The Rumor

HOPE

She weathered the rumor about her screwing Brick by holding her head high and not saying one word on the topic. Allegra was back to walking with Brick between classes, making him late for everything, because they stopped in front of every water fountain to kiss.

Hope couldn’t watch them without wanting to barf.

Meanwhile, Allegra was still seeing Ian Coburn. She would tell Brick she was going to “stay home and cram for finals” and tell her parents that she was going to wait at the end of the driveway for Hollis to pick her up for a “study group,” but instead it would be Ian Coburn in his red Camaro, whisking her away to study the fine art of giving a blow job while watching the sun go down from a remote stretch of beach in Madequecham.

Hope should have just told Brick while she had the chance: Yes, Allegra is seeing Ian. Yes, Allegra is screwing Ian.

Indeed, Hope was certain the reason the rumor about Hope and Brick died so quickly was because Allegra put her foot down and stomped it out. She knew Hope was capable of telling everyone about her and Ian Coburn.

A less nourishing thought was that the rumor about Hope and Brick had fizzled because nobody in their right mind could imagine Brick wanting to have sex with Hope.

Hope resumed believing that Allegra would blow it; she couldn’t two-time all summer on this tiny island without getting caught. All Hope had to do was wait.

But waiting was tedious. The school year was drawing to a close, and the weather had warmed up. By the end of the first week of June, Hope had aced all her exams. There was nothing left to study for and no reason, even, to practice the flute. Her job at the rectory of St. Mary’s Church would start right after school ended, but that would be a quiet, antisocial snooze. She would help Mrs. Aguiar file, and she would do some research for Father Declan’s homilies. She would answer the phone and inform an endless string of visitors that Masses were held Saturday at 5:00 p.m. and Sunday at 8:30, 10:00, and 11:30, there was weekday Mass at 7:30 a.m., and there was a Spanish Mass at 7:00 p.m. on Sunday.

For now, when Hope came home from school, she would lie in the hammock strung tightly between two elms overlooking Polpis Harbor, and she would read. Allegra was already heading to the beach with her friends every afternoon to drink the beer that Bluto’s older sister bought for them and then pass out in the sand. Allegra never invited Hope to go, and Hope’s friends were home reading in their own hammocks or getting a jump on their college application essays. Hope comforted herself with the knowledge that next spring she, Hope, would be getting into the University of Virginia and Vanderbilt, and maybe even Duke, while Allegra would be waitlisted at North Podunk Junior College.

Still, it was lonely.

The only bright spot in Hope’s life was her talks with Benton about books. She had started with Goodbye, Columbus, although it had struck her as old fashioned and macho. She had liked Appointment in Samarra much better. Benton had seemed really tickled that she was following his suggestions, and when he saw her, he made a point to ask her where she was in each book and how she was liking it.

The conversations never lasted as long as Hope wanted because Hope’s mother always interrupted-calling Benton over to the henhouse or needing his help with the lawn mower. Some days, Grace made Benton elaborate lunches-seared-tuna Caesar salads or frisée aux lardons topped with poached eggs. And there was always a basket of crusty rolls and a small wooden cutting board with cheese, crackers, sausage, mustard, butter, and Marcona almonds.

Hope longed to be invited to join in these lunches, and she told her mother so.

“This is an important time for Benton and me to talk,” Grace said. “I’m sorry, darling. Would you like me to make you a ham sandwich?”

“A ham sandwich?” Hope asked.

“On a baguette with sweet butter and fig jam?” Grace said. “You can eat it in the hammock while you read.”

That did sound enticing, but not quite as enticing as sitting down at the table with her mother and Benton.

“I’d rather have salad with you guys,” Hope said.

“I’m sorry, darling,” Grace said. “We have gardening issues to discuss.”

Gardening issues? Was her mother serious? She wasn’t willing to include Hope in these lunches, despite her near-constant pleas that both Hope and Allegra spend more time with her?

“Fine,” Hope said. “A ham sandwich is fine.”

Allegra’s end-of-the-year grades were piss poor: low C’s in chemistry, trig, and American history and a D in English, but a 79 in chorus-which, she pointed out, was nearly a B (the grade in chorus was impressive, Hope thought, since Allegra couldn’t carry a tune to save her life). In an uncharacteristic display of backbone, Eddie informed Allegra that she would not have driving privileges for the summer. This was okay when she was out with Ian Coburn in the red Camaro, but to see Brick she either needed to take the shuttle (which came out to the Polpis Road only three times daily) or she had to beg Hope for a ride.

Hope agreed to chauffeur more than she might have, if only to see Brick. Brick seemed miserable. He was working part time at Nantucket Bank as an “information assistant,” which, he announced, was the dullest of indoor jobs. He greeted people, he directed them either left, toward the tellers, or right, toward the loan officers; he was also in charge of showing people how to use the Penny Arcade, which sorted and counted change and spat out a receipt that customers could trade in for paper money. Brick looked bloated and pale; he had lost the luster and verve he’d possessed only a few weeks earlier.

There was a full week of graduation parties, and Allegra and Brick were invited to all of them. Hope wasn’t invited to any, although whenever they pulled in the driveway, Brick would say, “Why don’t you come in for a while, Hope?”

“No, thank you,” Hope said.

At more than one of the parties, Ian Coburn’s red Camaro was already parked out front, and Hope thought, How does she pull this off on a nightly basis?

One day, when Benton was working in the rose bed, Hope ostentatiously threw herself across the hammock, brandishing the copy of Lolita that she had recently purchased.

She opened the book with a loud sigh, hoping Benton would notice her, but for a long time, he was consumed with cutting back the roses.

“Ow!” Benton said. He’d hit a thorn.

“Are you okay?” Hope asked. She was up and out of the hammock in a flash. “Do you want me to get you a Band-Aid?”

“Oh, Hope!” Benton said. “I didn’t see you there. You’re quiet as a mouse.” He then noticed Hope’s book. “Hey! You’re reading Lolita!”

Hope blushed. “Yep.”

Benton stepped out of the rose bed and wiped at his forehead with an orange bandanna. “I keep promising to get you that list of a hundred books, but I’ve been so busy.”

“You have clients other than Mom, right?” Hope said.

“Right,” Benton said. “I work on six projects at a time.”

“You have five other clients?” Hope asked. “It feels like you’re always here.”

“Well,” he said, gazing back at the house, “this one is my personal favorite. And I have a manager and ten college kids working for me.”

“I don’t understand why you’re a gardener if you were a literature major,” Hope said.

Benton laughed. “Life happens, Hope. I was on a work-study scholarship at Ohio State, and they put me on the grounds crew. I liked it. When I graduated, it was more appealing to me to work outside with yards and gardens, parks, green spaces. It’s not that I don’t dream of being an English teacher someday-I sort of do. But I guess I just prefer this kind of work.”

“Did you read all the time when you were a teenager?” Hope asked.

“I read secretly,” Benton said. “Late at night. During the day, I did regular teenage stuff. I played rugby, I drank beer in the woods with my bozo friends.”

“You were sort of a combination of me and Allegra,” Hope said.

“Maybe?” Benton said. “I don’t really know your sister.”

Hope felt happy about this. Most people liked Allegra better because she was outgoing, like Eddie. She could converse, tease, flirt, and make instant friends. If Benton met Allegra, he would prefer Allegra, or so Hope feared.

But maybe not. Allegra wouldn’t tolerate a long discussion about books.

“She’s nothing like me,” Hope said. “She’s beautiful and shallow.”

Benton didn’t flinch at this assessment. “You’re beautiful,” he said.

Hope shrugged. She could tell when someone was saying this just to be nice. “She’s more beautiful. She and her best friend, Hollis, are the most popular girls in the school. Allegra has been dating Brick Llewellyn since the start of sophomore year, but now she’s bored with him, but instead of just breaking up with him, she’s been hanging out with this kid named Ian who goes to BC.”

“BC,” Benton said. “Good school.”

Clearly, Benton hadn’t heard Eddie’s joke.

“She’s not cheating on him,” Hope said quickly. As much as she was aching for Allegra to get her comeuppance, she couldn’t seem to be the one to turn her in. “But she isn’t being very nice.”

“And that bothers you?” Benton said.

“I want her to act like a decent human being,” Hope said. She wished all this sounded less like an episode of Degrassi and more like painful, complicated real life. “Do you have any advice?”

“Actually,” Benton said, “I do.”

At that moment, Grace poked her head out the back sliding door. She seemed delighted to see Hope and Benton talking. “Benton,” she said, “lunch is ready.” To Hope, she said, “Honey? Would you like a ham sandwich?”

Hope shrugged. As always, her mother ruined everything. “I guess,” she said.

GRACE

Just when she thought life couldn’t get any better, she received a phone call from Hester Phan.

“I have exciting news,” Hester said. Hester was a serious Vietnamese American woman with a deadpan voice. She sounded as if she were calling to tell Grace that there was a sale on rubber gloves at the Stop & Shop.

“You do?” Grace said.

“The home-and-garden editor of the Boston Globe loved the photos. They want to do a feature in the Sunday paper.”

Grace shrieked. “When?” she said.

“They’re sending a writer and photographer on July twenty-first,” Hester said, “to run five days later on Sunday the twenty-sixth.”

They had less than a month to get ready!

“Whoo-hoo!” Grace said. “Thank you, Hester, thank you!”

“That’s my job,” Hester said. “I’ll call closer to the date with the exact details. And I’ll send Eddie my final bill.”

Grace hung up. She didn’t know whether to call Eddie or Benton first. The right thing to do was to call Eddie. This was his house, and he was paying Hester’s fee. Besides, she wanted to tell Benton in person.

She said, “You’re not going to believe this! The Boston Globe said yes! The Sunday Boston Globe!”

“Yes to what?” Eddie said.

“Yes to the gardening feature!” Grace said.

“Oh, right, right,” Eddie said. “Does this mean I can stop paying Hester?”

“After the final bill,” Grace said. “Which, I think we agreed, includes a success bonus.”

“Why should she get a bonus for success?” Eddie said. “It’s her job. She should succeed as a matter of course, not get a bonus for it.” He sounded like he was in some kind of cavern. His voice was reverberating, and Grace could hear his footsteps.

“Where are you?” she said.

“Number thirteen Eagle Wing Lane,” he said.

“It sounds empty,” Grace said. “Aren’t there supposed to be guys working?”

“Yes,” Eddie said. “There are supposed to be guys working.”

She couldn’t decipher the tone of his voice. Was he being sarcastic?

She didn’t care. She was too excited about the Sunday Boston Globe. She said, “Honey, aren’t you happy for me?”

“Thrilled,” Eddie said.

Grace hung up. Eddie didn’t sound thrilled-but what had she expected?

She wished the girls were home, but Hope had started her job at the church rectory, and Allegra was off island at her new SAT-prep course. Instead of once a week for six weeks, this class met every day for a week, including Saturday. Allegra needed yet another prep class because the other class had resulted in only a thirty-point increase in her critical-reading score, and her math score had stayed the same. Neither score was very high.

Eddie wasn’t happy about spending money on another class, in addition to the cost of flying her back and forth.

Grace said that some people just didn’t test well.

Eddie said she wasn’t trying. Had Grace ever seen her studying?

No, Grace had not seen Allegra studying, and, furthermore, Allegra was out every single night.

Grace would tell the girls about the Sunday Boston Globe that evening at dinner.

Would they care?

Grace wanted to call Madeline, but Madeline had been very busy writing her new novel at the apartment, and Grace didn’t want to interrupt her. However, she was too excited to keep the news to herself, and it was still half an hour until Benton would arrive.

Grace sent Madeline a text: Sunday Boston Globe featuring my garden July 26!

Madeline texted back: Great!

Grace tried not to feel deflated. Great! was an appropriate response. She couldn’t expect anyone to understand how far beyond Great! this was.

Grace pulled the cork from a bottle of vintage Veuve Clicquot that she had found down in Eddie’s wine fridge just as Benton rounded the corner of the house.

“Champagne?” he said. “What happened to mint tea?”

Grace poured two glasses but left them on the table. She said, “Hester Phan called.”

He said, “Break it to me gently.”

She said, “On Sunday, July twenty-sixth, we are going to be featured in the… Boston Globe!”

Benton swung her in a circle and let out a cowboy rodeo whoop.

This was the reaction Grace had been craving. As Benton took her face in his hands and started to kiss her, she marveled at how it felt to have someone in her life who shared her passion for this yard and who was just as over the moon about this feature as she was. A partner. A friend.

And more.

Benton pulled Grace by the hand toward the garden shed, leaving their champagne in the sun.

The following day, Grace received an invitation to the Nantucket Garden Club’s Sunset Soiree. This year’s soiree was being held at Jean Burton’s home, which Grace had always thought of as the House of a Thousand Koi Ponds (really only five, but for Grace that was five too many). Jean was president of the Nantucket Garden Club; she had taken over for Grace when Grace’s term ended. Jean was a native Texan, filled with charm and hospitality. She continued to call Grace for advice and help with logistics, and she kept Grace in the loop, even though Grace had become consumed with her own project.

Grace had been president for six years and had hosted the Sunset Soiree in her own yard years earlier at their old house, on Dover Street. The Sunset Soiree was a fabulous event, and for all the years Grace was involved, she had brought Madeline as her date.

But this year, she thought, she would take Benton.

She called Madeline to see what she thought.

“What if I took Benton to the Sunset Soiree?” Grace asked. “Would you be mad?”

Madeline was silent, but in the background, Grace could hear the sound of her pen scratching against paper, as well as the hum of her laptop.

“I won’t be mad,” Madeline said. “I like the Sunset Soiree just fine. The gardens are pretty, the food is good-but it’s really your thing.”

“I just don’t want you to think I’m ditching you for Benton,” Grace said.

“That’s not the problem,” Madeline said. “The problem is you being seen in public with Benton.”

Yes, Grace had considered this. And yet, she really wanted to venture out in the wider world with Benton. The island was four miles wide by thirteen miles long; they couldn’t exactly go to dinner at the Ship’s Inn or walk the Sconset bluff hand in hand. The Sunset Soiree was a garden-club function, Benton was her landscape architect, and they had something to jointly brag about. Grace couldn’t wait to tell Jean Burton and Susan Prendergast and Monica Delray about the Sunday Boston Globe! The Sunset Soiree would be a safe and appropriate place for her and Benton to go together.

“I’ll ask Eddie’s permission,” Grace said. “I’m sure he’ll say yes.”

“I’m sure he will say yes,” Madeline said. She sighed. “But you know how those women talk, Grace. Remember how Blond Sharon made such a big deal when Monica showed up in the mismatched Chanel flats? She accused Monica of being drunk when she got dressed, and three days later, everyone had her checking in to Betty Ford. Those women are vipers. They’re ruthless. If you go with Benton, they’ll have a field day with it.”

“Blond Sharon can kiss my ass,” Grace said.

“You can do what you want,” Madeline said. “But, as your best friend, I have to tell you, I would feel much better about you going with Benton if the two of you weren’t…”

“I know,” Grace said. And she did know. But she didn’t care. She wanted to go to the Sunset Soiree with Benton. She wanted to have fun.

That night, she broached the topic with Eddie.

“You don’t care if I go to the Sunset Soiree with Benton, do you?”

“What’s the Sunset Soiree?” Eddie asked.

“The garden-club thing.”

He waved a hand. “Have at it,” he said. “As long as I don’t have to go.” He ran a Bremner wafer through butter. His heartburn had been so bad recently, he’d told Grace, that he could barely eat anything else.

Grace asked Benton the following morning. “Would you go as my date to the Sunset Soiree?”

His face lit up. “I’d love to,” he said.

“It’s at Jean Burton’s house,” Grace said.

“Koi ponds,” Benton said.

Grace kissed him and grinned. She could not believe how in sync they were.

He said, “I’ve gone before, you know, four or five years ago, when it was at Jody Rouisse’s house? Marla Amster took me, back when I was designing her gardens.”

“You went with Marla Amster?” Grace said. “Now I’m jealous.” She tried to remember that year. Jody Rouisse lived out in Shimmo. Yes, Grace remembered going with Madeline. She remembered the garden. In Grace’s opinion, it had been lackluster: a lot of decorative grasses, with only one flower bed, and perennials that had been grouped by color; Grace had felt as if she were looking at a paint-by-numbers. But she didn’t remember seeing Benton. She couldn’t believe she had overlooked him. Now, he was all she could see.

“You don’t need to be jealous,” Benton said. “I wasn’t in love with Marla Amster.”

In love! In love! In love in love in love!

As soon as Benton left, Grace ran upstairs to call Madeline.

There was only one dark spot in Grace’s week. On a late-night run to the Stop & Shop to get more butter lettuce and farmer’s cheese and other lunch provisions, Grace saw a red sports car in the parking lot-with a girl inside who looked a lot like Allegra. The girl was kissing the blond boy in the driver’s seat.

Grace nearly knocked on the window. Allegra? But then she thought better of it. If she were wrong, it would be bad, but if she were right, it would be even worse. Grace hurried into the store.

EDDIE

The last week of June, Eddie had a group from Kasper Snacks renting 10 Low Beach Road. Kenny Kasper had been referred to Eddie by Ronan LNW, and he had asked about having the girls come by over the course of the week. Eddie had said, “Let me see if I can make that magic happen.”

The girls were basically working nonstop, and they had started to spend their money. Nadia had bought a barely used lime-green Jeep out of the classifieds for cash. Eddie said, “You don’t want to flash the money around, Nadia, or people will start to ask questions.”

He couldn’t let anything mess up their situation. He was too dependent on the cash. At this point, it was his only steady source of income. He had one rather underwhelming listing on High Street in town that he had shown to the same couple four times-but in the end, they had passed, instead buying a significantly nicer home on upper Main Street from none other than Glenn Daley. Eddie had shown a seven-million-dollar house on Eel Point Road to a gay couple who had made an offer of five-five-but the owner had flat-out refused to even counter, and the couple wouldn’t go any higher, saying that Nantucket was outrageously priced and they were going to look on Martha’s Vineyard and Block Island instead. And two sisters who owned a four-million-dollar parcel of land on Hulbert Avenue-that Eddie had not one but two potential buyers interested in-had just pulled it off the market.

Eddie couldn’t believe his rotten luck. He was trying to pay off the bills for number 13, but there were also his six collective mortgage payments, groceries, Allegra’s class, Benton Coe and the damn publicist with her “success bonus.” And Madeline kept asking for her fifty thousand dollars back. She had actually surpassed asking and moved on to begging; in the last phone call, she had been vaguely threatening, making it sound like if Eddie didn’t pay, something would happen that Eddie wouldn’t like.

He understood Madeline was frustrated and possibly even frightened. Eddie had posed the loan of fifty thousand dollars to Trevor and Madeline as an “investment opportunity,” and that was exactly what it would have been if Eddie had sufficient funds to finish the houses or if the market would start cooperating and produce buyers. What Eddie really needed were 2005-era buyers; back then, the economy had been booming, and houses were going for 30 percent above market within twelve hours of being listed.

He hadn’t sold a house since October, a fact that depressed him. He was in a slump, like a baseball player. He had been struggling, then sinking, and now he was drowning. He had approached the Llewellyns at the start of the sinking period because he was tapped out at the banks and nobody else liked him or believed in him enough to lend him the kind of money he needed. He knew Madeline had just gotten a big advance, he knew she would persuade Trevor to say yes. What Eddie had not predicted was how irresponsible Madeline would be with her sudden windfall. She had rented an apartment she didn’t need, and there went twelve grand of her after-tax dollars.

Eddie knew he should feel guilty about what he and Barbie were doing… but he had no choice. He sent Barbie a text about Kasper Snacks, even though she was sitting at her desk on the other side of the office. Barbie was having modest success this year, but she was queen of the small listing-the $359,000 condo out by the airport, the $595,000 three-bedroom, two-bath mid-island home with an unfurnished basement-whereas Eddie dealt only with seven-figure, or preferably eight-figure, properties.

His hubris was his downfall, he supposed. But he was proud of his success-him, a boy from Purchase Street in New Bedford.

The text he sent Barbie said: Girls at TLBR tomorrow night. Kasper Snacks.

I didn’t talk to Kasper Snacks, she texted. How did they know?

Referred by Ronan LNW, Eddie texted.

Trustworthy? Barbie texted.

Seemed to be.

Did you check out the company online? Barbie texted.

It’s Kasper Snacks, Eddie texted. Creator of the Donut Chip?

Barbie texted, ???????

Eddie texted, Everyone eats them but you.

Barbie flashed Eddie a look. My gut is bothering me on this one, she texted. Count me out.

Really? Eddie texted. Barb, this is no different from any other time. Standard operating procedure.

I’m out, Barbie texted. Take my cut.

You’re serious? Eddie texted.

Very, Barbie texted.

He would have argued, but he was too titillated by the thought of an extra seventeen-five a week.

If you insist, Eddie texted. Delete.

Deleted, Barbie texted.

His office manager, Eloise, had been acting strangely the past two or three days, paying all kinds of extra-sweet attention to Eddie, when before she never paid him any attention. Eddie suspected she was going to ask for a raise-which he couldn’t afford to give her, but neither could he afford to lose her. Eloise had brought him a potted snapdragon from Bartlett’s Farm, saying he needed something to brighten up his desk. When he asked if he was going to have to water or deadhead it, she said she would take responsibility for the plant’s care and maintenance.

She said, “I’ll be your own personal gardener.”

He said, “Well, my wife has one; why shouldn’t I?”

Eloise stared at him, and Eddie said, “Benton Coe. Ever heard of him, Eloise?”

“Oh yes,” Eloise said. “He did the rose beds in the back of the Eighteen Hundred House, and he designed the gardens at Greater Light, which are exquisite, I must say.”

“I’m paying him like he’s the Bill Gates of gardening,” Eddie said. He gazed at the vaguely menacing fuchsia jaws of the snapdragon blossoms. “Anyway, this was a very thoughtful gift. Thank you, Eloise.”

“Oh my goodness,” Eloise said. “I nearly forgot.”

“What?” Eddie said. He put on his Panama hat. He needed to get home to the girls. Eddie caught an occasional glimpse of Hope, but he hadn’t set eyes on Allegra in more than three days. Grace had mentioned something about seeing Allegra, or someone who looked like Allegra, with a young man in a red Camaro, and Eddie wondered what that was all about. He would hate it if Allegra and Brick broke up, but maybe this guy with the red Camaro had money and could take care of the expensive habits of Allegra’s lifestyle. The modeling thing wasn’t going to pan out for her, and yet she continued to dress like it might.

“A call came in for you while you were out, and I forgot to give you the message,” Eloise said. She held out a pink slip, and Eddie’s heart seized like an engine block without any oil. He needed an antacid, but they were in the console of his car-another reason he needed to leave. He feared the message was from Nadia, even though Eddie had made it clear she was never to call the office phone. Or it was Kenny Kasper. Maybe Barbie was right, and Kenny Kasper wasn’t really Kenny Kasper; maybe he was Special Agent Kasper from the FBI.

Eloise made the announcement before Eddie could snatch up the slip and read it. “The police chief called,” she said. “He wants you to go fishing with him tomorrow morning.”

Eddie felt as excited as a girl who has been asked on her first date. The Chief had mentioned something about fishing, but men threw out offers like that all the time and never followed up. The Chief had actually gone to the trouble of seeking Eddie out.

Eddie called the Chief back. They decided to meet on the North Wharf at five thirty the next morning and stay out until one or two in the afternoon. The Chief would bring sandwiches and beer and the rods. All Eddie had to do was show up.

Eddie raced home to tell Grace and both girls the news. Both girls were home for dinner.

“I’m fishing with the police chief in the morning,” Eddie said.

“Cool,” Allegra said.

Hope shrugged and nibbled a piece of asparagus from between her fingers, a habit Eddie found unseemly but that was sanctioned by Grace, who said Grandmother Sabine used to eat her asparagus that way.

Grace said, “Don’t forget that I’m going out Thursday night.”

“You are?” Eddie said.

“The Sunset Soiree, remember?” Grace said. “Garden club?”

“Right,” Eddie said. He didn’t exactly remember, but anything involving the garden club meant he was mercifully excused. “I just think it was nice of the Chief to invite me fishing. Of all people.”

“You hate to fish,” Hope said.

“No, I don’t,” Eddie said. “Not really.”

“Maybe it will be like that scene in The Sopranos,” Allegra said, “where they invite the guy fishing because they want to kill him, then throw him overboard.”

Eddie pushed his plate away. He had been enjoying his steak, mashed potatoes, and asparagus right up until Allegra said that. Indeed, the invitation was so unlikely that a part of Eddie believed it might be a planned sting. He would drink only one beer, he decided. He would take one when it was offered and nurse it all damn day; that way, he would be sure not to say anything stupid.

He awoke at four o’clock without help of an alarm; he was keyed up with nerves and excitement. He wore khaki shorts and white tennis shoes and a long-sleeved T-shirt from Santos Rubbish Removal, and he donned his Panama hat because he didn’t feel like himself without it. He bought a coffee from the Hub as soon as it opened, then stopped by his office to use the john and check his voice mails. He had been so addled by the fishing invitation that he had forgotten to call Nadia and tell her about Kasper Snacks that night.

He had time now. He wasn’t due on the wharf for thirty minutes. But he couldn’t start his day by calling Nadia and then segue right into fishing with the police chief. He would call Nadia later, he decided. He had to. The fishing invitation, while magical in its way, had not made Eddie’s financial problems go away.

The Chief had brought along his son, Eric, who was a student at Cornell’s medical school, to serve as first mate. The men all shook hands, and then they strolled down the creaking dock as the sun came up behind them, spangling the water gold and silver. There were other men climbing onto other boats and getting things ready-ropes, engines, ice chests, poles and reels and lines-but the dock was serene and picturesque to Eddie. It was another world, life on the water, apart from the hustle and bustle and commerce and traffic and errands and meals and shopping and cell-phone conversations on land.

The Chief’s boat was called The Castaways-this was a reference to Greg and Tess MacAvoy and Addison Wheeler and some of the Chief’s other friends, but Eddie didn’t want to broach the topic. He needed to grapple with the fact that he didn’t know the first thing about fishing. He had been fishing a couple of years earlier with clients, but that had been a drinking trip more than a fishing trip; there had been twelve guys and three mates on that boat, and Eddie had cast only twice, holding the rod for all of six or seven minutes.

The night before, Eddie had googled how to cast, and he watched an instructional video on YouTube-pull back the bale, hold the line with index finger, gently bring pole over right shoulder, then cast, and when the line hit its arc, let the line go. Then replace bale and reel in.

Anyone could do it.

Eddie said, “What can I do to help?”

The Chief handed him the cooler. “Stick this in the galley, would you? Eric and I will take care of getting the lines set. We’re going to troll on our way out, see if we can catch some bass off the bottom.”

Eddie carried the cooler to the galley. At least he knew the galley was the kitchen. He was so nervous about his lack of experience that he opened the cooler and plucked a Stella out of the ice. Eddie’s favorite. He flipped the top off, then wondered if he was being rude. Would Grandmother Sabine find him rude? Yes, undoubtedly. Eddie realized he should have waited for the beer to be offered, but, sorry, he couldn’t wait. He needed something to take the edge off right now.

He said to the Chief, “Hope you don’t mind, but I opened one of your beers.”

The Chief waved a hand. “Help yourself.” He and Eric were moving around the boat with skilled, precise movements, getting this thing ready and that thing ready. The Chief dealt mostly with the motor and the computer screen and the ropes and the hatches, while Eric handled the rods. There were big rods in holders and smaller rods that Eric was stringing with deft fingers.

The Chief finally started the engine, and Eric unlooped the ropes from the dock and stood out on the bow as the Chief backed the boat out of its slip. Eddie sat on the cushioned bench in front of the console and thought what a crime it was that he had lived on this island for so long and hadn’t learned a single thing about the sea.

Forty minutes later, they were fishing the cross rip off the tip of Great Point. The lighthouse was rosy in the soft morning light. Great Point marked the far north of Nantucket; it was pristine in its natural beauty, and yet Eddie hadn’t driven up the beach in years and years, since the girls were small. The water was the bluest Eddie had ever seen. It was amazing, this water, and there weren’t any other boats fishing the rip that morning. In the very far distance, Eddie could make out the faint smudge of Monomoy Point on Cape Cod. Seagulls sang out, circling overhead.

Eric and the Chief checked the fish finder and decided to anchor and cast some lines. They had been trolling since they left the harbor, but they hadn’t had any bites. The Chief dropped the anchor, and Eddie headed into the galley for a second beer, despite his vow to himself.

Eric said, “Eddie, you ready to throw a line?”

Eddie took a deep breath. Was he ready to throw a line? He stepped out onto the deck, set his beer bottle in one of the holders, and accepted the rod, which had a neon-orange lure shimmying like a showgirl on the end, from Eric.

“I’m ready,” Eddie said.

He held the rod over the side of the boat so that the lure dangled a few feet from the surface of the water. The sea was calm; gentle waves slapped the bow.

Eric said, “Would you like me to cast that for you?”

Eddie was just about to say, Yes, please! with a sigh of massive relief, when the Chief barked out, “Eddie can cast his own line, can’t you, Eddie?”

“Oh,” Eddie said. “Sure thing.” He looked at the reel and tried to play the video again in his mind. Something had to be moved one way or the other while he held the line. It was the bale, he remembered, and he flipped it over. He was to bring the rod gently back over his right shoulder and then fling the line way out into the water. At the arc, he was to let his finger go. There would be a satisfying whizzing noise, the sound of a skilled angler who had cast lines thousands of times and not merely looked it up online twelve hours earlier. Eddie was not a skilled angler, but he had always been good at faking it-faking it had been his surest strategy for success-and so he brought the rod back over his shoulder and flung the line. Out it went in a beautiful arc with the exact fluid motion he had dreamed he was capable of.

“Good cast!” the Chief called out.

Eddie beamed. He had never been prone to sentimentality, but he wished his father could have seen him. Edward Pancik from Purchase Street in New Bedford could cast a deep-sea fishing line with the best of them.

“Now, reel it in!” Eric said.

Yes, yes, Eddie had forgotten that part. He wasn’t sure how he expected to catch anything without reeling the line in.

The day only got better when Eddie caught his first fish. An insistent tug when he started to reel in his line told him there was definitely a FISH ON. He was on light tackle, which worked to Eddie’s advantage, as Eddie was left handed and his forearms proved to be stronger than he thought. Still, he had to fight the bugger, bending toward the water when he reeled in and easing up when the fish wanted to run; then, when the fish got tired, Eddie would reel in again. Eddie wanted to say he had the natural instincts for this, but, in fact, Eric was standing at his side, coaching him when to reel in and when to relax. Once Eddie got the fish close enough to the boat-when he could see the iridescent scales shining from just beneath the surface, Eric instructed Eddie to pull up gently while Eric leaned down with the gaff, speared the fish, and brought it aboard.

It was a striped bass, a beauty of a fish, shining and muscular as it twisted in the sun.

The Chief was delighted. “That’s good eating,” he said. “Grace will be happy with you tonight, bringing home dinner.”

Grace would be happy, Eddie thought. She loved freshly caught fish. But then he thought she might not even believe he had caught it.

“Would you take a picture of me and this beast?” Eddie said. He handed his phone to the Chief and grabbed the tail of the fish, which was still struggling for its life. But at that second, his phone started to ring.

“Call for you,” the Chief said. “Should I…?” He was staring at the screen with an inscrutable expression.

“I can’t believe you get reception out here,” Eric said. “That’s the thing I like best about fishing. No phones.”

Eddie did his best not to snatch the phone out of the Chief’s hand. It might be Nadia, or possibly one of the other girls. He should have shut off his phone before he got on the boat.

Eddie accepted the phone, then saw that the caller was Madeline.

“Jesus,” he said. He declined the call and closed his eyes for a second, trying to maintain his peace of mind. If he started thinking about business and money and his loan to Madeline and Trevor, his day would be ruined.

I caught a thirty-seven-inch striped bass, he thought. I caught dinner.

He gave the Chief a weak smile. “I should have left my phone on shore.”

“Maybe,” the Chief said.

The phone call from Madeline did not affect Eddie’s fishing karma-he immediately caught two bluefish. Then the Chief caught a striped bass a little smaller than Eddie’s, then Eric caught a false albacore, which was exciting because they were elusive. They pulled anchor and motored for the six-can buoy, where they stayed for nearly an hour without a bite.

“This is beat,” Eric said. His voice was impatient, and Eddie was surprised. Weren’t all anglers blessed with an infinite capacity for waiting it out? Eddie feared that Eric would want to give up and go home, and that was the last thing Eddie wanted. He could stay out on this boat forever.

Beer number three, then beer number four. Then Eddie stood up and took a leak off the stern. He had a buzz going; some food was probably in order.

As if reading his mind, the Chief said, “Let’s motor over toward Sankaty Head and have some lunch and try our luck there.”

“Good idea,” Eddie said. He flipped the top off a fifth beer and settled back on the cushioned bench, basking in the sun. He had caught dinner. He loved that idea.

He must have dozed off, because he woke up a while later as both the Chief and Eric were reeling in fish. Two striped bass-and the one on the Chief’s line put Eddie’s to shame. Eddie stood up to see if he could help, but he was afraid he would only be in the way, so he sat back down again, then realized he had to pee again, so he went back to the stern, and by the time he returned, both fish were up on the deck, and Eric was cutting them off the line.

“This is it,” the Chief said. “We’re done. Let’s have some lunch, and then we’ll head back.”

Eddie nodded, but his heart was heavy. The bluffs of Sankaty were right in front of him. This was the island where he had lived for more than half his life, but for the past six hours, he felt like he’d been lucky enough to escape to another planet.

The Chief had made Italian subs with salami, ham, capicola, hot soppressata, provolone, olives, and cherry peppers. Eddie was so hungry, he devoured the whole sandwich without thinking-the peppers and the soppressata stung his lips and tongue, but he put out the fire with cold beer.

“So, how’d you like it?” the Chief asked.

“Great stuff,” Eddie said. “I couldn’t imagine a day better than this.”

The Chief packed up the lunch trash and finally cracked open a beer for himself. Eric was now snoozing on the cushioned bench, and so the Chief pulled the anchor, then said to Eddie, “Come sit with me as we motor back, would you? There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Eddie felt as if his heart were pumping a mixture of habanero sauce and snake venom. Here it was, then: the real reason for the invitation to fish. It had nothing to do with a budding friendship, nothing to do with Eddie being a good guy or the kind gesture of ordering littlenecks with the Chief at Cru because his longtime buddy was dead. Eddie grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler. He needed to sober up, pronto. Predictably, the capicola and soppressata repeated on him, and his heartburn started its low smolder.

He had come out on the fishing expedition without any Tums.

“Sure thing,” Eddie said, his voice higher than normal. The Chief was at the wheel, and Eddie took a seat next to him. “What’s up?”

The Chief was silent, his eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses. Another boat passed them-someone the Chief seemed to know, because he waved-and Eddie, although he didn’t know the person, waved as well. He was so flustered that he had defaulted to indiscriminate waving. The Chief stood up and peered over the console. Eddie realized he was checking to make sure Eric was still asleep.

The Chief settled back down behind the wheel. “I’m only telling you this because I like you, Eddie. I think you’re a hell of a guy.”

Telling me what? Eddie thought, but he couldn’t eke the words out.

“And I’m sure you think that because I’m the chief of police, I believe myself to be morally superior, but I do not think that, and I do not judge. I deal with people who make mistakes every hour of my working day-some of them are big, ugly mistakes-but most people, I find, are decent. Scared, lonely, bored, and misdirected at times, maybe-but decent.”

Eddie sucked down half the bottle of water. He would basically trade his big toe for a handful of cherry Tums. “What is it you want to tell me, Ed?”

“People talk on this island,” the Chief said. “You can’t fathom the way people talk. The gossip, the rumors-it’s absolutely insidious, and most of it I ignore. None of my business, I don’t care, ninety-five percent of it is not even true.” The Chief throttled up, and the boat jumped over waves and slapped the surface of the water with a force that rattled Eddie’s teeth, jaw, and skull. It was almost as if the Chief were trying to physically punish him. “But then I saw that phone call come in, and so I thought I’d better speak up.”

“Phone call?” Eddie said. He couldn’t even remember whom the phone call had been from. All he cared about was that it hadn’t been Nadia. It had been…

Before the Chief could respond, the wind lifted Eddie’s Panama hat off his head. By the time Eddie realized what had happened, his precious Panama hat was whipped away. It danced across their wake, fifty, then a hundred, yards behind them. Gone.

He turned to the Chief, wondering what kind of absurd request it would be for the Chief to swing the boat around so Eddie could fish for his hat-it would mean another $375 dollars and six weeks to replace-but the Chief’s eyes were focused straight ahead on the blue, watery road between them and Nantucket Harbor.

The Chief had to raise his voice in order to be heard over the motor. “There’s a rumor going around,” he said. “I’ve heard it three times now.”

“Rumor?” Eddie said. His second hat. Goner than gone.

“A rumor that you’re having an affair,” the Chief said. “With Madeline King.”

Eddie shook hands with the Chief and with Eric and stumbled off the North Wharf holding a sturdy gallon ziplock bag containing five pounds of striped-bass fillets.

The Chief had said he believed him, but Eddie was dubious.

At first, Eddie had laughed. He found the idea genuinely funny. “Me?” he said. “Me and Madeline? Oh my God, no, no, no!” Eddie wasn’t sure how to successfully get his point across. “No, I’m sorry for laughing right in your face, but that is simply not true.”

The Chief said, “Eddie, I told you, I don’t judge.”

“Well, in this case, there is no reason to judge,” Eddie said. “Because it’s not true. I don’t cheat on my wife. I’ve never been unfaithful, not once.”

The Chief’s face was blank. Eddie was probably saying too much. That was the problem with situations like this: if you said too little, people assumed you were guilty, and if you said too much, it sounded like you were overexplaining because you were guilty. Eddie wanted to ask the Chief where he had heard the rumor about him and Madeline-who were the three sources? Maybe Eddie could contact those sources and try and quash the gossip. But those, most likely, weren’t the original sources. Gossip was like a virus that split and multiplied thousands upon thousands of times. If the Chief had heard the rumor three times, then it was everywhere.

Eddie nearly said, The reason Madeline called is because she lent me money and she wants it back.

That would, no doubt, explain the whole thing away, but the last thing Eddie Pancik wanted anyone on Nantucket to know was that he’d borrowed money from his best friends, who were by no means loaded themselves. For a real-estate agent, financial troubles were the kiss of death. If people thought he was a failure, then he would become a failure. No one was going to seek out a real-estate agent who was sinking.

“It’s not true,” Eddie said, in as humble and plaintive a voice as he could muster.

“Okay, Eddie,” the Chief had said. “Okay.”

The subject had dropped there, but even as Eric carved up the bass with the precision of the surgeon he would someday become, Eddie felt the conversation fouling the air. On top of everything else, Eddie had heartburn and the start of a hangover. There were Tums in his car and in his desk drawer at work. Suddenly, Eddie couldn’t wait to get away.

With the handshake, the Chief had said, “Thanks for coming today, Eddie. I enjoyed hanging out. Let’s do it again.”

“The pleasure was mine,” Eddie said. That had been true, until the very end. “Thank you for inviting me. I’d love to join you again sometime.”

But as Eddie walked away, he was sure there wouldn’t be another time. Or maybe there would be. The Chief said he didn’t judge.

Eddie pulled out his phone. There was only the one missed call from Madeline-no texts, no new business. Should Eddie call Madeline back and tell her about this rumor? Maybe if they both worked to combat it, it would go away? Or would their joint effort have the opposite effect?

He decided not to call Madeline. He decided not to give the absurd idea any energy. He sure as hell couldn’t have Grace finding out.

Instead, he dialed Nadia. He said, “You need to be at the house at ten o’clock tonight.”

“We on it, Eddie,” Nadia said. “Today, we all go to salon for hair, and to the dentist.”

Dentist? Eddie thought. He felt virtuous for five or ten seconds; this side job was encouraging the girls to take care of themselves. He doubted any of them had ever visited a dentist before in their lives. He prayed they’d gone to Dr. Torre and not that clown McMann.

The sun beat down on the top of Eddie’s bald head. He couldn’t believe he’d lost another hat!

Tums, he thought. He needed Tums.

Eddie headed in the back door of his office and stuck the bag filled with fish fillets in the kitchen fridge, which also held three bottles of Dom Pérignon, kept handy to celebrate big closings, and a couple of cartons of Greek yogurt, which was what Eloise liked to eat for lunch.

He popped out to the main room. Barbie was on the phone, Eloise was on the computer.

“Hello, all,” Eddie said.

“Eddie,” Eloise said. “How was the fishing?”

“I can’t complain,” Eddie said. “A day on the water is better than a day anywhere else.”

“I didn’t even know you liked the water,” Eloise said.

“No,” Eddie said. “Me either.”

“Well,” Eloise said, “I brought you some Boston cream doughnuts from the Bake Shop, just in case you didn’t catch any fish.” She held out a box of doughnuts-eight left, which meant Eloise must have eaten four herself, because Barbie wouldn’t touch doughnuts.

“I did catch fish,” Eddie said. “But I can’t resist.” He plucked a doughnut out of the box.

“Oh, I know,” Eloise said. “I know all your favorite things.”

The phone rang, and Eloise hurried to answer it. Please, Eddie thought, let that be a twenty-million-dollar listing.

Eddie carried the box of doughnuts over to Barbie’s desk and sat down at the chair next to it, meant for the buyers and sellers.

She said into the phone, “Listen, I have to call you back later. Bye-bye.” And she hung up.

“Who was that?” Eddie asked.

“P,” Barbie said.

P for personal. Eddie was aware that Barbie had men, lovers, dates, whatever, but he had no idea who they were and no clue whom to ask. Barbie knew everyone on this island, but she didn’t have any close friends. For holidays, she celebrated with Eddie and Grace and the twins-or else she went away, presumably with the men she knew. Were any of the men wealthy? He wondered. Manolos were expensive, and Barbie drove a 1974 Alfa Romeo that required near-constant upkeep. But Barbie had bought her house in Fishers Landing outright in 1999, and she had no children. Her life was blissfully simple.

Eddie wished he could be more like Barbie. No one was out on the street gossiping about Barbie.

Eddie said, “Why is Eloise being so nice to me?” Sometimes Eloise buttered up Eddie after she’d had a fight with Barbie.

“No idea.”

“You didn’t lose your temper?”

“No, I didn’t,” Barbie said. “How goes your bromance with the Chief?”

“Funny,” Eddie said. “It’s not a bromance. It was two guys fishing, Barb. I caught a striped bass. I have some to share, if you want a pound or two.”

“No, thanks,” Barbie said.

“Do you still have that bad feeling about the other thing?”

Barbie nodded. “I could be wrong. I’ll probably regret not going in. I could use the money.”

So maybe the men Barbie dates aren’t wealthy, Eddie thought. Maybe she dated Chris, the mechanic who fixed her Alfa Romeo.

“That makes two of us.”

“This market had better pick up,” Barbie said. She stared listlessly at her computer screen.

“Have you heard any rumors about me?” Eddie asked.

“Rumors?” Barbie said.

“No?”

“No.”

Eddie nodded and stood up, taking the box of doughnuts with him. He could not resist Boston cream. He devoured the doughnut in three bites.

MADELINE

The annual Nantucket-Martha’s Vineyard all-star baseball game was normally one of Madeline’s favorite days of the summer. But this year, Madeline was distracted by her writing.

Write as fast as you can, Angie had said.

Madeline had spoken to Eddie three times and left him as many messages, but it had become clear that she and Trevor weren’t getting their money back anytime soon. Madeline had gone so far as to drive by the spec houses on Eagle Wing Lane to check on their progress, but all three were boarded up and silent. Nobody was working on them!

She had called Trevor. “There aren’t any trucks out front, no workers, no action, no nothing!”

Trevor said, “Maybe Eddie is taking a hiatus for the summer. Maybe he has other things going on.”

“He said June!” Madeline said. “It’s practically July now. He said August at the latest. But there is no way these houses are going to be finished by August. They might not be finished by next August.”

“Why are you so keen for the money?” Trevor said.

“We have bills, Trev. We promised Brick a car!” she said. “I know it was my idea to invest the money with Eddie…”

“A hundred percent your idea,” Trevor confirmed.

“I’m kicking myself now,” Madeline said.

“Madeline,” Trevor said. “You need to breathe.” This was his standard line when he thought she was being hysterical and he wanted to calm her down-but today, it only served to agitate her further.

“I am breathing!” she screamed, and then she hung up.

Maybe Eddie has other things going on. Eddie had more going on than he even knew! Grace was in love with Benton Coe! She was excited to take things to the next level by going with Benton to the Sunset Soiree.

Listening to Grace was an addiction. Madeline could NOT wait for the next installment of the story. Madeline knew she should advise Grace to turn the car around. But instead, she was Grace’s steadfast sounding board, and not only that-she was using everything Grace told her in her novel. Her characters “B” and “G” were moving full steam ahead. Madeline could not stop writing; nothing had ever come to her this easily. It was black magic, like the séance with Barbie.

Two of the women at this table will betray the person on their left.

But in a way, writing the novel felt natural and organic, as if Madeline were giving birth-this novel, somehow, was like the second child Madeline had never managed to have.

She couldn’t stop. Could not pull the plug or abort the mission. She would write the novel and then, later, go back in and change everything so that nothing was recognizable except to Madeline herself.

For years, Madeline had been in charge of the potluck barbecue lunch between the games of the doubleheader with the Vineyard. Last week, she had managed to get the e-mail out, and the usual people signed up to bring the usual things. Cathleen Rook was bringing her pepperoni bread, which all the boys and coaches fought over, and Rachel had overvolunteered as usual and was bringing her potato-and-egg salad, pesto pasta, and a seven-layer Mexican dip. Madeline was in charge of condiments, paper products, Gatorade, bottled water, and ice-but she had spaced on the ice, so she had to stop at the airport gas station, where five bags of ice ran her twenty-five bucks.

She set out the hamburgers and hot dogs, rolls, paper plates and napkins, ketchup, mustard, and relish. The propane gas tanks on the grills were both full. When it came time to watch the actual game, Madeline found a shady spot in the bleachers, pulled out her legal pad, and started to write.

Diana Marz, Parker’s mother, was the first to comment.

“Is that your new novel?” she asked.

Madeline smiled in what she hoped was a cryptic way. She had always wanted people to think of her as a novelist, but now, the less she said about her work, the better. She realized it might have been smarter to have left her legal pad at home, but she couldn’t fight the urge to finish this one particular scene: B and G taking things to the next level by venturing out together in public-in this fictional case, to the Summer House pool, where they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, both under the table and then later, splashing around in the pool. Madeline was currently writing a scene about some clandestine underwater fooling-around between B and G. Angie, she knew, would love it.

Every once in a while, Madeline raised her head from her work to take in a few seconds of the baseball game. Brick was playing first base, smacking his glove, trying to get Calgary McMann, who was pitching, to pick off the Vineyard base runner. Rachel was a few feet to Madeline’s right, wearing a navy-and-white-striped sundress with a giant navy N on the front, which it seemed Rachel had applied herself with an iron. Rachel had brought her pom-pom. She cheered away, stopping every so often to apply SPF 50 to her face, even though she was wearing a large-brimmed straw hat.

Despite her keen interest in the game, Rachel, too, noticed Madeline writing.

“Look at you, scribbling away!” she sang out. “I see ‘A Room of One’s Own’ has worked! You’re a writing machine! I fully expect a mention on the acknowledgments page now.”

Madeline nodded while finishing her sentence. It was the top of the seventh inning; she needed to head back over to the picnic area. But just then, her cell phone rang, and Madeline climbed down from the bleachers to answer it, believing that it might be Eddie, calling her back.

It was Redd Dreyfus.

He said, “You got the e-mail from Angie, yes?”

“From when?” Madeline asked.

“This morning.”

“No,” Madeline said. “I’ve got something else going on today, and I’m not near my computer.” Normally, Redd liked to hear vignettes about “island life,” and Madeline might have launched into a description of the Nantucket-Martha’s Vineyard all-star baseball game, but right now, he sounded all business.

“Well,” he said, “it appears the editorial board of Final Word made an executive decision on the title of your new novel.”

“Oh God,” Madeline said. “But wait a minute, I thought…”

“They’ve gone completely mad,” Redd said. “Or completely postmodern.”

“What’s the title?” Madeline asked. From the stands, there was enthusiastic cheering, indicating the end of the game. Madeline plugged her ear.

“They’re calling it B/G,” Redd said. “How would one even refer to that in spoken language, I wonder? ‘B slash G’? It’s reminiscent of what Prince did with that ludicrous symbol.”

“B/G?” Madeline said. “No. We can’t use that.”

“It’s been decided, I’m afraid,” Redd said.

“Angie said she would run it past me first!” Madeline said. “She said I would have final approval.”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of publishing,” Redd said. “Angie and her superiors are in the business of selling books. They seem to think this absurd title will break new ground or, at the very least, create interest from a publicity standpoint.”

“They can’t use those initials!” Madeline said. “We have to change the initials. I don’t care what to. Any other two letters will work.”

“But those are the names of your characters,” Redd said.

“For now!” Madeline said. “This book still needs a lot of editing!” She watched the crowd rise from the stands and make their way en masse toward the picnic tables. “Ask them to change the initials, Redd, please!”

“They think it’s evocative of ‘boy meets girl.’ I don’t think they’ll look fondly upon changing the initials. Their company isn’t called Final Word for no reason, Madeline.”

“Listen, Redd, I have to go,” Madeline said. “Please… do everything you can!” She hung up. B/G? They might as well have decided to call it Benton and Grace!

Madeline raced to the concession stand to get the Gatorades and waters on ice. Soon, Cathleen Rook showed up and began pulling side dishes out of the big cooler.

“Where’s Rachel?” Madeline said. “Did she bring serving spoons for the potato salad or the pasta?”

“She’s still in the stands,” Cathleen said. “She started reading your book, and she said she couldn’t put it down.”

“What?” Madeline dropped a bag of ice in the grass and darted through the hungry and expectant crowd until she reached the bleachers.

Sure enough, there was Rachel McMann, bent over Madeline’s legal pad, eagerly reading.

Madeline all but ripped the pages from Rachel’s hands. “What are you doing? This is my work!”

Rachel beamed. “I can’t get over how good this is!” she said. “It’s sexy stuff, Madeline, but smart sexy, seductive sexy. Look at me, I’m flushed!”

“Rachel!” Madeline said. “This is not for public consumption.”

“I’m not the public, silly,” Rachel said. “I’m your friend.”

Madeline was so angry and embarrassed that she couldn’t even meet Rachel’s eyes. Instead, she focused on the N ironed on the front of Rachel’s dress. N for nosy!

“This is going to fly off the shelves!” Rachel said.

Madeline hugged the notebook to her chest. “We are friends, Rachel, and for that reason I know I can trust you to please not tell anyone what the book is about… or that you even read it.” She swallowed. “It’s in the very early stages. Probably, everything you just read is going to change.”

“If I were you I wouldn’t change a word,” Rachel said. “But don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell a soul.”

Madeline had learned her lesson: she wasn’t going to write anywhere but in her apartment. She wasn’t even going to bring her legal pad home at night. It was going to stay in the apartment, tucked under the sofa cushions or hidden in the microwave oven.

Madeline was pretty sure Rachel had a duplicate key to her apartment, and at this point, Madeline wasn’t sure she was beyond using it.

The next day, Madeline e-mailed Angie about changing the title. Madeline had suggested an alternate title: Heaven Knows.

Angie wrote back, saying, We’re going with B/G. Besides, when I hear Heaven Knows, I think of that bad Donna Summer song.

Madeline then called Angie-three times-and three times she was greeted by Angie’s voice mail. She couldn’t even get Marlo, Angie’s assistant, on the phone.

At five o’clock in the evening, there was a knock on her door.

Eddie, she thought. With her check.

She raced to open it.

Trevor was standing there, holding his very cute pilot’s hat, looking grim.

“Hey, babe,” she said. “This is a surprise. I thought maybe you would be Eddie.” She kissed Trevor on the lips, but he didn’t respond. In fact, he flinched a little.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“I heard a rumor today, from Pamela at the Island Air desk.”

“Oh shit,” Madeline said. It was about Grace and Benton Coe; it had to be. This was so bad that Madeline felt sick. Pamela at the Island Air desk was one of the worst gossips on Nantucket-her, Blond Sharon, Janice the dental hygienist, and Rachel McMann.

Madeline pulled Trevor into the apartment and closed and locked the door behind him.

He collapsed on the sofa.

“What is it?” she said.

“You thought maybe I would be Eddie?” Trevor said. “Why would you think that? Does Eddie visit you here often?”

“No!” Madeline said. “He hasn’t been here since the day I first rented it.”

“Okay,” Trevor said. “Because the rumor I heard… what Pamela told me she’d heard from at least six other people… is that you’re having an affair with Eddie Pancik.”

“Good God,” Madeline said.

Trevor was quiet.

“It’s not true,” Madeline said. “Obviously. Where do people come up with this shit?”

“Oh, any one of a dozen places,” Trevor said. “You got your own apartment, and Eddie stopped by to see you on the first day, and someone saw him. Then, someone else overheard him on the phone with you.”

“I told you I called him,” Madeline said, “because I want our money back. Life is expensive, and right now that fifty grand is the difference.”

“What is so urgent all of a sudden?” Trevor asked. “Do you have gambling debts I don’t know about?”

Madeline sat gently on the sofa next to her husband. “I’m having a hard time with the next novel,” she said. “Like, a really hard time. And I’m afraid I might have to pay my advance back.”

“You’re having a hard time with the new novel?” Trevor said. “That’s not what I heard. I heard your new novel is all about this couple who is having some superhot extramarital affair.”

“Who told you that?” Madeline said. “Did Pamela tell you that?”

“It doesn’t really matter who told me that,” Trevor said. “The rumor is out there, Madeline. People are saying that you and Eddie are having an affair and that this is the fuel for your supersexy new novel.”

“You can’t possibly believe this,” Madeline said. “You know I would never be unfaithful.”

Trevor picked her legal pad up. “Is this the new novel?”

Madeline tried to snatch it from his hands, but he hung on, and Madeline feared that between them, they would rip the pages. She fell back against the sofa cushions and tried to breathe. “It is my new novel, but I’m not ready for you to read it yet.”

“Is it about a couple having a superhot extramarital affair?”

“Sort of,” Madeline said.

Trevor threw the legal pad onto the coffee table. “Great.”

“It’s fiction!” Madeline said. “I write fiction. The problem is that nobody wants fiction anymore! They want memoir! They want ‘based on a true story.’ Everyone should be reading Mary Karr and Erik Larson! But that”-Madeline pointed at the legal pad-“is made up! It is the purest of fiction! I made up a story to entertain my readers!”

“The Easy Coast wasn’t pure fiction,” Trevor said. “It was based on your real life. It was about Geoffrey. And Hotel Springford was about your relationship with your mother. So that means the only pure piece of fiction you’ve written was Islandia-and that was more like science fiction. I encouraged you to write a sequel. But no-apparently, you were compelled to write this garbage.”

“It isn’t garbage,” Madeline said.

“You’re right,” Trevor said. “As angry and as embarrassed as I am, I respect you too much to call your work garbage.”

“Maybe it is garbage,” Madeline said. “I can’t tell. It’s nowhere close to finished.” She stared at her husband’s handsome profile. Meeting Trevor had been life’s way of making amends for all the ways Madeline had been gypped earlier in life-the feeble parenting of her mother, the dangerous relationship with Geoffrey. With Trevor’s love, she had essentially become Gretchen Green, girl hero. She had become the woman she wanted to be. Or nearly. She reached out to hug him.

Trevor didn’t exactly push Madeline away, but he didn’t embrace her either. He stiffened, and then he stood up.

“I need you to help me!” Madeline said. “I need you to support me. You’re my husband.”

“And you’re my wife,” Trevor said. His tone was marginally kinder, and Madeline felt a wash of relief. But then he said, “I think maybe you need space. Or I do.”

“Space?” Madeline said. “What do you mean by space?”

“I think you should stay here for a few days,” Trevor said. “While I try and process this.”

“I don’t want to stay here!” Madeline said. “What a horrible suggestion.”

“If you let me read what you’ve written, I’ll change my mind,” Trevor said. “But I know you pretty damn well, Madeline King, and my gut tells me you’re hiding something.”

“I’m not hiding anything!” Madeline said. But her tone of voice wasn’t convincing even to herself, and it would never fool Trevor. “I’m just a writer trying to protect my work.”

“Madeline,” he said.

She nearly blurted it out: Grace is having an affair with Benton Coe, and I’m secretly using it as fodder for my new book. But it wasn’t my fault! I got backed into a corner. Or I painted myself into one.

“I don’t want you to read it,” she said. “Later you can, but not right now.”

“Fair enough,” he said. He stood up and moved for the door.

“You’re serious,” she said. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes.”

“How long is ‘a few days’?” she asked. She worried that Trevor was saying a few days but actually meant forever.

“I don’t know, Madeline,” Trevor said. “A few days. If you need a firm number, I’d say a week.”

“A week?”

“I need to simmer down,” Trevor said.

That night, Madeline slept on the uncomfortable double bed in the apartment. She tried to think of it as fun, an adventure, but the mattress was stiff and unforgiving, and the sheets that she’d found in the bathroom closet smelled funny. There was one window in the bedroom that faced an alley which people coming out of the Boarding House and Ventuno cut through to get home. Madeline could hear their footsteps and their voices, buoyant and slurred with alcohol. She should have had a glass of wine before bed herself, but she didn’t want anyone to see her buying wine at Murray’s and then heading back to her apartment with it.

She didn’t have the desire or the money to take herself out to dinner-and how would that look, anyway? Madeline King, out to dinner alone, possibly waiting for her lover to show up.

She made herself a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich for dinner.

She thought she might sleep better on the sofa, so she moved to the living room with her blanket and her pillow, but the front windows had no shades, no treatments at all, and light pollution from Centre Street poured in. Madeline sat up and stared at the box of bird eggs and wondered about the previous owner of this apartment, now living on a cliff somewhere in St. John.

How could she fix this? Should she have Eddie call Trevor and assuage his worries? That sounded like a good idea-maybe? Or it could backfire and make things way worse.

What if Trevor divorced her? The mere thought was preposterous. Or it had been until today. She and Trevor had spent the majority of their marriage on a path paved with rainbows. They were the Dick Van Dyke and Mary Tyler Moore of Nantucket!

But maybe that was why this idiotic rumor had spread-because people were jealous and they wanted the “happy couple” to be revealed as anything but.

When Madeline finally did fall asleep, she had a nightmare about Geoffrey. In real life, Geoffrey had had a shaved head and an elaborate tattoo of Prometheus on his back. But in Madeline’s dream, Geoffrey was Rachel McMann’s husband, Dr. Andy, only Dr. Andy had a mouthful of black teeth. When he secured the plastic zip ties to Madeline’s wrists and ankles, he showed her his teeth, and she screamed, and the scream woke her up.

Madeline lay facedown on the sofa, her face buried in the cushion, and she thought, What have I done?

My gut tells me you’re hiding something. Trevor would never have thought that if he hadn’t heard the blasted rumor from Pamela.

Madeline stood up and paced the apartment, stopping at the dark window to shout at the street.

Mind!

Your!

Own!

Business!

Stop!

Gossiping!

She pictured women lunching at the Galley, talking about Madeline; she envisioned Janice, the hygienist at Dr. Andy’s office, spreading the rumor to all of her patients. Did you hear? She pictured Pamela at Island Air telling Barry, the bartender at the airport restaurant, who in turn would tell his wife, Candace, who was the receptionist at the RJ Miller Salon. Once it got into places like the dentists’ offices and the salons, there would be no stopping it. Blond Sharon would tell her friends at the yacht club as they sailed and played tennis and ate Cobb salad. Then, of course, the brokers would get hold of it. It would be whispered about during an open house for an eleven-million-dollar listing in Monomoy. From there, it would travel out to Sconset-to the post office and the Summer House pool. People at the Wauwinet gatehouse would gossip about it as they let the air out of their tires before heading up to Great Point. Madeline knew she wasn’t really the target; Eddie was the target. A lot of people hated Eddie. The librarians at the Atheneum would be talking about it, and the men who loaded cars onto the steamship, and the scuppers who had their boats serviced at Madaket Marine, and the cast of Pygmalion, put on by Theatre Workshop of Nantucket.

Did you hear? Madeline King and Eddie Pancik.

And she’s writing a novel about it!

Madeline was so disgusted, so humiliated and embarrassed and horrified, and so ashamed-because she knew she had opened herself up to this-that she picked up the box of delicate bird eggs and brought it down over her bent knee so that the glass shattered and the eggs cracked and debris scattered all over the floor.

There, she thought. She had ruined the only authentic and interesting thing in this apartment.

In the morning, Madeline awoke to a text from Rachel McMann. It said: Hey, there. Brick told Calgary that you’ve moved out for a while? Imagine you could use a friend? How about drinks on Wednesday night?

Madeline stared at the screen. Brick told Calgary! And now Rachel McMann knew that Madeline was staying at the apartment for a few days-which was, Madeline would have liked to point out, a whole lot different from “moving out”-and Rachel was also the one who had told the world about Madeline’s new novel. She was the only one-other than Redd and Angie and the staff at Final Word, all of whom lived in Manhattan, which was basically another galaxy-who had read it!

Madeline wanted to text back: Fuck you, Rachel.

But instead, she deleted the text and got to work.