns into a rock and he is saved from the lion—but because Sylvester drops the magic pebble, he has no way to turn himself back into a donkey. He is stuck being a rock, no matter how hard he wishes otherwise. When Sylvester does not return home, his parents grow sick with worry. After weeks of searching, they come to the conclusion that Sylvester is dead. They are nearly destroyed by the loss of their only child.

In the springtime, however, Sylvester’s parents venture out for a picnic and they come across the rock that is Sylvester, and they use him as a table. Then Sylvester’s father spies the magic pebble in the grass—and, knowing it is an object his son would have loved, he picks it up and places it on the rock.

Sylvester can sense his parents’ presence; he can hear them talking. No sooner does he think, “I wish I were myself again, I wish I were my real self again,” than this becomes true—he turns back into a donkey, right before his parents’ eyes. And—oh!—what happiness!

In the end, Sylvester and his parents return home and put the marble in an iron safe.

“‘Some day they might want to use it,’” Josh read, “‘but real y, for now, what more could they wish for? They had al that they wanted.’”