A loud bloop bloop from the fish tank made me jump, the three-year-old Reader’s Digest almost slipping from my grip. But the pretty angelfish still swam serenely in their underwater lair, showing no concern for any of the humans waiting to be tortured.

I was at the dentist’s office, alone in the waiting room except for the fish, on a gorgeous morning made for anything but this. Through the big window facing downtown, I could see a deep blue bay dotted with islands. Sailboats and lobster boats tracked across the water, leaving creamy froth in their wake. Summer was almost over, I realized wistfully, and I’d barely had a chance to enjoy it. For good reasons, but still.

A child screamed in a back room, followed by pleading reassurances from his mother and the lower, calmer tones of Dr. Pedersen. “This won’t hurt a bit, Timmy. I’m just going to take a peek. Open wide, there’s a good boy.”

“You’ll get a lollipop if you listen to the dentist,” his mother said.

Twenty years ago, that could have been me, cowering in the big chair and staring wide-eyed at the tray of scary-sharp implements. Dr. Oslo Pedersen had been taking care of my teeth since I moved to Blueberry Cove at age eight, to live with my grandparents after my parents tragically died in a car accident. I put a hand to my cheek, wondering if the filling that had landed like a chunk of tinfoil on my breakfast plate was one of Dr. Pedersen’s. I don’t have many fillings, fortunately, mainly because my grandmother had limited sweets and stood over me until she could trust me to brush and floss.

Instead of turning back to the magazine, I thought about my to-do list. At nine, Grammie would open Ruffles & Bows, the vintage apron and linens shop we owned together on Main Street. We had fall inventory to unpack, and then, after the shop closed, volunteer duties at the lighthouse.

Tonight, a group of us planned to go through old trunks left behind by the last keepers, who left in the early 1950s, when the light was automated. The new lighthouse museum was scheduled to open on Labor Day weekend, thanks to various local fundraisers. Our committee was in charge of creating exhibits depicting life as a lighthouse keeper, and it was shaping up to be a really fun project.

“Iris?” a voice inquired from the doorway.

I looked over to see Gretchen Stolte, dressed in a smock and pants uniform. “Hi, Gretchen. I didn’t know you worked here.” Not that I knew her well. She was a recent transplant to the area, an attractive woman with tawny hair and green eyes.

She gave a soft snort as we started walking down the hallway to the examination rooms. “I’m a licensed dental hygienist,” she said. “Over ten years of experience.”

“Wonderful,” I said, feeling scolded for my innocuous remark. She was one of those prickly people who took offense easily, I remembered.

My glance fell on a photograph depicting a small sailboat heeling over in tumultuous seas, one of many lining the hallway.

“Dr. Pedersen must be so glad to have Lance back in town,” I said, attempting another pleasantry. His son, a world-class sailor and Olympian, had recently retired from the pro circuit with a great deal of fanfare. With his good looks, bad boy reputation, and outstanding performance, Lance was a media—and local—darling. My friend Bella Ricci had gone on a few dates with him this summer, and the rest of our posse was vicariously enjoying the situation.

Her shoulders stiffened and she sped up, forcing me to race-walk down the carpet. Oops. I’d done it again. Too late I recalled that Gretchen didn’t like Bella, therefore any mention of Lance would salt the wound. She had gone out with Bella’s ex-husband, Alan, for a while, and when they broke up, she blamed my friend, which was totally unfair. But people were rarely rational in matters of the heart, I had learned.

“Have a seat,” Gretchen ordered when we entered the tiny treatment room. She sat at a narrow desk that held a computer while I set down my handbag and climbed into the big chair. “What brings you here today?”

Why do we always have to repeat medical information despite relaying the problem while making an appointment? With a sigh, I leaned back in the chair and studied the ceiling panels, which displayed an aerial map of the Maine coast. “I lost part of a filling from a right bottom molar this morning. While I was eating breakfast.”

Gretchen clicked keys, bringing up my chart and studying it. “You have one restoration in that quadrant.”

“That’s it.” I obediently opened my mouth when she came to take a peek. I also closed my eyes against the bright light she pulled down to shine right into my face.

She studied my tooth for a long moment and then I felt the heat of the lamp move away. “Dr. Pedersen will be with you shortly. Dr. Peter Pedersen.”

“Oh. I usually have Dr. Oslo,” I said, disconcerted by this news.

“Dr. Peter is taking over the practice due to Dr. Oslo’s pending retirement,” she said, that snippy tone back in her voice. “We’re gradually transferring all the patients over.” That made sense, since Dr. Oslo was well into his seventies. He’d seemed ancient to me when I’d started coming here.

She bustled out and I was left to wait, my anxiety building with every moment. Even staring at the map on the ceiling trying to find landmarks didn’t calm me. I wanted the procedure to be over so I could get out of here. Lollipop or not.

Finally I heard footsteps approaching. A tall man with cropped dirty blond hair and a goatee, dressed in a white coat, strode in. Dr. Pedersen, I presume. He resembled his famous brother in height and facial structure, but while Lance dazzled the eye, the same features were merely ordinary on Peter.

He peered at my chart then at me. “Iris? I’m Dr. Pedersen.” Without waiting for an answer, he handed the chart to Gretchen then reached for the lamp. “Open wide for me.”

I closed my eyes again and so it began. After examining me with hums and muttered exclamations, he injected my gum with something that numbed the whole right side of my mouth. Saliva pooled immediately, and I prayed I wouldn’t choke on my own spit. How often did that happen, I wondered.

“So, Iris, where do you work?” He asked this and a variety of other questions I couldn’t answer while he fiddled about, drilling and packing and probing.

When I finally dared to open my eyes, they were both staring down at me with almost identical expressions of concern. “Am I okay?” I asked, trying to push myself upright.

Dr. Pedersen patted my shoulder. “You’re fine. Lovely set of teeth.” He handed me a piece of articulating paper. “Bite for me, please.”

Soon after, I staggered out into the sunshine, blinking, my mouth still numb and my bank account quite a bit lighter. Halfway across the parking lot to my car, I noticed Lance, shirtless and in shorts, rinsing down his Porsche with a hose. The Pedersens lived on the property, with the dentist office in one wing of a huge Colonial house. At the back of the paved area used for parking stood a former carriage house, now a four-car garage.

With a grin, he shut off the spray. “Hey, Iris. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

I mumbled something, my lips still not working right. But between my mouth gaping open and the drool, I probably looked like 95% of the women he encountered. Trying to smile, I fumbled for the keys to Beverly, the white ’63 Ford Falcon my late grandfather had restored for me.

Lance whistled. “Nice car. Maybe you can take me for a spin some time.”

My face flamed with heat, despite knowing that he was only being friendly. It wasn’t his fault that he was sex on a stick, as my bestie Madison called him. Plus I was very happily seeing someone, a gorgeous carpenter named Ian Stewart. Rather than respond, I settled for a wave and climbed into my car. By the time I was backing out of my space, he had the hose spray on again and was intent on washing down the headlights.

Bella lived down the street from the Pedersens in a cute Craftsman bungalow. As I approached, I saw a tow truck from Quimby’s garage in the driveway, with Bella’s gray Volvo wagon up on the flatbed. Oh no. That wasn’t good.

I signaled and pulled over to park on the side of the road, then shut the car off and hopped out. Bella was standing on the lawn watching Derek, the tow truck driver, finish raising the flat bed to level. Noticing me, she gestured me over.

“What a bummer,” I said, trotting across the grass. “What’s wrong?”

Bella grimaced. “I don’t know yet. It wouldn’t start.” She folded her arms across her slim body, the ocean breeze lifting a lock of her long brown hair. “But whatever it is, I’m sure it will be expensive. And take a while. Good thing Derek can give me a loaner.”

I groaned in sympathy. Car repair bills always seemed to strike when you could least afford them, both financially and time-wise. “Need a ride to the garage?”

Her face lit up. “Would you? Derek offered me a lift but…”

“Say no more.” Derek Quimby was a talented mechanic but a total slob. I’d seen the inside of his tow truck, and it was a mess of fast food wrappers, old coffee cups, and random paperwork. Bella must have been on her way to work at her boutique, and she was wearing a pink silk skirt and matching top, with an open-front fine-knit cardigan over it. I wouldn’t trust that outfit to Derek’s truck either.

A man of medium height and about our age came around the hedge from the adjoining house, a Victorian that had been made into apartments. He had tousled dark hair and a heavy beard, and was wiping greasy hands on a rag. “Hey, Bella. Putting Derek to work, are you?”

“Not by choice,” Bella said. “Kyle Quimby, this is my friend, Iris Buckley. Kyle teaches sailing down at the yacht club. Derek is his cousin.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, noticing Kyle’s great tan and an athletic build set off by faded jeans and a tight t-shirt. Both were as grease-stained as his rag. “Are Bella’s kids in your class?” Alice and Connor were taking sailing lessons at the club this summer, a rite of passage for many local children.

“They are.” He gave me a white pirate grin. “Naturals, both of them.” He turned to Bella and gestured with his rag. “Need a ride? Give me a minute to clean up and I can take you on my way to the club.” The grin flashed again. “Bella’s not the only one with car troubles. My ‘74 TR-6 is giving me fits, as usual.”

Thanks to my grandfather, I actually knew what a TR-6 was, a small sports car made by Triumph between the years of 1968 and 1976. “It has a 2.5 liter in-line six engine and a manual transmission, right? Those babies are fast.”

His dark eyes held mingled surprise and respect. “You got it. Come take a look if you want. We can go for a ride some time.”

“I’d love to. But right now I’m taking Bella to the garage. And then I have to get to the shop.” At his quizzical expression, I added, “I own Ruffles & Bows, the apron shop on Main Street.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve seen it,” he said. “Nice place.” He looked at Bella. “So you’re all set, I take it?”

“I am, Kyle, but thank you,” Bella said. “Iris and I have a lot to talk about.”

We did? All I had to share was my Lance sighting a few minutes ago. Other than that I thought Bella and I were up to date. The members of the posse—Bella, Madison, Sophie, Grammie, and me—either spoke to or saw each other every day.

“That’s cool,” Kyle said. “But if you ever need my help, you know where I live.” How nice that Bella had such a considerate neighbor. I also thought that he might have a crush on her, which would be totally understandable. A native of Milan, Italy, Bella had natural elegance, olive skin, and the face of a Renaissance Madonna.

The whining noise from the tow truck hydraulics finally ceased, restoring blessed silence to the neighborhood. Derek checked to be sure the Volvo was secure, then walked over to join us. He greeted Kyle and me with a nod. “We’re all set, Bella. Ready to head out?” Like his cousin, Derek was dark-haired, although clean-shaven with a fade, and he was about the same height and weight.

“Iris is giving me a ride to the garage,” Bella said. “We’ll meet you there.”

Derek nodded. “All righty then. See you in a few.” As he headed for the tow truck, Kyle tagged along to give him the update on the TR-6.

“Let me grab my things and we’ll go,” Bella said. I waited on the lawn while she dashed into the house, but when Kyle went back around the hedge, I strolled up the sidewalk to check out his TR-6. The British racing green paint job and tan interior appeared to be in mint condition, and I could imagine the joy of racing along winding roads in that sporty little beauty.

Behind the wheel of the tow truck, Derek gave a honk and began to pull slowly down the drive. Bella emerged from the house as he turned onto the street, and I hurried to meet her at Beverly. Enough daydreaming.

Quimby’s garage was located on the state route that skirted town, so rather than go down to Main Street and out that way, I decided to cut through residential side streets up here on the hill.

“Guess who I saw at the dentist office?” I asked as we set off. I couldn’t repress a grin. “Lance. He was washing his Porsche.”

Bella continued to look straight ahead but a tint of pink flushed her cheeks. “We went for a ride in the Porsche last night, after we had dinner at the Lighthouse Grille.” The Grille was one of the best restaurants around, with excellent food and a romantic atmosphere. “It was fun.”

“I’ll bet. How are things going with him?” I was curious, not only because he was a sports celebrity, but because she hadn’t really dated since her divorce. After ten years of marriage, she’d caught her husband cheating and immediately thrown him out. She’d barely recovered from the life-disrupting trauma.

She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “They’re fine.” She threw me a smile. “Keeping it casual.” The smile faltered slightly. “Did I tell you that Alan is staying in town this week?” Her ex-husband.

“Get out of here. Why? And where?” Horror swept over me. “Not with you, I hope.” Usually the children went to his place in Rockland on alternate weekends and school vacations.

Bella laughed. “Iris, calm down. He’s staying at the Sunrise Resort with his grandmother so they can both spend time with the kids. And by the way, I just found out that Florence used to live at the lighthouse. Her maiden name was Bailey.”

“Seriously? That’s fantastic. I hope she’ll let us interview her.” We’d been hoping to track down members of the Bailey family, but after almost sixty years the likelihood was slim, we had thought. Florence coming to town right now was a gift. “How old is she?”

“Eighty-five and still going strong. She told me that she’s very excited about the lighthouse museum. She even brought photo albums with her.”

I groaned in excitement. “Pictures of the lighthouse in the 1950s? I can hardly wait to see them.” Our exhibits would have so much more depth if we could talk to Florence and find out what life in the lighthouse was really like. Maybe she’d even let us film an interview. We could set up a monitor and play it on a loop.

We had reached the intersection with U.S. Route 1, and naturally had to wait for passing traffic to thin before pulling out. Summer traffic on the Maine coast was horrendous, which we locals resented but welcomed at the same time. Catering to tourists was how most of us made a living. Grammie and I had sold a lot of aprons and linens to visitors this summer, and better yet, we had captured their emails for future marketing efforts. Customers could order from our online store—or ask us to stitch up custom aprons. That new sideline was taking off.

“Iris, there is something I need to tell you.” Bella’s tone was tentative.

I jerked my head around to face her, fear making my heart lurch. “What is it? Are you okay? Are the kids okay?”

She gave a little laugh. “No, it’s nothing like that. We’re totally healthy.” She pressed her lips together, studying me and obviously thinking about how to tell me whatever it was.

A horn beeped behind me. Now, of course, traffic was clear but I couldn’t focus on Bella and driving at the same time. I waved for the driver to go around us.

“It’s Alan,” she finally said, as the other vehicle roared past. “He wants to give our marriage another try.”