Chapter Three

Claire

In the dark I made my way to Twillyweed, grateful I’d thought to wear the cozy tablecloth. The wind blew and I heard below that long, platinum-­haired girl singing to her baby. It was a deep, mournful sound I thought, remembering at once the all-encompassing loneliness of having an infant and the banging-into-walls fatigue. I stopped for a moment, listening, determined to meet her and invite her over first chance I got. But tonight was to be about Jenny Rose, and I hurried along. In the drive, a red Alpha Romeo convertible was parked. Wow. I resisted the temptation to reach in and caress the butter-soft seats.

The door to Twillyweed was propped open with an antique black iron shoe form, size four. One compelling seascape above the mantel in the grandiose foyer caught my eye and I stood there looking up. White sand and way off in the distance a blue ribbon of water sparkled with sun. Simple boats ferried this way and that. Captivated, I unwrapped my shawl, admiring it. I heard voices and the tinkle of glass from the living room. I took a deep breath—well aware of my two black eyes and inappropriate outfit—and though unannounced, I decided to go in. The grandiosity of the place was intimidating. There could be no mistaking Jenny Rose’s employer, Oliver Cupsand. With the perfect lord of the manor air, he poured drinks from a whimsical decanter. I had the feeling I’d seen him before.

“Ah! Claire Breslinsky!” He set the goosenecked crystal container onto a burled walnut Biedermeier bar almost as tall as himself and said in a blustery voice, “Welcome to Twillyweed!”

I knew right away by the respectful way he came forward that Morgan had made his investigatory phone call to Jupiter Dodd, and Jupiter, bless his little heart, had told him all sorts of exaggerations about my uproarious past. “Mr. Cupsand,” I said, shaking his heavy, forthright hand.

“Call me Oliver.” He smiled with charm. “Please. Come in. We’re celebrating.”

Well. Things were certainly looking up. Oliver was all Brooks Brothers navy blue, gold buttons, and expensive smile. He cocked his head and regarded me quizzically, shaking my hand. The heft of him was an indication that one day he would run to fat, but for now he was simply manly, even chanticleer.

“We’ve met … where?” He took hold of his big chin and pointed at me with the other hand.

“The club? No, I remember. Once Upon a Moose! I was alone. Yes, having my tea on my own. You were with Jenny Rose!”

“Of course!” I smiled, for now I remembered him, too. The handsome man at the table in the corner at the Moose where Jenny Rose and I had had tea. Before even they had met.

“I never forget a face.” He grimaced as though this were a burden. He was white blond, Norwegian looking, booming voiced, even boisterous, but nice. He seemed to like me. Smiling eyes. Debonair. He gave a half turn toward someone standing behind him and said, “And this—Of course you will have met Morgan’s fiancée … my sister, Paige Cupsand.”

Morgan’s fiancée? “How nice!” I gushed insincerely, my head spinning. I tried to sound delighted. And here I’d been imagining him just out of the seminary! That would have been fast work. But the quick vision of a lithe female flitted by and was gone through the doorway into another grand room with a glimpse of an armload of flowers. I smiled at Morgan with new respect. I had no idea why this should bother me. And of course it didn’t. Not a bit. What had I been thinking? He was too old to have just left the seminary. Just left the priesthood, more likely. After all, he was my age. Sometimes I forget how old I am and then it hits me, like a shovel.

Oliver Cupsand said, “Oh. Well, she’ll be off to locate a vase.” His lips moved up and down in a meditative consideration as he inspected me, weighing, no doubt, the outdated wench before him against Jupiter’s mythical icon. “I hear you’ll be staying at the Great White.” He said it in a sweet way, yet I felt his eyes surveying me skeptically as I turned to see Morgan. “Paige, by the way, is damned good at decorating.”

“Yes,” Morgan agreed, moving forward, “I’m sure she can give you some tips.”

I felt myself standing between the two big men when a square-cut black man with gray hair, short legged but with the huge shoulders of a Portuguese fisherman, rolled over with a tray. Oh God, I thrilled, hummus and olives that took you to the Mediterranean. And baba ghanoush and tabbouleh! I helped myself.

“You’re very lucky to find a house on the cliff.” Oliver made do with careful nibbles on his hors d’oeuvre, blotting his mouth with his napkin between each one so as not to dribble on his starched shirt. “It’s not often one comes up. Of course, Paige will have found you the cottage …” he wrongly surmised, his eyes wet with appreciation.

Morgan Donovan handed me a cut crystal glass of scotch as he said, “Paige is a real estate agent.”

“Oh. No, I see. I misunderstood. The way you said it earlier I thought you had it in for all real estate agents …” I tried to laugh. I hate scotch. I put it on the sideboard and left it there, hoping someone would ask me what I liked to drink.

“Not this agent, I hope,” a seductive voice chortled from the doorway and high-heeled into the room.

And then there she was, every woman’s favorite nightmare. I won’t bore you with the details. No, I will. If you stood beside her, you felt every one of your joints was oversized. Her blond hair was turned and perfected into a frizzless French twist. As big as Oliver was, his sister was equally petite. She wore a string of pearls and a grass green cashmere sweater set. Her nails were wedding-bells pink. And yes, she wore a ring. It was a tasteful yet eye-catching blue-white diamond. Her hands were lovely. She came over, sleek as a cat, and snuggled up into Morgan’s armpit. We all stood there grinning. A perfect fit.

My first impression was intense dislike. We all love to hate the blonde. But as the evening wore on, I realized Paige Cupsand was not only cultivated and charming, she was that infuriating mix of goodness and worthiness as well. So try as I might, I couldn’t hate her. First impressions, it turned out, were not always correct. Well, after all, what did I care? Nothing, that’s what. The reader will know that I hadn’t a reason in the world to be troubled by this match. If I was lucky, I chided myself, we would all become friends. Yes. Friends. Don’t think you know so much. Paige helped herself to one heaping cracker after another. I was amazed by the voracity of such a little thing’s appetite. She gavooned like a cattle rustler.

At last she swallowed. “How long will you be with us in Sea Cliff, Claire?”

“Until the fall, I hope. Six months, to start. After that I don’t know.”

She seemed to consider this. “Are you a gardener?” she asked. “Because we have a club. Just local women, I’m afraid, no one very exciting. Just us, digging around getting filthy.”

“Don’t be so modest,” said Morgan.

I said, “I can already see what fabulous gardens you have here. Just the bulbs alone are—”

“Yes, isn’t it awful,” she interrupted. “Now everything’s going back under with this cold.”

“Don’t let Paige try to trivialize what she does,” Morgan said with pride. “She raises more money for charity than most people earn in a year.”

“All the niceties.” Paige shook her head modestly. “It’s easy. You know. For children. Orphans. Our organization gives girls who aren’t looking to get abortions an alternative.”

Oliver put in, “They house them during their pregnancies and provide them with affiliated classes at nearby universities. So when it’s over, even if they don’t want to keep their babies, they have some sort of an education going on, somewhere to head.”

“That’s great,” I said.

Paige picked a thread from her brother’s jacket and rolled it between her thumb and forefinger. “Oliver’s connections don’t hurt,” she teased.

“And, no,” Oliver put in, “it’s not funded by the church.”

“I didn’t—”

“It’s just that everyone always thinks it is,” Paige said. “That’s usually the objection. We’ve been able to buy a quite large house for the girls. Oh, by the way, Oliver, the wind knocked off some more of the roof tiles.” They shared a pained grimace.

“I’ll have Mr. Piet look into it,” Oliver assured Paige, then he leaned toward me and touched my arm. “Lucky we have Mr. Piet. There aren’t many who know how to fasten the things.” Then he added. “‘Battening down the hatches,’ that’s what our Mr. Piet does. If you had to hire a fellow to do it, any other man would charge an arm and a leg.”

I looked around the corner for Mr. Piet. He would roll in and out every little while.

“It won’t be cold much longer,” Morgan said easily, parking one haunch on the olive leather divan and extending his long legs out into the room. Then, thinking better of it, he placed his feet back in front of himself on the floor. He caught my eye and I looked away.

“You could take Noola’s place at the Garden Club!” Paige enthused. But before the words were out of her mouth she looked feebly around the room, “Not that anyone could fill her shoes. I just mean—”

“We know what you meant, Paige,” Morgan comforted her graciously.

“What I really meant was”—she smiled at Morgan with all her charm and her eyes shone, then turned to me—“we would love to have you.”

I was touched. “I’m afraid I’m not much of a gardener,” I warned.

“Oh. Really? Pity. Noola had such a lovely garden. Oh, well. We’ll find something for you to join,” she said, smiling prettily at me. “We wouldn’t want you to feel left out. Such a little place we are, Sea Cliff.”

“Almost a throwback, it feels like,” I said. “And so remote.”

“How did you drive in?” Paige asked, perching herself neatly beside me on the couch.

“Glen Cove Road,” I said.

“When you’ve been here awhile, I’ll show you how to take the switchback road down by the water. It’s roundabout, but it’s so pretty. And faster when there’s traffic.”

The butler made himself known with an almost imperceptible shifting of the feet.

Paige said, “You’ll be joining us for dinner, Claire.”

“Sure. I’d love to.”

“Nothing festive. Just us, you know.” She indicated Morgan with a warm smile. “Morgan’s still in mourning, of course.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, remembering with regret my indelicate behavior the day before.

“Our nephew was supposed to come, but …” Paige let this hang in the air.

Just then Jenny Rose, with the little boy by the hand, came into the room.

I was surprised to see her, though of course she was the reason I’d come. But there was something about Jenny Rose that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, a shining vividness that brought the whole room to life. It wasn’t just that she was young. There was something else, something good, despite all the macabre accoutrements she could come up with to make herself look otherwise: the spiked-up hair, the eye makeup, the henna tattoo, the dark blue nail polish, the naughtiness. I walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

“Here she is,” Oliver Cupsand said, thrusting his glass into the air, “our hero!”

An enthusiastic round of applause followed this. I thought, Wow, they must really be glad to have her! I thought this with relief because Jenny Rose was notorious for getting canned. The little boy tried to step back in shyness but Jenny Rose held him fast.

“It was nothing,” Jenny Rose stood behind the boy, petting his hair flat.

“It certainly wasn’t nothing!” Paige cried, and they all joined her protest. I realized I hadn’t a clue to what was going on and it must have shown on my face because Morgan said, “I take it you don’t know, do you? Jenny Rose here saved a girl from drowning this morning.”

“What?” I gasped.

“Radiance. Our Radiance,” Paige said.

“While you were languishing in the emergency room,” Morgan teased.

“Emergency room?” Jenny Rose jumped up. “Auntie Claire! What happened to your eyes?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I fell, that’s all. Down at the marina. I’m fine now.”

“Mr. Piet saved some copies of the late edition here somewhere.” Oliver fiddled with his desk.

“Went right into the sound and hauled her out!” Paige said. “Your niece did that!”

Morgan took a firm gulp of his drink. “I didn’t know either until I got here. Here it is, right on the table, Oliver. Have a look at this, Claire.”

“Crack Down on Illegal Aliens!” the headline cried and I squirmed with discomfort for her. But my eye cast down the page to the next story and I saw where I was meant to look. “Jenny Rose!” I cried, for there she was in a picture with a policeman’s jacket draped over her and an EMS driver with his arm around her. “Tourist Saves the Day” the caption read.

The little boy looked with adoration through thick glasses at his au pair.

“So, Auntie Claire, what do you think? Shall we send it to my mother in Italy? Show her what an ace I am?”

“We’re all so proud!” Paige sat with her legs gracefully crossed at the ankle. “But whatever made you do it? Jump in, I mean. Most people would have just called for help!”

“She went down.” Jenny Rose shrugged. “It didn’t look like she had the strength to hold on.”

“Wow,” I said. And then I remembered where I’d heard the name Radiance. “It’s Mrs. Dellaverna’s cleaning lady slash showgirl!” I gasped.

“She works for us,” Oliver stammered, then he added, “part-time.”

“She does some cleaning,” Paige said. “But she’s quite a bit more than that. Radiance’s grown up here. She’s practically part of the family.”

“Phh,” said Oliver.

Jenny Rose volunteered, “Yes, but she’s really a dancer, Auntie Claire! She just does cleaning to make ends meet. She’s always going to dance classes. Wait until you meet her. She’s really cool. Exotic.”

“She’s Mr. Piet’s daughter,” Paige whispered. “She doesn’t live here, though. She lives in town, over Gallagher’s.”

“What was she doing in the water at all?” I asked.

“She was out fishing,” Jenny Rose answered. “She couldn’t start the engine and she was drifting.”

“She probably didn’t want to get her cell phone wet,” Paige said, shrugging, “and left it ashore.”

“It was just that wee tub of a boat,” Morgan said. “She’s very lucky you happened along.”

“I told her never to take that blasted cat ketch.” Oliver scowled. “And that’s another thing. Now I’ve got to replace it.”

Morgan’s face clouded. “I’m surprised Mr. Piet let that boat fall into such disrepair. It’s not like him.”

Jenny Rose went on excitedly, “There was hardly a moon. She cast the anchor over the side and to her dismay it came undone! Everything that could go wrong did.”

Bemused, Morgan shook his head. “I don’t know what she was thinking. She’s a better sailor than that.” He looked at Oliver. “And I tied that anchor on myself.”

Paige said hurriedly, “You know what it’s like around the point. The current’s dreadful.”

“But surely another fisherman would have seen her?” I asked.

“She said they’d all gone out for blues,” said Morgan. “She panicked. She probably thought she was in so close she could make it.”

I got the oddest feeling they were covering up for her.

“Thank goodness you’re a marvelous swimmer,” Morgan said, smiling, to Jenny Rose.

“I’ve no form at all. I never won a badge at school. I guess I’m strong for my size, though.” She sat back, glowing. “It’s just luck, really.”

The birch in the fireplace crackled. No one spoke.

“I still can’t believe it!” I marveled and turned, overwhelmed, to Jenny Rose, “To think we might have lost you!”

Paige swept across the room and reached for Jenny Rose. “A terrific beginning!” She gave her an awkward, standoffish hug.

“Let’s not get soppy, now. Children present.” Jenny Rose stuck out both arms like a traffic guard, but you could see she was pleased.

“Radiance was actually rather cross when she came to,” Jenny Rose murmured thoughtfully.

Oliver, outraged at this, cried, “To you of all people! After all you’ve done for her! You’d think she’d be grateful! But that’s just like her, isn’t it.”

“No, it doesn’t surprise me either.” Paige stood, smoothing the seat of her skirt. She opened a can of spicy raw pistachios and handed them around, laughing pleasantly. “Radiance has a chip on her shoulder when it comes to women.”

Oliver grabbed for a fistful of nuts and bulleted them into his mouth one by one.

“God, these are spicy.” Paige fanned her face.

“Jenny Rose,” I said, sitting forward, “it looks like I’ll be living here in Sea Cliff for a while!”

“What, here? Really? That’s great. How did this happen?”

“To tell you the truth I just fell into it,” I said, and Morgan and I laughed.

“Yes”—Paige rested a light hand on Morgan’s shoulder—“how did you two meet?”

Morgan turned to Jenny Rose, explaining, “Your aunt is going to help me sort out my mother’s house.”

Jenny Rose said, “Oh! By the way, the air in the rear of the school bus where Wendell sits is absolutely unbreathable! The driver refuses to crack open a window and so Wendell and I shall be walking or biking to school until the situation is remedied.” She summed up her speech with a flourish and knelt beside the boy, holding on to his waist and glaring at us as though daring any one of us to argue with her. There was something ferocious about Jenny Rose with which you wouldn’t like to mess.

Worriedly, Paige spoke first. “But, Jenny Rose, the weather’s still dreadful!”

“Bad weather never hurt a soul,” Jenny Rose answered her staunchly. “Does one good to walk to and fro. Makes you strong.” She gave her chest a gorilla thump with a fist. “Robust! And I’m teaching him poetry along the way. You say a thing, he rhymes back, don’t you, Wendell! A regular bard he is. I’ve never known a child to be such a quick learner.”

“He might have that Asperger’s syndrome,” Paige said as though he weren’t even there. Her eyes lit up. “Or he could be an autistic savant! Those children have remarkable memories.”

Oliver said out of the corner of his mouth, “I’m still astonished she got him to say anything at all!”

Mortified with incomprehension, Wendell put his face down into Jenny Rose’s lap.

Jenny Rose tousled with the boy. “No, wait. Give a listen. Wendell, stand straight. Come on, stop that. Show them how brave you are.”

His neck mottling a prompt red, Wendell let himself be jimmied into a head-lowered, pigeon-toed stance. Jenny Rose pushed him softly away from herself, saying, “Go on then, Wendell, recite that nice limerick.”

His scrawny arms plastered to his sides and his eyes shut tight, he recited:

“There once was a man from Turgass

“His balls they were made of pure brass

“When he shook them together

“They played Stormy Weather

“And lightning shot out of his ass.”

There harked a baffled pause when all one could hear was the grandmother clock’s loud ticking from the next room. Then Oliver Cupsand whooped and threw back his handsome head in a burst of laughter. Paige moved the cut-glass ashtrays and candy dishes around the coffee table uncomfortably and in a schoolmarmish tone, she declared, “My! That’s not exactly what we’re used to hearing in this country!”

Jenny Rose, who’d turned whiter still, flustered, “Er, that wasn’t the one that I meant, Wendell. However, you do have a brilliant little memory there. We’ll just find a different one for you next time, all right? The one about the pale plum-colored vest would do nicely.” It was that Glinty! She’d kill him!

Still grinning, Oliver shimmied jauntily. “So! You’ve turned our little Wendell into a poet, have you? Well done! No one could get a word out of him since”—he grappled for the words, then settled on—“for the longest time! I guess there’ll be no arguing with the likes of you!”

I glanced at Morgan. His eyes were brimming with held-in tears of mirth he’d disguised with a cough.

“Are you always getting into hot water?” Oliver asked Jenny Rose pleasantly.

“Yes, I am,” she answered, just as pleasantly.

“Hmm,” he said, turning to me. “Good thing you’ll be staying nearby.”

“You’re not at the cottage now, though, are you?” Paige asked me. “It’s too grim.”

“Actually, Mrs. Dellaverna, the Italian lady next door, has invited me to stay for the night.”

“Lina Dellaverna?” they gasped in unison.

“You’re joking,” Oliver said. “She hardly speaks to anyone!”

“Well, it’s just for the one night. She made that pretty clear.”

Morgan said, “I’m glad she’s invited you. This way you won’t have to drive back to … Queens, is it?”

“Yes, Queens.”

“Really? Queens.” Paige turned to me. “How charming.” She smiled pleasantly. “Our people are from right here on the North Shore, of course.”

“She means we don’t associate with anyone south of 25A,” Oliver scoffed. “And we rarely leave Sea Cliff at all nowadays if not by boat.”

“How lucky for you,” I said.

“That Lina Dellaverna, she’s so stingy,” Paige whispered in a gossipy tone, “she even keeps the money she charges on the House and Garden tour!”

“You don’t say!” I said, interested. Good, I thought, deciding I liked Paige. I could be friends with a gossip. I didn’t know how easy it would have been to be friends with the saint Morgan Donovan seemed to think she was.

Mr. Piet stood in the doorway and announced dinner. In a loose knot, we marched through to the dining room. I remarked I’d never seen such a huge and splendid chandelier.

Oliver said, “We just got it. It’s French, probably made in Morocco around the turn of the last century. That’s what you said, didn’t you, Morgan?”

“Yup. Made of bronze. The whole thing. It took Oliver, Teddy, Glinty, and myself to bring it all the way up from Virginia, didn’t it? And then to hoist it up! What a job!”

“Oliver won it in a card game,” Paige added with disapproval.

Floor-to-ceiling glass doors lined one whole side of the room and looked out onto treetops and the best winter view of the sound—except for the Great White, I thought, prematurely house-proud, where the view was unimpeded year-round.

“The house has so many wonderful rooms,” I remarked.

“Yes, the Victorians used to come out here from the city for the summer. This was a grand inn, originally.” Paige smiled to herself. She seemed happy, satisfied with the way things were going. I got the feeling she liked having me there.

I noticed Oliver didn’t talk to Wendell at all and realized he had no clue how to relate to a child. The only one who did was Jenny Rose and occasionally Morgan, who seemed to have a great store of knock-knock jokes at hand.

Once Morgan asked him, “And when you grow up, Wendell, what would you like to be?”

“I’ll have a store,” Wendell said clearly and we all laughed. He had such an unexpectedly croaky voice. Then he added, “on the seashore.”

“Wendell”—Jenny Rose placed his napkin across his little lap—“you don’t have to make a rhyme of every sentence. That would be boring, see?”

“And what sort of store might that be?” Morgan inquired.

He thought about this. “Pwobably bells and, like, ropes and bait and beer coolers. Stuff for boats.”

“Motorboats or sailboats?” Oliver asked him.

“Oh, sail-boats,” he replied without hesitation.

They all chimed in their North Shore approval.

Oliver, realizing this was going well, continued, “So you’ll probably stay right here in Sea Cliff then, will you?” He made a thoughtful face. “After college?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes, not yeah,” Paige instructed.

“Yes.” Wendell frowned. Then he lisped firmly, “But I’m not going to college. I’ll be working at Duffy’s Bait Shop.”

“Ah,” we all said, butter never melting in our mouths.

“Be careful when you take him over there,” Morgan warned Jenny Rose. “Those buildings down the lane toward the water there are all condemned. Stay away from them.”

Paige said, “I have an idea! I was just thinking. Why don’t I take over the garden at the cottage? That way the value of the property will be maintained.” She cocked her pretty head at Morgan, and I had a sudden horrible vision of her crouched behind the sunflower stalks, watching my every move.

Jenny Rose, seeing my face, jumped to my aid. “Aunt Claire is very modest,” she announced. “But when she was in Ireland, she revitalized our little historic cemetery.” She took a sip of her ginger ale, her lying eyes holding mine for just long enough. “It’s never looked so fertile and glorious.”

I blinked uncomprehendingly. It was true in a way, I supposed. Hadn’t I clandestinely planted a cremated corpse just inside the cemetery gates? What better fertilizer than that?

“Well,” said Morgan, “in that case, we’ll leave the cottage garden to Claire.”

“But you’ll have so much to do!” Paige snatched the crumbled Gorgonzola away from Oliver’s reach and smiled pityingly at me.

That condescending smile was what gave me the courage to be honest. “It sounds very silly, I know,” I said, “but I’m looking forward to having the cottage to myself and putting it right.”

In bustled Mr. Piet with a white china soup terrine. Dinner commenced with what looked like a disappointing broth but turned out to be delicious. He whisked the bowls away and returned with a magnificent platter. He started with Jenny Rose, ceremoniously lifting a piece of fish onto her plate. We all looked at that piece of fish. It was the head. It regarded Jenny Rose with one gooey, glassy eye. Mr. Piet stood there waiting for her reaction.

“What!” Jenny Rose exclaimed. “The head for me?”

Mr. Piet gave a grave little nod.

Fearing what would happen next, no one looked at anyone. Paige’s fist covered her mouth. With determined fortitude, and a courage with which I shall always be proud, Jenny Rose tackled this great honor with gusto and swallowed the eyes without the slightest outward sign of revulsion.

Mr. Piet, waiting, watched the last flaky cheek flesh consumed, declared, “Bien, très bien,” then hurried off to deliver fillets to her and the rest of us. He spooned a horseradish sauce with capers over the sweet white flaky fish, caught, as it turned out, early this very morning by Mr. Piet himself, who seemed to be an invaluable man of all trades.

“What is it?” I asked. “Is it fluke?

“The fluke are just coming in,” Morgan said. “It’s a weakfish.”

“Called so for its weak jaw,” Oliver informed me, jutting his own strong one demonstrably forward.

“Oh, Mr. Piet is our treasure,” Paige stage-whispered to me. “When he retired to Guadeloupe a while ago, we thought we’d lost him forever. But”—she smiled complacently—“he returned to us after only four months. ‘How many tourists can one fellow bear?’ was how he put it.”

This was all very interesting to me because while Mr. Piet had poured I’d noticed a peculiar tattoo beneath his wrist shirt cuff. I’d learned plenty from my detective husband, not the least of which was the sort of tattoo one acquired in jail. Guadeloupe, my foot, I thought. However, what’s done is done and everyone’s entitled to a second chance if you ask me.

Oliver relegated a trim slice of potato to his plate and cornered it at right angles to the fish with his knife, putting his fork on top of it as if he expected it to jump away or as though someone would snatch it. For such a big man, it was curious that he ate so delicately. And then there was Paige, the size of a dime and fingers like rose petals, wolfing it all down willy-nilly.

“Where is Radiance, now?” I asked.

“They’ve kept her one more day,” Mr. Piet said quietly, “just to be sure.”

“Don’t fill up on bread and butter, Wendell,” Paige warned sharply.

Oliver said, “This wine will interest you, Claire. It’s local, but fetching. What do you think?”

I took a sip. It was white and crisp and cold. “Good.”

He began to tell me about all the vineyards that were established now along the North Shore. At the other end of the table I overheard Paige exclaim defensively, “I only let in one or two potential clients, for heaven’s sake!”

Morgan murmured something in an annoyed tone and she answered back in a hasty whisper, “Well, last week you seemed so keen to sell!”

I kept my eyes dancing on Oliver, but I didn’t hear a word he said. I was leaning sideways toward the two of them and I caught her sharp whisper, “I’m sure no one took anything!”

The housekeeper, Patsy Mooney, glowing with steam and energy, manned the pantry door. Her little eyes flew around the dinner plates to check who’d eaten what. Panting like she’d run the forty-yard dash, she passed to Mr. Piet, who scudded in and out and intermittently refilled our glasses with the greenish wine. Jenny Rose, I was happy to observe, knew just how to keep Paige—a pious Francophile—in her place, captivating her with naughty south-of-France tales. I love a dinner party, especially when there are servants and you won’t have to pitch in at the end with the dishes and the food is terrific and the wine very good. Wendell surprised us and ate enthusiastically. We all did. After the fish, we had lemon sherbet with little flags of mint in pudding cups, and then came lamb chops, three apiece, resting in rosemary and lemon slices and rocking with garlic. There were bowls of asparagus and fresh spinach and candied carrots. We devoured these, too. It was all I could do not to pick up the lamb bones and gnaw on them.

Jenny Rose, who was seated beside me, whispered, “Aunt Claire, I want to talk to you.”

“Of course.”

“I need some advice.”

“Sounds cheap enough.”

“Tomorrow?” She glanced warily aside. “I’ll just pop by, all right?”

“Perfect.” I sketched out a little map for her.

Her shoulders relaxed. “Heard from the fiancé?” she probed.

“No.”

“Well rid of him, I’d say.”

I had actually just decided that life might not be all that bad without Enoch when Paige Cupsand, who’d been watching us, reached across the table. “What’s that in your ears?” She fingered one of my dangling earrings. “Why, are those buttons you’re wearing? Darling, I do believe our guest is wearing buttons in her ears!”

The way she said it, for a moment I thought my first impression had been right after all. And then everyone laughed and I laughed with them. I realized she was simply voicing her surprise. I returned to my delicious asparagus.

Morgan Donovan didn’t join in the laughter, though. He left his chair to refresh his hard-liquor drink and came over to me from behind, lightly touching the dangling Lilliput along the way. My neck hairs prickled.

Oliver Cupsand, who’d been savoring his food with a closed-mouth happy chew, noticed this exchange. He patted his lips with his napkin and said pointedly, “Jenny Rose didn’t mention her aunt was a famous photographer.”

Morgan regained his seat. “I had to hear it from your old employer. …”

I was a little disappointed to think Morgan acted as secretary for Oliver. “Well, it’s been a while—” I began.

“Not only that,” Morgan said, eyes glittering, “but it seems our guest is responsible for solving a murder.”

Oliver looked up in surprise. “You didn’t tell me that.”

Actually, it was more like several murders, but who was I to toot my own horn?

Paige enthused, “A famous photographer! You are absolutely in the right place! I’m sure you’ll be portraying our little town as soon as—”

And then, to my astonishment, Jenny Rose took it upon herself to interrupt again, announcing, “Auntie Claire needs some time to recoup, I think. Her bed-and-breakfast burned down in a fire and on top of that, she’s just found out her fiancé is gay.”

Oliver, just loosening his belt, revolved in his chair and gaped at me. This was just the sort of impudent behavior I’d feared from Jenny Rose. Some people you can just count on not to keep their mouths shut.

“Oh, my dear,” Paige cried. “How awful!”

“Yes, it was, really,” I admitted. Well, what did I care if everyone knew? It was all true.

“Was anyone hurt?”

“Only my pride,” I joked weakly, wishing with all my heart someone would pass around the asparagus again without my asking.

“Was anyone hurt in the fire … ?”

“Oh. No. Just everything I owned was lost. I had insurance, but—”

“And your fiancé?” Oliver probed, fascinated.

“It wasn’t because of the fire. We actually got together because of the fire, if you can believe it.” I looked from Jenny Rose’s face to my feet in Mrs. Dellaverna’s Italian shoes. “Quite recently. It was just this past Christmas. … Romantic, I thought at the time. The truth is that I was as much to blame. I gave my love too soon, before I had the chance to know him. You see, he was so understanding and helpful. My ex-husband­ has always been the guy everybody wants to hang out with. You know, charismatic and fun, but not much use when it comes to real life. He was a loving father, to give the devil his due, but a degenerate gambler, to be honest. I thought Enoch—that’s his name, Enoch—I thought he’d be reliable and safe, you know?”

“Don’t think about it,” Oliver tried to soothe me.

I shook my head. “If I purposely try never to think of him, he’ll always be half there, nudging at my consciousness. What happened was that both my children went back to college, my son’s at Villanova—he’s a biochem major—and my daughter studies philosophy at Providence, and once they’re gone … it’s amazing but it’s as though they forget all about you. I know they don’t really but that’s what it feels like. All those years of love and having them around and then, poof, you drop them off at some ivy-covered building and if they answer your messages twice a week it’s a lot.” I heard the whine in my voice. “Oh, I know they’re all like that in the beginning. It’s just … hard to get used to. …” I looked at my hands. Even I had stopped eating. “Well, anyway, I let myself get involved too quickly with Enoch. I see that now. It becomes now suddenly clear that his … tastes lay elsewhere.” I felt sorry for myself and had to shake my head briskly so I wouldn’t start blubbering. I held my ear in my hand and pressed hard. “And now, because I came out to see Jenny Rose, one thing’s led to another and, well, here I am!” And then, looking around the table at these faces and with a gush of sudden clarity, I realized what exactly I was feeling. Not sorrow. I lifted the delicate glass of white wine to my lips and tasted its clear refreshment. What I was feeling was relief.

“My dear, you can count on us.” Paige leaned across and covered my hand with her light touch. “We’re not going to desert you, are we, Oliver?”

Oliver, fully in favor of such melodrama, poured himself another glass of wine. “Certainly not,” he swore, his face steamed and flustered with outrage for all mistreated womankind.

Paige, smiling kindly at me, reached into her sleeve and handed me her lace-trimmed handkerchief. I thought, This gal’s really something. No wonder Morgan Donovan is going to marry her. I’d marry her myself if I were a man. She was perfect. Ironed lace-trimmed handkerchief at the ready. Who had such things? And of course she was still of childbearing age. He could raise a family with her. What was she, thirty-five? Thirty-six? Still ripe. Still bleeding. Still juicy. What had I been thinking? Dried-up old me. He was just sorry for me. And of course I could be useful. You want something done, you get an old broad to do it. He knew that. That was what he’d said, wasn’t it? Well, look, I told myself. I’d had a good run. I felt his eyes upon me. If Enoch wasn’t what he’d seemed, then I hadn’t been either. How could I have been, having feelings for a perfect stranger right after I’d caught my guy in the clinch? I tried to think reasonably. I wanted to fit in. I should be happy just to be here with these intriguing people. I realized I had to rethink this. Morgan was taken. That much was clear. I had this perfectly respectable, handsome, appropriately aged, funny, rich—I repeat—rich guy right in front of me. So what was so terrible? A movie or dinner would be so bad? People grow to appreciate each other, after all. I smiled wryly and attempted to move on, “Jenny Rose, I was wondering if your paintings had arrived?”

“Oh, yeah. Truth be told, I haven’t even unpacked them yet.”

I remembered what she’d said about her disappointment at that art gallery in Cannes. Disregarding present company and fortified with wine, I urged, “Don’t let some man who knows nothing about you stop your passion from becoming real!”

Jenny Rose blushed furiously. She rolled her eyes and made a face, saying, “Hey! Don’t take it so seriously. It’s not like I’m Cézanne or something.”

It was interesting that she chose Cézanne, because if there were one artist whose work hers reminded me of, it was him. I cleared my throat. “Please, don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to tell you what to do. It’s just … you’re letting one person’s judgment interfere with your future—your whole life.” And then I heard myself telling these people I hardly knew, “Years ago, when I still thought of myself as an artist, someone told me that I had no talent. I’d just arrived in Germany and still had hopes of becoming a real painter. He was a critic, an art critic. I took what he said to heart and stopped drawing and painting. I stopped right then. I will say he didn’t leave me without hope. I had these photos I’d taken of scenes I intended to paint one day. He pointed out that as a photographer I really did have talent. I followed his lead and pursued photography. What I’m trying to say is that I took his word as truth. Even though all my life until then I’d wanted to be a painter, I let a perfect stranger dictate my future—tell me what was meant for me.”

Just then, along came an intricate, show-offy salad, all aged balsamic candied pecans and oak leaves and goat’s cheese and cranberry bits at the bottom. We groaned appreciatively.

I went on, “It’s not like I didn’t have a wonderful career as a photographer. But there are times I pass the odd gallery and I peek in and think, wow, that could have been me, you know?”

And from the end of the table, behind Oliver’s chair, Mr. Piet, who’d stood perfectly still in the shadow for the last of my soul searching, said, “Like: I could have been a contender?”

“Yeah.” I smiled and looked into his deep brown eyes. “Like that.”

Jenny Rose, who’d been watching me skeptically, pushed away her salad, fell back in her chair, and yawned and stretched with a great show of nonchalance. “All right, all right. I promise I’ll think about what you said.”

I added with heat, “Any talent I might have had is nothing compared to yours.”

“Hmm. Really?” Paige’s fork stopped in midair and she regarded Jenny Rose with new interest. “And do you do portraits?”

“She surpasses herself with portraiture,” I told them all.

Paige said to Oliver, “That’s perfect. She can do Wendell and you.”

“I’d rather do you, to start.” Jenny Rose closed one eye and scrutinized Paige.

Well done, I thought.

Mr. Piet hurriedly collected the dishes and returned with a purple cake decorated with nasturtium. “Oh, you must try it!” Paige insisted. “It’s raspberry-jam filling surrounded by layers of real whipped cream. Those are edible flowers.”

Obediently, we gorged our way through another achingly delectable gamut of textures.

“I have an idea!” Paige turned to me. “You can do our wedding pictures.”

If I’d have wanted to do weddings, I’d have stayed in Queens and opened a shop on Austin Street. Still, it would be ungracious to refuse. “Any photographer would be privileged to shoot you,” I compromised by saying—a little too late—and hoping she wouldn’t exactly take it the wrong way. And, yes, I admit it, sort of hoping she would.

When the meal was done and Jenny Rose had taken Wendell off to bed, the rest of us traipsed through to the living room. I stayed behind and struggled to rearrange the crotch of my tights, which kept creeping down my thighs.

Paige turned in the doorway. “Is something the matter?” she frowned.

“Tch. My tights. They don’t fit,” I confided.

“You have to go to CVS, just south on Carpenter Avenue for tights. That’s where I get mine. Here. I’ll write it down. Let me get my pen.” She went to her desk and riddled through it. Then she went through her purse, but it wasn’t there either.

I said, “There’s a pencil on the desk.”

She wrinkled her forehead, “It’s not that. I seem to have lost my good pen.”

Aha, I thought. I was about to say I’d seen a fancy pen at the cottage, but something—perhaps the culpability that crossed her face—held me back. She wrote the way to the shop on a piece of stationery with a pencil and then led me through to another elegant room, this one with tall ceilings lined with shelves stocked with fancy books, everything wood paneled and with a fire blazing at one end. Even the crown moldings wore tooled etchings. A grand piano, off center, graced an antique gold-and-ruby Persian carpet. A library. It was certainly one of the most impressive rooms I’d ever been in. I said so.

“The walls,” Oliver said proudly, touching them in a downward, loving stroke, “are chestnut and oak. Every panel had to be refurbished. That’s how I came upon Mr. Piet. He did carpentry and I was looking for someone to bring them out. Every contractor I interviewed wanted to either polyurethane them or paint them over.” He took a satisfied smack of the matching amber liquid and caressed the glowing walls with a glance. “Mr. Piet’s idea, on the other hand, was to scrub them down with hot water and Murphy’s oil soap, then a mixture of Patsy Mooney’s pecan oil from the kitchen and beeswax and lemon. I hired him on the spot. He got our Teddy to help him and he did them himself! They glow, don’t they?”

Paige, handing around after dinner drinks, chimed in, “Teddy is our nephew. Oh, they worked so hard!”

Oliver said, “Yes. Until Teddy walked out.”

“For heaven’s sake! He had to go back to school!

“Paige decorated the place.” Morgan spoke proudly from his camel-colored leather easy chair.

I held my smile and turned to him. So this was where he belonged. This was his future. Here he would sit on a Sunday and watch soccer, munch pretzels. “It’s absolutely beautiful!” I tried to say with genuine feeling. And it was. Morgan’s feet, though, were not up on the hassock. They were being polite and long and thin in moss green deck shoes. Old deck shoes, worn and chafed, the tops of his elegant bare feet tanned and narrow. I pulled my eyes away. As lovely as the place was, you’d never call it homey. Gracious, that was it, an elegant family room in a palace.

Just then there was conversation out in the hall and in strode a handsome young man, flushed with the cold.

“Teddy!” Paige raised herself up to be kissed. “Speak of the devil!” The young man went around greeting us all and as he stood before me I thought I recognized him.

“Sorry I couldn’t make dinner, Aunt Paige,” he apologized, flopping his overcoat down onto a sofa with easy familiarity. It was the same young man who’d waited tables at Once Upon a Moose.

“Teddy lives out on that romantic schooner you see in the harbor,” Paige announced, “the Dream Boat.”

Teddy said, “Well, I’m refurbishing her. I wouldn’t exactly call it living.”

“We’ve met!” I said as he shook my hand. “My niece and I were having tea at the Moose.”

He continued to shake my hand warmly, but I could see the light still hadn’t dawned. Of course he hadn’t noticed me at all because he’d been captivated by Jenny Rose. “She gave you a picture,” I reminded him, “of the interior of the Moose.”

“That girl? Your niece?” His eyes grew wide. He let go of my hand.

“Teddy is studying at Hofstra,” Paige added. “He’s going to be a teacher.”

He didn’t seem to hear her but remained before me. “The girl who did the picture is your niece?”

“Yes.” I disengaged my hand.

“I still have it,” he said. “I put it over my desk. Uncle Oliver, you saw it! I was surprised at the time that you didn’t take more notice of it. You, of all people!”

Oliver looked nervously to the side. “Ah … yes. My mind was somewhere else. I was having a quick lunch … on my own,” he said again and I looked up. Because he hadn’t been alone. I remembered now. He’d been with that girl in a green loden mantel. I wouldn’t have thought of it but that he mentioned again so pointedly that he’d been on his own.

“I’d advise you to hold on to it, Teddy.” I laughed. “That’s an original Jenny Rose Cashin.”

“Jenny Rose,” he murmured, tasting the name like she was a sort of dream. He helped himself to a beer, choosing to drink it from the long neck of the bottle.

“Jenny Rose is our new au pair, Teddy,” Paige said.

“What sweet news!” Teddy laughed. “Now you won’t have to be bothered with the kid.”

Morgan frowned. “I’ve never heard Paige complain about Wendell.”

Leaning herself prettily against the Florentine credenza, Paige informed me, “Wendell was Annabel’s last purchase.”

“Oh, shut up,” Oliver said.

“Well, it’s true. She had to have this and she had to have that. She was a shopaholic. It all came too easy to her. The only thing she’s really passionate about is shopping …”

“She certainly had good taste,” I said in an admiring tone, looking anywhere but into Oliver’s increasingly sodden eyes. Then I thought, The poor guy. His wife up and leaves him. Why wouldn’t he drink too much? I said, “The house is filled with wonderful pictures. So many maritime oils.”

“Yes,” Paige agreed. “That was one thing she did have, Annabel. Talent for the right subject.” And as she said this she looked meaningfully at Morgan. Morgan didn’t react, but I noticed a flicker of annoyance in the tightening of his mouth.

Paige smoothed her neat lid of platinum hair. “Here’s a person with every advantage handed to her and she throws it back in your face! It’s a pity, really. No, it’s a sin.”

Morgan spoke up, more kindly. “She knows how to make a beautiful home. She’s romantic. We all wish she would have stayed and duked it out, you know?” Then, thinking he’d spoken out of turn, he defended himself, “We all miss her, I guess.”

“I happened to make the mistake of taking her out to sea,” Oliver said, enunciating his words with the careful spacing of the intoxicated. “That was one thing I wasn’t allowed to do. I could wave to her on the shore …” He swayed precariously above the addictive spicy raw pistachio dish. “But I dare not take her with me. I forced her, you see. We’d been arguing. I didn’t realize how terrified she would be. … I put her in her life jacket and she was trembling. I should have listened. You see. So.” He collapsed into the leather chair. “I couldn’t get her back to shore fast enough and … Well, that was it.” He raised his unhappy face to me. “And then she left. That … next … day.”

“I suppose all your trips to Atlantic City and the arguments that followed had nothing to do with it,” Paige remarked churlishly.

I pretended not to hear the trouble in Camelot, and Teddy, tired of all this, spoke up enthusiastically. “You really would be interested to see that picture Jenny Rose did, Oliver.”

“Mrs. Lassiter did mention she paints,” Oliver said, shuffling over to the drinks table. He glanced, puzzled, at Paige. “Wasn’t that why we took her on?”

“There used to be no end to the maritime oils in this house,” Paige commented, somewhat exasperated, crouching down and straightening the flap of Morgan’s hassock. “Annabel deemed them all outmoded. Oliver would encourage her to take things into her own hands, change things around.” She gave a hollow laugh. “She got a bit full of herself and went about changing all the paintings in the house. Taking down every decent old thing, some of them quite unique, and”—here Paige sneered—“replacing them one day, as a surprise, with the sort of thing that screams Home Goods! It was a surprise all right.”

“You were the one who agreed with her that they were old-fashioned!” Teddy accused.

“Yes, well, James E. Butterworth is old-fashioned. It doesn’t mean one donates him to the thrift shop!”

“Is that what she did?” I gasped.

“And we had to make a pretty fancy donation to explain it all away.” Oliver pursed his lips. “But in the end we got most of them back.”

Paige added, “And then when Annabel left, we had to get rid of the new monstrosities!”

Oliver stifled a burp. “To whom did we give them? I can’t remember.”

“Mrs. Lassiter at the rectory,” Paige said. “That’s how we learned about Jenny Rose, remember? Mrs. Lassiter was the one who went mad for the colony prints.” She put a hand over one side of her face and cautioned Oliver, “Only let’s not go on about those colony prints. Morgan wanted them, himself, remember?” She leaned over and whispered to me, “Rather a sore spot. Even I had no idea what they were worth. Poor Morgan. He’d been counting on them.”

Morgan erupted, “They were seventeenth-century English school prints of the Spanish Silver Fleet, and, as if you didn’t know, they were my mother’s!”

Paige made a chagrined face for my benefit and said, “Oops.” She slipped down beside Teddy. “Of course we knew once, but we’d forgotten. They’d been hanging there so long. It was Noola, Morgan’s mother, who made us hang them there over our fireplace, remember? Noola said the spot deserved them. I don’t think even she knew how much they were worth. We had them in fours. Burled beechnut frames. Until Annabel swept through with her Monet replicas!”

“Where are they now?” I asked.

“Mrs. Lassiter still has them. The one good thing is Annabel kept the frames. She liked them for her Home Goods collection.”

“Well,” I ventured, thinking it was one of them, “I have to admit I like the one in the front hall.”

Paige said, “To be frank, it only looks so captivating because it’s in that massive gilt, hand-carved nineteenth-century frame. I’ve been meaning to move it. It’s too amateurish to be in such a revered spot.”

“Just leave it,” Oliver warned.

“Yes,” I agreed, “it does seem amateurish. And childlike. Maybe that’s what I love about it. The uninhibited strokes and bright colors. It draws you in. It’s like its own little world in there. Maybe the word I’m looking for is fetching. Or fey. Is it a place … beyond the boats?”

My little speech seemed to please Morgan and he smiled at me. “I think it’s supposed to be Duffy’s Point,” he said. “A fantasy view, perhaps.”

“Evidently,” Paige surmised, her leaden tone putting an end to our discussion of Annabel, “Wendell painted it.”

Oliver turned away and went over to stir the fire, then, not liking to dirty his hands, changed his mind and implored, “Morgan?”

Morgan roused himself good-naturedly and pulled the fence away and put on another log. He brushed his hands against each other, glancing over at me. “So, Claire, Jenny Rose is your sister’s child?”

Before I could answer, Paige murmured, “There was no father there, I believe . ..” Then, lifting her eyes to the door, she interrupted herself. “Ah, there you are, Glinty.”

Relieved by the intrusion, I turned to see another young man, lithe and fashionable, dressed all in black. I hadn’t heard him come in. He was just suddenly there.

“Glinty” strode silkily across the room, took Paige’s hand and kissed it.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.” Paige indicated the chair beside her with an inviting pat.

“Would I leave you high and dry?” he said, smirking. He, like Morgan, had a strong Scottish burr.

“We were starving or we would have waited,” Oliver reprimanded him fondly.

“But you know me. I’m never hungry,” Glinty said smoothly, “only thirsty.”

He was very young and bold and his hair inky black as a rock star’s. Probably dyed, I thought with sudden mean spirit, my loyalty resting with the clean-cut Teddy.

“Claire Breslinsky, this is Malcolm McGlintock. Glinty, to us. Glinty, say hello to our new neighbor. This is the lady who’s taking Noola’s house.”

“How do you do.” He eyed me briskly but thoroughly up and down as I held out my hand. Just a second too short, as far as I was concerned, because his distraction indicated he was unimpressed. He was, to me, immediately disagreeable, druggy thin as a fingersmith, and there was an odd, fancy smell to him, like weed and vetiver or something. And the tiny diamond in one ear looked real. I know what you’re thinking. She doesn’t like sexy handsome men. But Morgan irritated me in a different way. In a sexual way, if you must know. This one … this Glinty, he had something … Rolling Stones-y and aloof about him. I couldn’t imagine how he fit in with this upstanding crew. And when he heard I was to have Noola’s house, he emitted a black silence I could practically feel.

When Jenny Rose came galloping back in, she reared to a sudden stop.

“Jenny Rose”—Paige lifted one gracious hand to the air—“come in and meet our Glinty.”

Glinty was quick on his feet. “Well, hello!” And then, still holding Jenny Rose’s eye, “We’ve seen each other, I think, but we haven’t officially met.”

They shook hands and Jenny Rose’s cheeks burned red. I knew at once she was attracted to him. Oy. The wrong one. The bad boy. Of course.

“At the marina, wasn’t it?” Glinty grinned way too familiarly at Jenny Rose.

“Yes. I think so,” Jenny Rose stammered.

Teddy stood the moment he saw this, knocking over the valuable chess set and making things worse by falling all over himself to pick the things up. Glinty saw it, too.

“And this is Teddy, our nephew,” Paige said, and Jenny Rose simply waved a hello. I watched Teddy; his troubled complexion and high-set, pointy ears, his pale, disappointed blue eyes. My heart went out to him.

“Sound asleep, our Wendell,” Jenny Rose said, though no one had asked, and she came and sat next to me and smoothed the soft fold of her short purple skirt. She didn’t look directly at him but there was the flutter of her lashes in Glinty’s direction. Why is it that women go for the bad guy?

From the corner, Glinty watched Jenny Rose. I didn’t like the way he looked at her. Now that he saw Teddy wanted her, he wanted her, too, and the game was on. He was luring her somehow, hypnotizing her, and I felt a little sick. He took out a zippered baggy of cigars from his jacket and, handling them with genuine affection, gave one to each of the men for later, explaining how his friend brought them in regularly from Cuba. I was reminded of Roger Hasenfuss on Third and McDougal, who’d assured us senior girls of the potency of his nickel bags and then lured us back to his roach-infested apartment for his roommate’s masala dosa. I could still remember that endless ride home on the F train and having to throw up in the garbage pail on Union Turnpike.

“Claire?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“We were just talking about the big regatta coming up. It’s great fun. Anyone can enter.”

“And anyone does,” Oliver put in. “People build their own tubs. Kids. Teenagers. They rig up anything that floats. Some fall apart halfway through! Do you sail?”

“No, sorry, never learned.”

“Too busy pursuing the life of the mind,” Teddy volunteered.

I looked up. He offered me his smile. He had sharp little canines. I liked that idea, the life of the mind. I liked him.

“I do.” Jenny Rose raised her hand as if she were in school.

“You can tag along with me, then,” Glinty said before Teddy had the chance.

“All right,” Jenny Rose agreed without thinking, jumping right in.

“How good are you?” He narrowed his eyes.

“The dirtier the weather, the happier I am,” she boasted, then thought better of it and looked at Oliver doubtfully. “If I might have that as my day off?”

Paige shrugged. “Oh, Mooney can stay with Wendell. Or Radiance, providing she’s well.”

“Providing she’s not depressed,” Morgan threw in.

“I really wanted Radiance to crew for me,” Oliver frowned, lolling slightly.

Morgan turned to me, explaining, “She can sail, that girl. But she can’t get into the club. She can work there, but she can’t be a member. They’ll tell you she could never afford it, but they’d waive those fees for a good sailor like her if her name were Coventry or Brickworth or Davenport.”

“Not if she couldn’t swim, they wouldn’t,” Glinty said.

“You mean if she were a shade lighter.” Paige smiled unapologetically. Then, “Morgan is our Democrat.”

Morgan’s jaw dropped. “I’m an independent,” he corrected. “And I won’t be pigeonholed, thank you. Anyway, I don’t give a crap about all that. The environment is my issue.”

“Oh, here we go!” Paige raised her eyes heavenward.

“Did you know”—he leaned forward—“there’s a glut of plastic the size of Texas in the north Pacific?”

“It can’t possibly be that big.” Oliver looked up over his drink.

“Well, it is. And it’s all because of your plastic water bottles and plastic containers—”

“That’s horrifying!” Jenny Rose cried.

“There will be no fish on the planet at all in twenty years if nothing is done,” he said.

“Yes, we know all about that,” Paige said as she slammed her drink down, “but the way we dealt with the extinction of the dinosaurs, we’ll deal one day with the extinction of fish. We’ll find something else to eat. Anyway, we have problems right here and now, children who need homes—”

“I’d be happy to stay with Wendell for the race,” says arbitrary me. “Really.”

There was silence. “Well, then,” Paige said, “that would be lovely.”

“I’d love to learn to sail,” I added.

“Oliver will take you out in high winds! You can learn later in the season, when the wind dies down,” Paige advised. “Otherwise you’ll get turned off.”

“I’ll take you out soon.” Oliver, with his eyebrows raised, had his scotch decanter perambulating above my glass. “I’ll see to it you don’t get turned off.”

“No, thank you.” I had to firmly cover mine with my hand. “No, really! I’m a rye and ginger girl, actually.”

“Mr. Piet! Get Ms. Breslinsky a rye and ginger, will you?” He looked around. “Where is he? Oh, yes, of course. He’s gone back to the hospital to check on Radiance.” He turned to Morgan. “Rye and ginger. There’s an old-fashioned drink for you.”

Taking the hint, Morgan got up and made me my drink.

Teddy cleared his throat. “Not to belabor the point. But can anyone get back to what Radiance was doing out on a boat before dawn in the first place? Because I still don’t get it.”

Glinty twisted his earlobe and leaned to one side. “These locals are a bit mad. They’re all for the fishing.”

“Except that Radiance doesn’t exactly fit into that category,” Paige remarked wryly.

“Of course there’s always the obvious reason,” Oliver said, leering. At first I didn’t know what he meant but then I took it he meant sex and I guessed everyone else did, too, because Paige frowned in a disproving way, “You’re disgusting. No wonder Annabel left you.”

But Oliver, ignoring her, went on expansively, “Mr. Piet—first name Gilles—originally came from Guadeloupe. He was a vacation guide there. Had his own sloop.” He finished his drink and ran his finger around the rim of the glass, warming to the story. “He fell in love with a tourist. That was Radiance’s mother. Margaret, or something. She was a Dutch tourist. No, Margriet. That was it. Beautiful woman, apparently. Well, obviously. One only has to look at Radiance and her long legs. Anyway, the woman, Margriet, went home but when she saw the baby was black, she returned to Holland and left Radiance with Mr. Piet. Well, not black. Sort of cocoa.”

“Oh, really, Oliver!” Paige exclaimed.

“Truth’s the truth. Morgan”—he thrust a presentational arm toward him—“our Morgan here, was down there when all this happened, dropped anchor there for a while when he’d needed repairs and Mr. Piet helped him with his engine so he got to know the story, isn’t that right, Morgan?” He kicked the sole of Morgan’s foot with his own. Morgan didn’t answer him but he didn’t say no and so Oliver went on, “He told Mr. Piet about Guardian Angel House up here in Sea Cliff—they’d just opened in a little house over on Kitchen Lane—and suggested he bring her here. But once Mr. Piet got here, he found he didn’t want to give her up. She’s been with us almost every summer since she could walk, really.” He fished around for the bottle at his feet and poured the last of it into his glass. “She didn’t always look like she does now, though, did she, Paige? Gawky, toothy thing she used to be. Shot up all of a sudden.”

“So … she’s worked for you all her life?”

“I wouldn’t say worked. More like made trouble one way or another. …” His eyes twinkled. “She’s always acting up. No mother, of course. They used to live on Guadeloupe, but he brought her up here for good after a while. She always lodged at Guardian Angel House because it was convenient for everyone. She would stay on long after the infants were adopted because Gilles worked here for us. It’s not an orphanage, you see. More like an exchange place. Aboveboard, of course. No scandal anymore. The girls know before their babies are born where they will go.” He sighed. “As a result, Radiance’s education has been a bit catch as catch can. She’d just get settled up here and he’d take her back. He has a villa, he says.” He lowered his voice. “But they all say that. Personally I suspect it’s more like a hut, but you wouldn’t want to insult him. He’s very learned, really. He just doesn’t get a word in edgewise with Patsy Mooney around.”

“Nobody does,” said a grinning Morgan.

Glinty said, “It’s no wonder her husband used to belt her.”

“Oh, be quiet, Glinty.” Paige flung her cardigan at him. “You’re incorrigible!”

“Anyway, they used to go back, but she won’t anymore.” Oliver lowered his voice. “Wants to make it as a dancer, you see. Wants to be a Rockette.”

“She’s certainly attractive enough,” Jenny Rose piped up.

“And she speaks four languages,” Morgan added.

“So does every taxi driver in New York,” Oliver pointed out.

“I hate it when you say things like that,” Paige said. “It’s so unkind.”

“It’s not unkind. It’s the truth. The whole trouble is she’s turned into something of a bombshell. Thinks she’s entitled to all sorts of amenities. She should be pursuing some sort of job at the United Nations, not the cattle calls in the back pages of Variety.”

“That was another of Annabel’s bright ideas,” Paige said scornfully.

I took my new drink from Morgan and sipped it, then sat there swimming happily in my alcoholic buzz. I actually like to be around snobs because I have the feeling if I listen carefully, I’ll learn something.

“Don’t suppose anyone feels like chess,” Teddy said hopelessly once he’d reorganized the board.

“Oh, I’ll play.” Jenny Rose jumped up. “What a magnificent set! Can I be the Moors?”

I knew what she was up to, making herself more attractive to Glinty by not talking to him.

She and Teddy hunched together at the games table and I couldn’t help thinking how good they were together, young, healthy, laughing, and natural. Oh, I knew she didn’t care for Teddy in that way—which was probably why she could be so easy and fun filled with him—but maybe later, once she saw Glinty for who he really was … I crossed my fingers.

“How’s work at the Locust Valley Inn, Teddy?” Morgan asked him.

I said, “I thought you worked at the Once Upon a Moose.”

“She just fired me,” he said, shrugging, not particularly penitent.

Oliver shook his head. “Teddy’s had more jobs than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Paige said to me, “He’d have his real estate agent’s license, too, if he’d go take the darn test. But between waiting tables and showing houses for me, he has hardly any free time at all.”

“And then there was the club,” Teddy put in.

“You wouldn’t have so many jobs if you could hang on to one for any length of time,” Oliver chided Teddy and this time there was an edge to his voice. “You could have made plenty of money this summer caddying if you hadn’t broken Doctor Spiegel’s putter in two!”

“He had it coming.” Teddy yawned.

“That’s not your place to judge!” Oliver reprimanded, turning red. Then he added for my benefit, “We all belong to the sailing club, you see.”

“Only I’m hired help, not a member,” Teddy grinned good-naturedly. “And I don’t wait tables at the Locust Valley Inn,” he asserted. “I’m tending bar there, now, Paige.” His hand went to his head. “I almost forgot. When I go back I’ve got to put away those beer deliveries. I’ll have boxes all over the place!”

“You don’t think I could come and get some, do you?” I ventured. “I never have enough.”

“Sure. But don’t bother. I’ll bring some up to you. Noola’s cottage, right?”

“Oh,” I said, “that would be wonderful! Are you sure it’s no trouble?”

He moved a knight cautiously forward and right then caught my eye. “Not a bit.”

Oliver parked himself beside me and took the opportunity to change the subject. “I’m unable to draw a straight line myself, not like Jenny Rose here. Or Glinty. But then Glinty can’t really create art, he can only duplicate it. …” he added maliciously.

Glinty winked, indicating unashamedly the truth of what Oliver was saying.

“But I value art,” Oliver went on, “art and”—he put an arm behind me—“beautiful women.”

I caught Glinty’s dejected, off-guard expression and for a moment I felt sorry for him. I wondered if his brashness was all bravado. “Oh, good,” I said with a laugh, pretending to misunderstand Oliver. “You’ll be happy when my beautiful sisters come to visit me, then.”

“If they’re as lovely as you,” Oliver began, but I stood up, unnerved. I’d enjoyed his tributes at the table, but this fast work at close quarters was, to my mind, a little much. And to be honest I didn’t think he meant it. There was a sort of overkill about his flirting, a desperation that made me feel more pity than caution. I ambled over to the bar as if for another drink.

Jenny Rose and Teddy began to sing a pleasant Dave Matthews song none of us middle-aged folks knew the words to and so we all watched and listened. Then Glinty moved in and gave them a three-part harmony, turning a spontaneous, youthful outburst into a professional-sounding song. He really had a good voice, I admired grudgingly.

My tights had meanwhile meandered their way down my thighs and if I didn’t pull them up soon, I was going to have to hop home. I waited until all their backs were turned and then I hoisted them up, only to see Oliver catching me at it. His eyes popped open happily.

Embarrassed, I looked at my watch. It was nine o’clock. I wondered what trouble that kitten had gotten into by now. Also, I wouldn’t want to keep Mrs. Dellaverna waiting when she’d been so kind. All I had to look forward to was her couch, but, reluctantly, as they finished their song, I announced, “I’ll be on my way, then. Thank you so much for dinner.”

“Where’s that old guitar of Oliver’s?” Glinty called out to Paige.

“Just please don’t haul out that banjo.” Teddy shuddered.

“Sure you’re all right to drive?” Oliver frowned, concerned, and stood with a wobble.

I liked him at that moment. He wasn’t a bad guy, just hurt and uncertain. “Oh, I’m not driving. I walked.”

“The Irish walking girls.” Paige laughed, linking her arm into mine. “You’ll lose that weight in no time here.”

Gosh, I thought. What had I done to deserve that? But she’d said it so sincerely, with such kindness and consideration. And I was just a vain old coot to be offended—for who was it I didn’t like to hear that, but her fiancé? Yes. I was foolish and calculating. I realized it. And all she was doing was pushing her brother forward because she loved him and wanted him to be with someone who would love him, not leave him. It stood to reason that in her mind the two losers, the two who’d been left so recently, would find each other.

Then she said, “Come over again soon, Claire. You can be our fourth for Scrabble on Wednesdays. Morgan, Oliver, you, and me.” And she fluttered out of the room to go look for that guitar for Glinty.

You see? I reprimanded myself. She’s just blunt and friendly and helpful.

Morgan Donovan stood. “Come,” he said gruffly, with that infuriatingly attractive Scottish burr, “we’ll be needing to talk about your duties. I’ll walk you on my way to the marina.”

I was relieved when no one argued with him and moved swiftly before Paige would come back with the guitar and have something else to say. “Checkmate!” Teddy grinned triumphantly and Jenny Rose waved gaily from the board. Morgan and I went through the elegant rooms to the vestibule. He held my tablecloth up like a bullfighter flourishing a cape and I shrugged into it. He slipped into his bomber jacket and we went out the grand door into the night and crunched down the drive.

“Let’s take a detour along the water, shall we?” he suggested.

“All right.” The air was soft and delicious and I thought how crazy we all are not to live near the water when there is so much of it in the world. Here I was embarking on an entirely different life. And all because I hadn’t gotten on that bus.

Jenny Rose

Jenny Rose went up and checked on Wendell. Teddy followed her. He stood standing just outside the door when he noticed the muck on the soles of his shoes and scraped it off under Paige’s fancy French carpet.

Wendell looked like a statue of a child, still as marble. Jenny Rose almost touched him just to see if he was alive. He was. Of course he was. His red mouth moved a little. She went to his closet and touched his clothes. Boy colors. They were so nice. It was hard to believe a woman would waste her time choosing them and then go off like that. She felt as though that woman wouldn’t like her standing here going through Wendell’s things and she moved away, sensing something preemptory. But that was foolishness. Hadn’t the woman deserted Wendell? She took a last look at the little boy and silently went out.

Teddy reared up onto his toes.

“Oh!” she said. “Hi.”

“Hello there.” He looked at her with eager eyes.

She remembered her horrible stuffy quarters downstairs to look forward to, gave him a friendly smile, went back in the nursery, and shut the door.

Claire

“Penny for them,” Morgan said as we walked along.

I looked up at him. How suddenly everything had happened. And here I was to be friends with these enchanting people. Gardening clubs. Wednesday-night Scrabble. I said, “I wouldn’t have figured you for Scrabble.”

He lit his cigar and took a deep, satisfying pull on it, “Oh, when you’re out at sea you read so many books, and you find yourself able to spell all sorts of words you never even knew you knew.”

“And do you spend a lot of time out at sea?”

“As much as I can.”

“And what do you do?”

“Think, mostly. Crosswords. Read. I read a lot.”

“Who do you like? To read, I mean. Novels?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I used to love Joseph Conrad when I was young. Let’s see, history mostly. And Thomas Merton I loved. I love the Civil War. Bruce Catton. David McCullough. And naval battles. Nothing I like more than settling down with a story about a good fight at sea. Mainly, I just like an entertaining yarn. Morris West was my favorite. Chap who sailed to the Azores? I’ll sit a long night in the bar just to wait for someone to come up with one close to that.” He stopped to relight his cigar. “You strike me as bookish, a reader, I would think.”

“Do I?” Mentally I raced through my store of good stories. “I’m glad because I thought I came off more as a hysterical woman.”

“That, too,” he said and we both laughed. There was that good silence that follows a shared laugh. Then he said, “It was nice having you with us tonight.”

“For me, too,” I said, pleased. “So you’re from Scotland originally …”

“Oh, aye, a small place called Invergowrie in the north. No one’s heard of it but for a famous train wreck in 1979. Glinty comes from nearer to Edinburgh.”

“He seems an odd man out,” I commented. I thought of the one earring he wore. “Kind of like a pirate.”

“Glinty?” He laughed. “He is a bit. He’d love the description. He’s harmless enough, though. Good sailor. Worked under me in Bosnia. Good soldier, he was. Well intentioned. …”

“Really? I would have judged him weak.”

“Ah, no. The power is in the intention, isn’t it?”

I thought about this for a bit. Then I asked, “You were a soldier, too?”

He spit out a piece of tobacco. “For a while, yeah. Choppers. Helicopters. ’Twas a good while ago.” He brushed it off and we were silent. A ferry horn blew. “That’s from Steamboat Landing,” he said, adding, “Teddy worked over there, too, for a bit.”

“He gets around, doesn’t he? And why does Teddy never hold on to his jobs?”

“Never finishes anything. Bit of a temper, that lad. But having one myself, I can’t hold it too much against him. Glinty, now, he’s cool as a cucumber but a bit of a daredevil. I think he crashed more often in Bosnia than I did. But he never broke a bone!”

“And he lives here in Sea Cliff?”

“Well, down there at the marina, yeah. He didn’t have much where he came from in Scotland. A fool’s trap. I came across him when I was at university there. He was just a lad. He’d lag about on the docks and take work from the fishermen. No mother. His father was a beast. Had a shop where he’d cheat the tourists. A roaring drunk. But he would tell a great story, you see, so they left him about in the pubs—the father, that is.” Morgan’s eyes became tender. “Glinty learned the shopkeep’s business and everyone else’s as well. He’d be playing his guitar down on the loch in the freezing cold—that’s where I first heard him—and he didn’t even have a jacket so I gave him mine. ‘Ach,’ he told me later, ‘that was just to get sympathy from the old slags. I had plenty a garb!’”

I had to laugh at the thick Scottish accent that perfectly captured Glinty’s.

“Enterprising, he is. When his father died, I took him along with me. He’s got a nice little sloop now, called The Black Pearl Is Mine.”

“Funny name for a boat.”

Morgan chuckled. “You’ll find there’s no name too silly for a boat. Glinty had a shop for a while in Southampton, living off the gentry. Jewelry, he had, mostly. That’s his specialty. Made a bundle. But it’s seasonal there. The music, that’s where he shines. Well, you heard him. A regular troubadour. He could have stayed a musician but there’s no money in it. Doesn’t want to spend his life doing gigs at the Barefoot Peddler, he says. And you can’t meet all trains, can you? He’s hungry for the money, Glinty is. And he’s very good at what he does. Always up and down the coast doing estate sales.”

“Really? That sounds like fun.”

“It was. I did it for years. It was that or boatyard repairs. I don’t have the heart to work at a desk, or for someone else. Wears on you after a while, though.”

“So that’s what you do? Antiques?”

“I did, yes. But it’s rare timepieces, complex timepieces that are my crumpet, antique ship’s compasses with sundials. And moon dials. Especially moon dials. I’m mad for them.”

“I didn’t know there was such a thing.”

“Oh, aye, timepieces actually dictated by the moon. Can you imagine the strength of the pull of the moon? The tides she rules? She’s the queen of time, the moon. And yet it’s men’s science that channels it, actually directs it. It’s mathematics, isn’t it? Why, you can feel the movement of the earth as the dial shadow moves!” He laughed at his enthusiasm. “Och, any antique gizmo interests me. Fine paintings. Some estate jewelry. But not much of that. That’s Glinty’s department. Almost went into business with Glinty at one point but then—” He stopped. “I seem to work best on me own.”

We walked along silently and came to a house set back from the road. There was an old man with a white beard in the window. When he saw us, he jerked awkwardly and went and hid behind the drapes. I thought that’s what I should be doing; I had my own elderly parents who could use some help. I vowed to have them out, make a day of it. But first I was going to have to help myself.

I glanced at Morgan, summing him up. “So the priest thing was just a passing fancy …”

He winced with something like disappointment. “Oh. You remember I told you I’d left the seminary, do you? Well, it was more the other way around. Booted out, I was. I, um, beat up a feller there. Another seminarian.”

“Ah! I thought Teddy was the loose cannon.”

“No. It’s not just him. All right, if truth be told, I almost killed that fellow. You don’t have to look at me like that. Look. He was having it on with one of the kids from the sacristy. Or trying to. Kind of the old story, isn’t it? But can you imagine? Well, I came upon them. Under a beautiful dogwood tree they were. I can’t so much as look at a dogwood to this day without thinking of it. I tore him off the kid and almost strangled him. So … they threw me out. You can’t blame them.”

“No,” I agreed, but I didn’t blame him too much, either. “What did they do to him? The fellow you almost strangled?”

“Him? Short stay in hospital was all.”

“Was he badly hurt?”

“Oh, aye. But they don’t keep them long, nowadays.”

“They throw him out, too?”

“Not at all. He went to confession and stayed on, I imagine.”

“That’s terrible!”

“It is. But then they’re more in the forgiveness business than the punishment business. Or at least they were then. That’s my trouble, though. I always imagine I’m here to dole out reward or punishment.”

We walked along in silence. Then I said, “And now? What will you do now?”

“Oh, I don’t know. We’ll see.”

I took it he meant after marrying money he wouldn’t have to. Funny, though, I couldn’t fit him into that niche. And then, before I could stop myself, I said, “So. You’re engaged!”

“That’s right.”

I felt like saying, You might have told me, but of course why should he have? If I’d thought him courtly, it was only my frenzied wish for it to be so. And so I said, “You’d never find a prettier bride anywhere.”

“No,” he agreed.

“When’s the date?”

“No date set yet.”

I couldn’t help liking this news. We walked steadily down one hill and then up another. I thought I ought to say something glib or fresh and self-confident so I didn’t look like I was after him, which of course I wasn’t. “Don’t bother coming up the walk,” was all I could come up with. “Mrs. Dellaverna’s probably watching out for me and she—”

He didn’t seem to hear me. He grabbed hold of my wrist and pulled me toward him. I thought he was going to kiss me and I froze. But he didn’t. He just squinted at the sickle moon with that cigar in his teeth and held me up close to him and sort of breathed me in. When he let me go, I turned and walked hurriedly away. But my knees, never my most resolute of hinges, dissolved and loosened like slithery Del Monte peaches in oatmeal. Not so dried up, it seemed. Not so dried up at all.

Jenny Rose

Behind a curtain, a fluorescent-lit Radiance lay with her face to the wall, her big hair a pale jumble on the pillow.

“Psst. Hi.”

Radiance turned in slow motion.

“How’s it going?”

“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “It’s you.”

Jenny Rose smiled. “You look better.”

“I feel like shit.”

“Yeah. Well. That’s something.”

“It’s the middle of the night. What do you want? I suppose you want me to say thank you.”

“Nah. No big deal. Just want to see you’re all right. Did you see the papers? My picture’s right on the front. I know I look awful but that’s not the point, is it. Everyone at Twillyweed is thrilled. It’s like I’m a celebrity.”

Suddenly remembering her woes, Radiance rallied. “My back. They think I ruptured a disc.”

Jenny Rose drew closer. She made a grimace. “That’s tough luck, that.”

“I’ll never be able to dance!”

Jenny Rose pulled up a chair. “Then you’ll just have to learn to live like the rest of us. Flat on our feet.”

“What’s the difference anyway,” Radiance mumbled, half to herself. She frowned. “How did you get here?”

“Swiped your dad’s truck.”

“Eh? He’ll kill you.”

“Naw. He’s out fishing.”

Radiance swallowed painfully and took in Jenny Rose. Little face like a heart. Little jerk. She was just a kid. “Asseyez-vous.”

Jenny Rose sat down. She cleared her throat. “You jumped off that boat, didn’t you? It was for real, right?” She reached her hand across the blanket but did not touch. “You had enough, right? Aw, that’s okay, you don’t have to answer. I had enough a couple times myself. I just wanted to tell you, if you ever need some extra money—I always have a little something put away—get you out of town like. Not that you think you’ve got no choice, right?”

Radiance’s drooping lids moved to the doorway and Jenny Rose’s eyes followed.

“What are you doing in here?” The cranky nurse stood, hefty arms crossed, feet planted apart.

“Just shoving off, I was.”

“See here, you get yourself home. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to walk around this time of night?”

“I’m already gone.” Jenny Rose winked and smiled and patted Radiance’s hand. “Take good care of her now,” she advised the old cow and slipped out cheerfully.

Radiance, alone now and still taken aback by Jenny Rose’s words, was almost sorry she’d stuck those moonstones in the kid’s pocket.

Claire

I stood on the cliff a good while, looking and listening to the night. You could hear the water lapping at its edge, soft and sweet. The fog was rolling in and I let it surround me. Suddenly I couldn’t bear to impose myself on anyone, and, bad as the state of the cottage was, it was like a place of my own now, and I just really wanted to be alone. I opened Mrs. Dellaverna’s door and stood there for a moment, Mrs. Dellaverna’s loud snores barreling from inside. There was Carmela’s blouse washed and ironed on a hanger, the suit brushed, with only the merest shadow of the stain along the hem. She’d even cleaned the shoes! I leaned down to pick them up and, from a box of tissues on the floor, the kitten popped her head out. The dickens had been hard at work shredding dozens of tissues. I swept them and her up before she went and hid somewhere, then left a quick note of thanks on the kitchen table and crept out.

At the Great White, I slipped the key in the lock. The door swung open. I had the oddest feeling someone had been inside. But that was silly. Probably just the redolence of Noola. I felt around for the light switch but couldn’t locate it. I knew there were matches on the lantern. I felt my way to it and struck the match. A small but promising light shone. I’d looked forward to this moment. All my enthusiasm died, though, as I saw what devastation lay before me. But this was the deal I’d made, I told myself sternly, and snapped on the radio. Reception was bad until I found a local station. “This will be Rachmaninoff on a theme of Paganini Opus 43,” the voice announced. It filled the cottage. Wearily, I hung Carmela’s suit on the standing lamp, put a dish of water down for the cat, and opened the window all the way despite the chill. There was a decrepit Noah Webster dictionary in two parts on Noola’s bed stand, their spines held together with mending tape. Each book was three inches thick. I took up volume one, A–Lithistid, printed in Cleveland in 1937. The pages were yellow and their edges frayed, but so well made they didn’t crumble.

I cleared a spot for myself on the couch, spread the tablecloth I’d worn to the party over the cushions, covered myself with a cozy plaid blanket I’d found in the cupboard and opened the book. I turned to G.

Gnomon. From the Greek. 1. One who knows or examines. 2. The index, or triangle of a sundial that casts the shadow … From gnome: thought, intelligence. So called from the belief that gnomes could give information as to secret treasures in the earth.

Hmm. A gnome. I supposed that was Wendell. An indicator … I removed my earrings and turned off the yellow light, wondering what sort of shadow this gnomon would cast—and which way it was going to point me.

It was the hour the world is asleep. A meandering glove touched and moved across the underbelly of the cottage in the dark. This glove loved the dark. It caressed the west corner, the nubs and the nicks in the surface.

Ah, this little house had caused so much trouble. Tch. Tch. Who would have thought such a plain little place could foil so many plans? It wouldn’t take much to send it toppling like firewood into the sea. Or burn? It would go up like kindling! But no. There were other ways. And there was time.

The glove cut and unlooped the decaying jute twine holding the elderly wisteria in place. It drew back appreciatively and it would fall, wounded, onto the dirt and sand with the next jolly wind. A vicious boot kicked the roots up and over the earth. The glove dug an angry chunk off from the crumbling sill but then stopped itself, thinking. It was not the damned house to be got rid of, after all, but the intruder within.

Jenny Rose

She left Mr. Piet’s truck in the deserted marina parking lot, placed the key back on the front left tire where she’d found it, and briskly took the cliff steps up to Twillyweed. When he came in from fishing, he’d find it just where he’d left it and never be the wiser. That poor Radiance was in a great lot of trouble right up to her neck. She’d help her, Jenny Rose resolved, jogging swiftly up the cliff. She let herself in, then went up the back stairs to Wendell’s door and checked the bed. He wasn’t there! She bolted in, frantic. But there he was on the floor, all curled up. The scamp! Still, she’d best not run off and leave him again. She picked him up and put him in his bed. Light little bugger. Feather light, he was. Putting off descending into her cellar, she lay down beside him and watched his dear little face for a minute, lovely in sleep, then got up and tiptoed to the window. She could just make out the outline of the cottage and thought of her auntie Claire all alone in that ramshackle place. She squinted, imagining she saw some movement there along the cliff and under the house. It was a funny feeling she had. No, it was probably a raccoon. Ought she have insisted Claire stay here with her? The Cupsands wouldn’t have minded. And if they would have, she’d have told them good!

The sea was close and black and the mist floated over it in eerie scarves. New leaves on the spreading limbs moved in the wind, obscuring her view. I’m being paranoid. She sighed and scrabbled down into her pocket for the satin sack. The stones glittered in the half-light. They were cool to the touch and mysterious, staring at her eerily, but they warmed quickly. She knew she ought to get rid of them but something about them warranted care. She slipped them back into their sack, got up, and leaned against the open window. You could barely make out the Great White, now, hazy in fog. That’s my mother’s sister in there, she thought, smiling. And you never knew what life held in store. She yawned and climbed back into Wendell’s bed, half listening to the monotonous slosh of the tide as they cuddled warmly like an unmatched pair of spoons, drifting, lime and lemon, off to sleep.

Claire

When I opened my eyes in the morning, the inside of the cottage was thick with fog. At first I lay there, puzzled, but then remembered I’d left the big window open all night. The weather had changed. I threw off the blanket. I felt strangely good, different. I got up and let the kitten out, then, following her lead, I treated myself to a good stretch. I’d get myself in shape, by gum. I did a little Downward Dog, then staggered across the floor to the window and peered through a wall of mist. There I saw it. The magnificent wisteria, old as the hills, had come down during the night. It lay there, tangled and broken off, a vine once as imposing as Jack’s beanstalk. I shuddered, glad, at least, that Noola was no longer alive to see its demise. I shook my head sadly. Then I heard it—the woman with the infant! Without even brushing my teeth, I shrugged into Noola’s beaver coat and took off, climbing over the devastated wisteria, finding my way down the steep path to the beach by holding on to the rocks. Down below in the wispy fog I saw her slender retreating figure. Now was my chance to invite her over and I trotted across the sand, the water lapping on my right, her keening song keeping me on course as the fog lifted and then again swallowed her up. Charmed with my own generosity of spirit, visions of company for lunch and a young friend to advise and chat with filled my heart.

“Hi,” I called. “Hello there!” But even in the stillness she didn’t hear me. I reached, keeping up, and tapped her on the shoulder and she whirled around. She was a man! Long, straggly, yellowed white hair blew in the wind crisscrossing his whiskery face and pale blue eyes, an old man swirling in the thick mist, one moment there and the other not, and there was no baby, just a wrapped-up broken doll in his arms! The hairs on my neck stood up. I screamed with no sound coming out. Like in a dream, my legs would not move. Then I turned at last and I found myself running, running frantically away.

When at last I clattered to the top of the hill, I saw Mrs. Dellaverna out digging, looking as though she were kneeling on a cloud. I almost ran into her arms but I spotted Jenny Rose in and out of the mist, leading Wendell up the winding path—little refugees from Shangri-La—and I ran to her instead. I don’t even know what I was afraid of, but the vacant blue eyes of the man had terrified me. And that terrible fog … I just sobbed on her shoulder, not caring if I frightened Wendell, just losing it completely. Jenny Rose led me into my own place and boiled up some coffee she found on the stove. Wendell held tightly onto Jenny Rose’s hand but he didn’t look frightened, just curious.

“Sure, you’ve had a shock,” Jenny Rose said as she spooned sugar into the cup.

“Oh, God,” I cried, crashing my fist on the table, “I hate sugar in my coffee!”

“All right, all right,” Jenny Rose soothed. “Now tell me what happened?”

Mrs. Dellaverna was in the doorway. “You met up with Daniel, I think.”

“Yes, it was a man! He’s a man.” I covered my mouth. “An old man. But he had this long platinum hair.” I trickled my hand down my side. “And I only ever saw him from the back. I heard him singing, well, not really singing but humming, like, keening and I thought it was a young woman with an infant.” I sniffled, pulling myself together. “You know, I remembered how hard it is with a new baby and I thought, oh, let me invite her up to the cottage. My own son had colic,” I went ranting on, “and I’d walk him, from seven to nine every night.”

Jenny Rose patted my arm. “Sure, you’re not used to living by the sea. It does strange things to a body. The fog and all …”

“I think you scared him, eh?” Mrs. Dellaverna said wryly.

“Who’s Daniel?” Jenny Rose jumped up and down.

Wendell spoke up, “Daniel, he lives just down the road from Twillyweed. He’s got a lovely cottage. But it’s run-down now.” Except for the Elmer Fudding of his Ls and Rs, Wendell spoke with the vocabulary of an adult and I was shocked to normalcy because he sounded so mature—no doubt what comes from a child spending all his time with women.

Jenny Rose put her hands gently on his shoulders. “Do you know him, then?”

“Oh, sure,” he said easily. “Me and Mama always go. We take him mozzarella and cheese and parsley sausage when we go to Uncle Giuseppe’s.” He stuck his thumb into his mouth, clamming up.

Jenny Rose mouthed the word Annabel to me. Wendell noticed this and he sunk into his neck.

“Ach,” Jenny Rose soothed him, “sure, you’ll be wanting to speak of your mum, isn’t that it? None of us mind, do we, Auntie Claire?”

“No.” I felt better and now somewhat foolish. I looked down at my cup. “I have no idea how old this coffee is.”

Mrs. Dellaverna reluctantly left to get some fresh milk and I showed Wendell the button safe.

“This will keep him busy for the while,” Jenny Rose declared, setting him up on a throw rug.

Mrs. Dellaverna returned with the milk. She’d also brought a bell jar, sliced bread, and a salt shaker filled with red pepper flakes. “Oh, Dio! You have to have spicy.” She nestled it into the condiments grouping. “It’s what makes life good! You got to have the zest!”

“And what’s in the bell jar,” I asked, “sauce?”

She gave me a hard look. “Gravy.”

Together the three of us cleared off some seats. Mrs. Dellaverna said, “One more, we can play cards.”

I put WFUV on the radio, cleaned the percolator as best I could, giving it a wicked scrub, and set about to make a decent pot of coffee. We watched Wendell arrange the buttons into separate piles.

Jenny Rose said, “He’s making a little shop.” We both smiled.

Mrs. Dellaverna popped some slices into the toaster, checking it first for mice.

Jenny Rose said suddenly, “You know, we could rent a little shop in town and sell buttons.”

“Too expensive,” Mrs. Dellaverna protested sourly, drumming her fingers for the toast.

“No,” Jenny Rose pursued excitedly. “There must be five little empty shops in town.”

Mrs. Dellaverna laughed. “Don’t be pazza! You can’t make no living selling buttons.”

“No,” Jenny Rose went on enthusiastically, “but vintage button shops are a draw. There’s one in Dublin. We could put my pictures on the wall and your photographs and have a sort of gallery. I could make popovers and tea.”

“Mmm.” I shrugged, not really paying attention, for I was still seeing that man, that Daniel, with his haunted face there alone on the beach. “I could make my sauerbraten,” I said.

Mrs. Dellaverna said, “I could make spaghetti!”

“Is that what you really want to do?” Jenny Rose said suddenly.

“No,” I admitted.

“What do you really want to do?”

I closed my eyes and saw myself on a clear day sailing past the lighthouse with Morgan Donovan at the helm. That woke me up. What was I thinking? I shook my head to clear it and saw the mess before me. Slowly, I stood to fetch another cup.

Jenny Rose, her little chin in her fist, said dreamily, “You know, I think I know who you mean, this bloke Daniel. When I drove into town the first time, I saw him behind his dirty windows—it must be the same fellow—and I thought how sad. Long silky white hair, just like you said, almost platinum. I’m not surprised you took him for a lass from behind. Dead skinny. Little bat shoulders. Could be good looking, but he’s got those awful, haunted eyes. I still remember seeing him and thinking this is America? What’s wrong with him, Mrs. Dellaverna?”

Mrs. Dellaverna made a face and shrugged. “He’s here a long time. Sometimes, people go visit. They got that Eucharistic minister brings him the host. He’s not old, he just looks disheveled. What are you going to do? Put people in the crazy house just because they look and act funny? He wasn’t born that way, you know.”

I said, “What’s with the doll?”

Mrs. Dellaverna sighed heavily. “It’s a long time ago. Dio mio! That was a story.”

Wendell put down his turret of buttons and got up and moved close to the table. “He had a baby that drownded,” he mispronounced solemnly and nodded his head to affirm this.

Jenny Rose scratched her neck. I could tell she didn’t like where this was going.

Mrs. Dellaverna stroked her mustache and leaned back in her creaking chair. I prayed it would hold her. She said, “No! No, I’ll start at the beginning. See, this house here she belonged to Noola. She was a great one to sail. Every year, they have this what you call charity regatta. Her boat was the For Sail. Noola was so sure she was going to win. Daniel, he’s just a little boy, maybe seven, living here in Sea Cliff. He shouldn’t have been in the water. But he was spoiled, always up to no good. The family had plenty of money. What happened was terrible. It was a catastrophe! Noola, she ran over Daniel with the For Sail. His head, it came apart. He had to have hundreds of stitches on his head. Hundreds. He’s in the hospital for months. His brain was … He was never the same, never came back the right way. He was without oxygen too long. And he don’t hear so good, either. Noola, it’s not her fault. The kid was out where he shouldn’t have been. It was an accident. But she never got over it, see? And Morgan, he was in the boat and he watched the whole thing! Noola never forgave herself.” Here she stopped and, composing herself, took a sip from her cup. “He’s sweet. But let’s face it”—she tapped her skull meaningfully—“he’s pozzo. He looks okay. But who’s gonna be friends with such a boy? So when he grows up, he meets some junkie girl in the church basement, at one of those meetings. Janet, her name was. You know, one of those can’t help getting stoned, then yoga, then getting stoned again, in and out of all those rehab groups over at the church basement. AA. NA. One of them.” She tapped her noggin with her pointer finger. “She was smart, she smelled the money. I never liked her. But that’s beside the point. Daniel had property, you know; his parents they left him the little house there on the shore, where he lives now. It didn’t look like that then. Let me tell you. So anyway, it was a big shock when she got herself pregnant. Minchia! She’s into her thirties when she had his baby. Some people were not so sure about whether those two could take care of a baby. And let me tell you, they were right. Because one day there she was getting stoned and there’s the baby with nobody watching. And this after one time I found a needle on the beach.” She shrugged. “I’m thinking, who’s gonna change the diaper? But everybody figures somebody else is there to keep an eye on them.” She paused, not sure if she should go on and then—all of us listening with bated breath—she continued, “There was talk the baby should be taken away. Adopted through the Guardian Angel House. But then nobody wants to interfere, you know? But then something happened that changed everything. I’m outside, hanging up my wash on the line. I just happened to look down. I see the baby alone on the beach and it’s getting dark. I’m shocked! I go down. I take him up to my house and I put him to bed. I didn’t know Janet made the overdose—how could I know? Make a long a story short, Janet was dead. They found a shoe, a little baby shoe on the beach. And a sock in the water. Oh, Dio, it was terrible. Everybody thought the baby went into the water!” She bit the side of her hand. “I didn’t know Janet died. How would I know? Even after I took the baby down, and everyone saw that the baby was safe, Daniel, he kept looking for the baby. Always he looked! That was what, twenty years ago? That’s why nobody talks to me.” She shrugged, not meeting our eyes, but looking, fretful and hurt, out the window. “So now you know.”

Jenny Rose and I said nothing.

Mrs. Dellaverna smacked her ear with the heel of her hand. “Santa Maria! I gotta go. I still got my sauce on the stove!” She went out, slamming the screen.

“Look, Wendell,” Jenny Rose said. “The fog’s lifted! Want to go, now?”

He jumped up in a shower of buttons. “Please can we go to the boatyard?” he pleaded.

“I don’t see why not.” She bent to pick up the buttons and suddenly cried, “Wendell, a kitten!”

“She’s my stowaway.” I laughed, savoring Wendell’s rapt expression, padding over to open the screen and gathering her up. I lowered her into Wendell’s outstretched arms. “I guess she’s decided to stay.”

His eyes gleamed and he cuddled her gently, lovingly, to his face.

“She hasn’t got a name,” I said. “Maybe you can think of one?”

His mouth dropped with the shock of this great idea and his glasses steamed with intensity. “I can,” he swore. Then he looked worried. “Now? Do I have to say it right now?”

“No,” I said as I filled the sink with soapsuds, “she’s been nameless so long a little while longer won’t matter. But let’s keep her here in the cottage, shall we? You can see her anytime you want.”

“All right,” he agreed solemnly, planting a dry kiss on the little head.

“Auntie Claire …” Jenny Rose put her cup in the sink. “You’ll be all right?”

“Tch.” I clicked my tongue reassuringly. “I’ll be fine. I’m a nervous Nelly, that’s all. Just don’t mention my flipping out to Morgan. He’ll think I’m crazy.”

“I won’t.” She kissed me on the cheek. I walked them outside and they took off down the hill. There was no car to be heard, no airplane overhead, just the bright caw of the gulls and the flap of the flag. I should be grateful for what I’ve got, I reprimanded myself, not thinking about another woman’s fiancé! Back inside, I found Noola’s phone book and telephoned Paige.

“Ah!” She sounded happy to hear from me. “I was just thinking of you.”

“Really? I wanted to thank you for the lovely dinner. And I thought I might reciprocate and ask you to lunch,” I said.

“No, absolutely not. I’ll take you to my club. It’s Wednesday, Ladies’ Day. You’ll love it.”

“Great.”

“Shall I pick you up in an hour?”

“Fine.”

“Oh. And no jeans.”

The wind flew in. I regarded my one and only suit fluttering respectably on its hanger. “Not a problem.”

The club turned out to be one of those prestigious white and navy affairs with touches of polished brass. It was situated in a pretty cove with a half-moon beach at its lip and tennis courts discreetly off to the side in a huddle of bushes. Striped canvas awnings pooled the wraparound porch in shade. In the main dining room, old-fashioned propeller fans whirred and dangled from the ceiling. I was the only human being not wearing white. We helped ourselves to fancy salads and fresh sandwiches at a table indoors and took seats at a round table set away from the clique of other women.

“They won’t like that we sat over here,” Paige remarked. “The women always sit together at one table. But I thought we might talk.”

“Sounds good.” I covered my lap with the creamy linen napkin.

“By the way, I notice you’ve got your camera with you. Please don’t photograph anyone here.”

“All right,” I agreed, hoping no one had noticed me shooting while she was in the ladies’ room.

A waiter came over. “G-and-T for both,” Paige specified without consulting me, then scrutinized my face. “Are you settling in?”

“Not really. It’s a mess. And last night the wind took down that huge wisteria vine. Such a tragedy! I’ll have to have someone help me remove it. But I’ll get there,” I hurried to say, not wanting her to pull out her do-gooder persona and invade my space.

“Just how did you and Morgan meet?” She jumped right in—not a girl to waste time.

“I saw his sign from the beach, actually. Then I ran into Mrs. Dellaverna.”

She looked out toward the fleet of little sailboats heading into shore. “Good old Mrs. Dellaverna,” she said. But it was the way she said it. So she was nobody’s fool. Then she added, unnecessarily I thought, “I told him not to hang that sign. He insisted only locals would see it from the beach.”

“I see.”

“You know,” she said, toying with her earring, a tasteful gold knot, “Morgan has a lot on his mind.”

“Yes, I realize he’s just lost his mother.”

“Well, Easter. She died just after Easter.”

“When someone dies from a heart attack, it’s so sudden—and death is so final.”

“Mmm, she’d been failing for some time, though. And the truth is she died of an overdose.”

I said, “I know how old people are. They take their medicine then forget they took it. My own parents—”

She interrupted, “There was some … skepticism about her intentions. There’s an unpleasant stigma attached to that sort of death. It was understandable that she might forget and take more than her daily dose, but to have taken five times that … Well, we all rather protected Morgan from her intentions.”

Or someone else’s, I thought. “No one suspected there might have been”—I glanced around—“foul play?”

“No. No! We all loved Noola. But, you see, she couldn’t do the things she loved anymore. She knew she was getting rapidly incapacitated by Alzheimer’s. What I’m getting at, as sophisticated as Morgan is, there’s something idealistic, almost naive about him as well.”

“Oh?”

“I wouldn’t want to think he was laden with distraction.”

Did she mean me? I put down my fork. “You don’t have to beat around the bush, Paige. I’m a big girl.”

She pursed her lips. “Yes. We both are. I think we understand each other.” We were silent for some moments. Then she put in, “I’d like to think we are on the same side.”

I turned this over in my mind. So much had happened. It would be unwise of me to burn my bridges before I’d even landed. And I had no doubt this woman would know just how to go about getting me ejected from Sea Cliff.

A boy in an immaculate white jacket stepped in and refilled our water glasses then slipped discreetly away. I gave her my loopy you’re right and I’m wrong smile. “Okay.”

“Good.” She sat back. “You know, Claire, we might even be able to help each other. Wendell particularly has been a great problem for us. He and Annabel were always up there with Noola. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my brother doesn’t have the slightest idea how to raise a child. He’s on another planet.”

The waiter returned with two iced gin-and-tonics stuffed with limes.

“What about Annabel?” I took a heavenly sip. “Will she come back, do you think?”

“Phhh. She wouldn’t dare show her face in this town. Refreshing, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Delicious. Just the thing. It got warm so suddenly, didn’t it? I have to agree with you about Annabel. I think any woman who would leave her own child is despicable. But I was just wondering. If she was such a fly-by-night, why did they give her a child? It seems to me, she started off well intentioned, didn’t she?”

“Ah, yes”—she raised her eyes—“the well intentioned.”

I thought, The power is in the intention. Now where had I heard that? “You sound a little cynical,” I said.

“I’m not. And I’m dead serious. The gall of that woman! To keep writing to Oliver like he’s an old friend! It’s beyond belief.” She drained her glass. “Bring me another,” she said to no one without raising her voice.

“Yes. You’re right,” I said, trying to understand. “But it must have been that she’d fallen hopelessly, horribly in love.”

She rubbed her arms, chilled. “Love!” She practically spat the word. “That’s not love.”

“It does happen,” I went on. “To just leave like that. … She must have been so ashamed.”

“Uch. Please. Don’t go finding excuses for her. You don’t know her. She’s all excitement and enthusiasm one minute, sadness and sorrow the next. And what really bothers me is that you won’t hear a bad word about her from Oliver.” A waiter from nowhere appeared with another drink. “He dismisses all her bad behavior as his fault. I can’t bear it. He blames himself. He left her on her own too much, he thinks. Instead of Atlantic City, he should have ‘taken her to more plays and museums,’ he told me last week, ‘That’s what she likes.’ But the truth is he couldn’t have done more. She’s just selfish and egotistical. Oh, she had us all fooled,” Paige went on. “She swept into his life with her goody-two-shoes routine and took everything she could and then swept out of it. Jewelry. Family jewelry. That’s the kicker.”

“Oh, I see.”

“No, you don’t. You think it’s because I wanted those pieces for myself. But I don’t care about them. Not really. All right, I suffer to think those emeralds are gone. But mostly I wanted Oliver to be happy. He was, you know. For a good while. He was luminously happy. You could hear it in his stupid car when he drove up, see it in his eyes when he came in the door, all goofy and merry. The house was like a fairy-tale port in an everyday world. There was music, fires in every grate. He loved a fire. She always made sure the house was perfect, I’ll give her that. You should have seen Twillyweed while she was there. She named it that, you know. Silly name from a silly woman,” she said scornfully. “The house never had a name before she came along. Romantic. Read those stupid novels one after the other. Always at the library. ‘My best customer,’ Mrs. Wetjan, the librarian, called her.” Paige’s face softened, despite herself, remembering. “It was so beautiful last autumn. Every window gleaming. She’d sit on the sill upstairs and Radiance in another and they’d polish the windows—as if they enjoyed it! She liked being a housewife, she said. She certainly had the knack. And then with the snow. It was like a fairy-tale castle, all ashimmer. The only thing missing was a child. And then she even had that.” Her voice was tinged with desperation. “It was me, if you want to know—I saw to that—to my shame. Even though I should have had my doubts—about whether she’d stick with it. Wendell can’t have been easy at first.” She frowned, cooling her soup with her breath. “But oddly enough she took to Wendell right away. Despite myself, I thought it was the great success, the perfect fit. Until she left. You see? Even happiness wasn’t enough. And she snuck away.” Even across the table I could hear her rasping breath. “And now there’s me. Filling the place with loathing.”

“Oh, no.”

“Yes.” She gasped and sobbed. Tears, so long in check, sprang from the well of her blue eyes.

I was completely caught off guard. She always seemed so in control. And she wasn’t pretending, that was sure. She, too, had been hurt by all this. Wounded, deeply, from the wrenching look on her face. Quickly, though, she blew her nose and pulled herself together, glancing around to see who’d taken it in.

“The worst of it is she keeps writing to him, torturing him, really. Going on and on in her neat little handwriting on the very writing paper Oliver gave her for Christmas, pale pink with dahlias along the edges. Telling him how happy he should be she’s gone and how he should get on with his life. Giving him advice!”

“So at least we know she’s not dead, anyway,” I said.

She gave me a frozen look that seemed to say it would be better if she were, then she went on, “She’s in Virginia Beach. Writes about what a big art center it is now. How he would love it!” She lowered her voice. “I’m sorry, but Virginia Beach is no such thing as an art center. Not by a stretch! And not a word about Wendell. That’s the worst of it!” She bit her lip and shook her head. “You’d think … If he wasn’t the right child for her she could have given him back, you know? Worked with us. Found him another family. There are people who find themselves in such circumstances. It happens.” She clenched her napkin and wrung it. “I told Oliver. I said, ‘Go down and get her. Bring her back, if you can’t live without her!’” She crunched over and shook her head. “Then he showed me her letter. How anyone so sweet can be so vindictive is beyond me.” She bit her lip. “Even torturing him about his inadequate lovemaking! It’s beyond cruel.” She gave me a sharp look. “Yes, I know Oliver is fussy about clothes. But we were brought up to be elegant. Annabel used to make fun of him for it, but to use it to be deliberately vicious … and untrue! Oliver is very male, trust me.”

Uncomfortable, I changed the subject. “What were Wendell’s birth parents like?” I probed.

Paige puffed as if to blow out a candle, indicating her difficulty. But she was too far into her story now to stop. “I shouldn’t say …” she started and then went on, regardless, “His mother was just a girl. They were from the Midwest. Went too far with her boyfriend, the old story. Didn’t know she was pregnant until too late. It was summer. Her mother came with her and left her here. Wendell was born early September. The mother came back and picked up the girl. She never even looked at Wendell. Never went in to take a peek!”

Carmela! I thought. Just like Carmela. I said, “One day she’ll come looking for her son.”

“Who, Wendell’s mother? No she won’t. They left together like they’d been on vacation and the girl went back to school. No one knew. The mother put her here because she couldn’t tell her husband. He’d kill her, she told us. I don’t really think that was true, but a baby certainly didn’t fit in with their social agenda. She pretended the girl was at camp.” She snorted. “French camp! She even paid Radiance to go over there every day and speak French with her. We didn’t place Wendell because we always thought one day … maybe … She never did, though. Not one inquiry! Usually the boy babies are snatched up right after they’re born. However, there’s little call for a baby with a vision problem. I know he looks frightening with that big head and short little legs and that eye—”

“No!” I protested. “He’s just a little boy! He’s adorable!”

“Yes, well, you’re kind. In Wendell’s case it’s nothing more than a lazy eye—correctable in time with glasses—but his is particularly grievous.”

“That’s a sad story.” I sighed. “But Annabel wanted to be good.”

Paige reared her head. “Oh, no. I’ll tell you what she wanted; she wanted to fit in with the moneyed North Shore set. She was a nobody from the South Shore. She worked at the gift shop in Locust Valley. She knew what she was looking for, all right. That’s how Oliver met her, buying a birthday gift for me if you can believe it; he complimented her bow tying. Told her she’d tied a perfect clove hitch. He teased her, saying he could have her hoisting his mainsail in no time at all. She hoisted his mainsail, all right. The minute she met him she switched gears and became a volunteer. Made herself a peer. Oh, she knew just what she was doing.” Paige rubbed her chin along her arm. “I have to admit they seemed to be happy as long as he was role-playing. You could tell they liked each other. As soon as he went back to his regular ways, though, gambling, sailing all the time, things started to go wrong. They began to argue. And she hated the water. But she wanted to come to lunch here, at the yacht club. That she wanted. She came. She sat right there where you’re sitting now. Thought it was ever so chichi. But the truth is these women don’t care about things like that. Fancy things. They just love to sail. It’s in their blood. They live for it. And she doesn’t want any part of it, Annabel. It made her a nervous wreck, the sailing. She couldn’t do it. When she realized she’d never really fit in, she put on a new dress. One that would fit her better. A runaway.” Paige spat the word. “She’ll find out she’s no good at that, either. It’s bad enough about Oliver. But Wendell wasn’t a dog you adopt from the pound and then abandon. It’s criminal. She’s a criminal. And so is Patsy Mooney if you must know, always speaking well of her, defending her, never letting it go, making Oliver suffer, on and on …” She actually shook her fist in the air.

I shrank back. “But why didn’t she just get a divorce? Surely she would have been better off.”

“Oh, that was the other thing. He made her sign a prenup. To protect me, he told her. She would have had to stay around a good while to have gotten anything. That’s why she left. That’s why she just took off.”

A rugged-looking woman approached the table. “Hello, Paige. Who’s this?”

“Hello, Taffy. Taffy Henderson, this is Claire Breslinsky. She’ll be photographing the race for Town and Country.”

“Ah!” She gave my hand a hefty shake. “Don’t forget to get a good shot of the Dauntless. We’ll be the winning skiff.”

“Oh, no you won’t,” Paige promised. “The Corinthian will win. She always does.”

“We’ll see about that. Your luck’s changed, I hear.” Taffy closed one eye and aimed her tanned face at Paige. “Well!” She turned and hit her hips. “Nice meeting you, there, Kate.”

“It’s Claire.”

“Yes. Claire. Enjoy your lunch.” She scuttled off.

I said, “What was that all about? Town and Country?”

“I just told her that,” Paige said, shrugging. “I lied. Serves her right. She was very rude coming over and asking who you were.”

I laughed. “It didn’t bother me a bit.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have. You’re my guest. But these women sort of despise me because my outfits are coordinated. You know what I’m saying.”

I did.

She squinched up her face. “And they think I overanalyze the wind. They don’t think I’m a natural sailor. That sort of thing is very important to them.”

A terrific-looking, elderly blond woman with blue-white teeth approached our table. She held up her clipboard and pen. “All right. Think about how much I can shake you down for. I’ll be over after dessert to sign you both up.” She moved athletically off.

“What was that?”

Paige said, “There’s a garden contest every September. She’s selling the seeds now.”

“Oh, I don’t care about things like that,” I said.

“But it’s for charity. You’ll want to play! The winner gets half.”

“Oh. So what do they usually collect?’

“Twenty thousand, give or take.”

“Ten thousand dollars to the winner?”

“Ten, yes. Or fifteen more often. Half to the winner and the other half to her specific charity.”

“I’ll take a package.” I scrounged around my purse. “Sign me up,” I said. Just then my cell phone burst out a series of thunderous rings and I shuffled around in there to retrieve it. When I opened it, I realized every single person in the club was staring at me. “Ach,” I said to loudly to everyone, “it’s the pope. He always calls when I’m eating.”

Paige lowered her eyelids at me. “Put it away, darling. There are no cell phones at the club. Ever.”

I closed it without even answering. We finished a bowlful of fragrant berries and Paige, on her third drink, signed up for the contest, then left. Considering the way she’d been belting them down, I figured she was toasted so I told her I’d drive.

“Don’t be silly.”

But I slipped the keys from her easily and once buckled up, she nodded off into a cacophony of snores. These were music to my ears, for I could only mean-spiritedly think how unfeminine they would sound to Morgan.

I dropped her and her car off and hiked up my hill.

Teddy, bless him, had been a man of his word. He’d delivered a good twenty big cardboard boxes to the side of the road and had weighted them down with huge Montauk stones from the garden. The boxes were soft from the fog but not wet so I lugged them in. He’d left a thoughtful note on one of them. “Claire,” it read, “Will stop by later to help you chop up that old vine. Teddy.”

I’d be sorry to see it go, but I was glad for the help disposing it. The first thing I did was seek out those shallow aluminum serving trays from the shed and fill them with dirt. I lined them up along the south window and made little furrows and sprinkled in the seeds. I cut out the names on the envelopes and taped them onto toothpicks. In the back of the pantry I found a tin of anchovies and cut the fishies up into tiny pieces and poked them into the dirt. In three weeks there would be sprouts and not long after that flowers. What, Paige was the only one who could have a money garden?

Jenny Rose

That night, Jenny Rose sat by herself in the dark at the kitchen table. Patsy Mooney came in balancing a blue-and-white Limoges dish of half-eaten sausages and she snapped on the light. She came to a sudden halt seeing the girl, and the sausages rolled dangerously to the edge of the plate. “Jesus! Holy mackerel, you gave me a start!”

Jenny Rose stirred her soup. “I can’t sleep. I hope you don’t mind. I’ve opened a tin.”

“Why would I mind? Saves me the trouble.” Patsy went to the stove and heated what was left in the pot to a boil. She sniffed the air and made a face. “Oxtail soup? Uch. Better you than me.” She waited another moment then spooned the rest into Jenny Rose’s bowl. She went to the bread box and tore off some Italian bread, got the good olive oil from the shelf, and set it down. She whittled away at the rest of her sausage and, with a great show of kindness, divided the pieces and nudged the other half onto Jenny Rose’s saucer.

“Well, thanks.”

“Now what would you like special for saving Radiance? Come on, anything you like!” She eyed the vodka bottle over the fridge. “We’ll have a real celebration!”

Jenny Rose mulled over this thought, then suddenly her head shot up and she said, “What I’d really like is to switch rooms with you, Patsy Mooney.”

Patsy Mooney moved back in her chair, scraping the floor and upsetting a basket of onions, most of them rolling off into corners. She bent over to pick them up with a groan and Jenny Rose sprang from her seat to help.

“That don’t make no sense. Why would you want to leave that gorgeous apartment you got? And for my drafty place?” She leaned her fat elbow on the chair cushion and dabbed away at little dustballs from under the stepping stool with her hem. “There’s plenty of rooms here. Paige’s always saying how ‘charming’ they all are.” She sat back on her haunches, her pinafore straining. “You notice she don’t help her nephew Teddy out by offering him a room, though. That she don’t do. And here they have this big house.” Thoughtfully, she rubbed at a smudge on the floor. “She’s always bragging about how smart her nephew Teddy is and how ambitious. Talking him up. Like she’s …”—she furrowed her brow in thought—“overcompensating. It’s like she wants to pawn him off on someone else, like. And here they’ve got it all. You’ll notice she’s not so fond of sharing. Sends off a check in the envelope each week. Keeps the poor at arm’s length, that’s what. That’s the rich for you, Jenny Rose. Don’t you ever forget it.” She sucked a tooth.

Jenny Rose lurched toward Patsy and grasped both her hands in her own. “Oh, please!” she implored. “Let me move into your turret and you can have my cellar! I can’t bear that dry, awful space without a decent window! And you said that you love it! Oh, please!”

“But you got that nice bright fluorescent light,” Patsy reasoned doubtfully, cringing from the contact, dusting her off. “And my room is cold these nights. It’s drafty and noisy in a storm!”

“I told you I love a storm and I can’t bear fluorescence and central heating from every direction! It makes my nose stuff up. I really mean it. A drafty turret is everything I could dream of. So romantic! I could wear my Greek cardigan and set up my easel and—”

Patsy leaned suspiciously forward. “Just be straight with me. There’s nothing hidden in there with that cable box, is there?”

“What do you mean, hidden?”

“Like dirty movies or nothing …”

“No. Of course not. I’d say so if there was. The truth is, I wouldn’t know, would I?” She thought guiltily of the blue gems and prayed they wouldn’t show in her eyes.

Patsy flattened her mouth and looked over her shoulder worriedly. “All right, all right. If you really mean it. It’s just that Mr. Cupsand had that apartment smarted up special for the au pair, he said, see? So I don’t know if he’ll like the idea. …”

“Then we won’t have to tell him! I won’t mention it if you won’t. Okay? If they find out, we’ll just say we decided to switch! Once we’ve moved our stuff they’re not likely to do anything about it.” She looked beseechingly into Patsy Mooney’s darty little eyes.

Already Patsy could see herself propped with her feet up on that comfy couch watching the Yankees. “All right,” she agreed. “But not a word to no one!”

Excitedly, their shoulders scrunched up to their ears in happy anticipation, they went to rearrange their stuff.

Radiance, theoretically at Twillyweed to recover, had returned unannounced and was staying in her father’s rooms. She was on her sweet way to the porch to light her joint when she saw Jenny Rose and Patsy Mooney cavorting up the grand staircase. She stood now quietly in the foyer, unobserved, enjoying their stealth. They were up to something, those two. There was no one on the main floor now but her. She threw a lemon in the air and caught it. Threw it, caught it. When she slipped through to the dining room, she hesitated. Someone had been looking for something because they’d left the top drawer in the ladies’ writing desk ajar. A piece of something was caught there behind it on its way to the floor. Without turning on the light, she felt her way over and grasped it, a sheet of old-fashioned letter paper, a soft shade of pink and edged with dahlias.

Claire

Armed with news, I telephoned my son and daughter. They were very cavalier about my state of affairs, though both of them were pleased I had somewhere to live. For them, Grandma and Grandpa’s house could always serve as home base. And how close was I to the water? “On the water? No shit!” They forgot their manners and gasped. They liked that, had visions of themselves arriving with carloads of drunken friends on weekends when I wasn’t here. And, to be fair, I don’t think they’d been entirely sold on the idea of Enoch. Well, they both love their dad. I was very nervous calling my mother, however. I might be a mother myself, but you have to know mine to understand. You see, because she thinks she’s the boss of the world, the whole world thinks so, too. I was nervous out of habit, I guess. My father picked up the phone.

“Hi, Dad, it’s me, Claire.”

“Who is it, Stan?” I could hear my mother over Bill O’Reilly in the background.

“Some lady,” Dad said.

“Hello?” my mother said in her tart whatever yer selling we’ll not be buyin’ voice.

“Mom. It’s me, Claire.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, I knew it was Claire all along.” My father’s voice jollying in the background.

“Nothing. I just wanted to let you know I’m all right.”

“Made up with Enoch, have you?”

“No. I’m still out in Sea Cliff. I—”

“Sea Cliff! Are you with Jenny Rose?”

“Yes, actually. You see I—”

Excitedly, she rushed on, “Darlene Lassiter called from the rectory out there. Tell her I’ve bought seven copies of the Post! I’ll have them polyurethaned and send them off to Skibbereen day after tomorrow! Now, you’d better bring Jenny Rose here on Sunday. I’ll not have them speaking ill of me back home.”

Back home to my mother will always be Skibbereen in County Cork. No matter she’s lived here fifty years. “All right, I’ll ask her.”

“No, you’ll tell her. I’ll make me famous meatloaf.”

“Okay, Mom.” I hung up and thought I must go and buy some jeans and sneakers and sweatshirts. And—I sat down to make a list—some lovely new sheets. Anything at all would be better than going back to sleeping with Lefty on that couch.

Jenny Rose

Jenny Rose, too, had a phone call to make. She waited until everyone had gone their separate ways and then she called.

“Hello, Mrs. Lassiter?”

“Hello, yes? This is Darlene Lassiter.”

“Hi, it’s Jenny Rose Cashin, Mrs. Lassiter. Brigid and Deirdre’s girl. I’m here at Twillyweed.”

“Oh, are you, now? Just a minute, let me sit down. I’ve just come back from sorting out old Father Schmidt and I’m just drying my hands. There. Are you settled in?” Before waiting for a reply she blurted, “We heard all about you rescuing the Piet girl!”

“Oh, that was nothing.” Jenny Rose swayed modestly.

“That’s not what Teddy Cupsand said. Painted you up as a real hero, he did. And your picture in the paper. What will they think of that back home!”

“No doubt they’ll brush it off as just good luck as I did,” Jenny Rose said, imagining, anyway, the lot of them leaning over the paper on the bar at the White Tree.

“Well, you’ve done us proud. Now tell me, lass, have you met the little boy?”

“I have. He’s darling.”

“Not too much trouble? Because there was talk he’s a bit backward.”

“No! He’s bright as a shiny new penny. He’s just shy.” And hurt, she thought but didn’t say.

“That’s fine, then.”

“I wanted—The reason I’m calling is to say thank you for hooking me up with this job—I’m sorry I haven’t come by in person, it’s all been a mad dash—and to bring you greetings from home.”

“They’re all well?”

“Yeah, they’re fine. So, I wanted to say thanks and all …”

“That’s a good lass. I remember you when you were just a wee thing. Hot tempered! Tempest in a teapot, that’s what we used to call you, dashing all about the cricket field. Will you come and pay me a visit?”

“Soon as I have a few days off. They’re talking about a race and I might be able to sail …”

“Oh, you’ll love that. All sorts of nonsense these rich folk get into. And the fireworks at the end! If I don’t see you before, I’ll see you there.”

“Sounds great.”

“Oh, and be careful of that Mr. Cupsand. He’s got an eye for the ladies, that one.”

“I will. Thanks again.”

“Good-bye.”

“Yes, good-bye.”

Mrs. Lassiter sat by the phone for a minute more, thinking.

Then Father Schmidt ambled in. “Are you done?”

“What is it now?”

“Come on, Darlene. I’ve been a good boy and I’ve eaten all my peas. Show them to me, come on.”

“No. Go away with you.”

His eyes glowed like coals. “Just this once more, Darlene. Let me see them.” He wriggled excitedly into the oak chair.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, pleased, unbuttoning her blouse.

Claire

Late at night I heard some noise out in front of the cottage and went to investigate. Mrs. Dellaverna was standing there struggling with the wisteria carcass. She had it lifted over her head. “Don’t just stand there!” she berated me. “Help!”

I ran to her. “It’s no use!” I cried. “The roots are up. It’s no good. It’s dead!”

“Porca miseria!” she snarled. “Get down on the ground and cover the roots! What’s the matter with you? Hurry!”

I did as I was told. I dragged and dumped enough dirt over to cover the naked roots and then helped the old woman hold up the trunk. Believe me, she was strong as an ox! I trembled under the clumsy weight, but she stood there, feet planted, until I got around and lugged the python of a vine up the steps and thrust its thick hulk back onto the roof, trying best I could not to upset the already wilted foliage. Together we wedged it, bypassing the drainpipe, and laid the old torso back home on the generous swoop of the roof. “It’s best we do it in the moonlight, so it don’t get a shock,” she said. She had a crude wooden hacker with an iron hatchet and watched while I dug up more soil with it and tidied the roots over, absorbed in my task. Doubtful, I stood back to look at it, in place but clearly wilted. “I can’t believe we did it!” I marveled, but I couldn’t see where she’d gone. I caught her unawares beneath the seaside of the house, measures of broken twine in her hands, an expression of panic gripping her face. “What’s the matter?” I said.

“Nothing,” she frowned, squinting worriedly out at the sea. “Wet the dirt down good now with the hose.”

When I finally got to bed, I tossed and turned on the lumpy sofa, far too wired to sleep. There was unease about, some discomfort I couldn’t put my finger on. The wind hurled across the bay. It was now that I really missed my dog, Jake. A dog is a comfort. I lay there reliving Enoch’s cruel betrayal, gnawing on it, unable to get past the shock of it. And who knew what new wanton carousal my Jake was witness to at this very minute?

Giving up, I turned on the bright overhead light and pulled a couple of clocks down from the wall. None of them appeared to be broken, just neglected. They were each of them the antique, wind-up type and it was kind of fun seeing them spring back to life. I got up and stretched and walked around and decided I might as well take a stroll into town. How thrilled Jake would have been by an unscheduled late-night walk, I thought. I knew he was better off where he was, but still I resented not having him. Funny how a dog steals into your heart.

On my way into the village I passed the local bar, Gallagher’s. It was so good to hear people singing like that and such a nice song, an old song, “Charming Billy.” I glanced in the window and who did I see but Morgan Donovan, drunk as a post, and Paige, sitting rigidly beside him on the bench. There she was in her pale-green Chanel suit and brooch. She remained at all times the lady, didn’t she? He was waving his beer and raucously singing “She’s a young thing, and cannot leave her mother!” with the rest of them. I hurried on by, deflated, and found another place, the Tupelo Honey, but it was mobbed. Then I saw Oliver, Teddy, and Mr. Piet at the bar and went in.

Oliver, delighted to see me, bought me some drinks and I bought him a couple in return. He introduced me around. “Teddy,” I said after an hour or so, “the wind must have knocked Noola’s wisteria vine off the house. I’ve managed to get it back up. I think it just might live. Isn’t that good?” Teddy sucked his chin into his neck. “Morgan will be so glad,” he said. A big fellow with a kind face overheard us. He said, “Morgan Donovan? Was over there in Bosnia. Never the same after that. Used to be a lot of fun, Morgan.” My ears perked up. Then Teddy said to him, “Well, that’s it. He’s in a tossup. Mother’s a mick and his father’s a Scot. No wonder he’s mixed up with us Cupsands. He’s mixed up completely!” He pulled on his drink and held my eyes, finding himself funny. “That’s the thing with the immigrants,” he went on, “first they take your job and they take your land and the next thing you know they take your woman. They’re all on the take.”

Mr. Piet didn’t move or flicker an eye. I was a little surprised at Teddy.

Oliver put his scotch glass hard on the counter. “I wouldn’t go callin’ Morgan Donovan on the take when I was around, Teddy. Not if I was you. Now Morgan, twice he sailed in a race around the world, and he would have won that second time, too, if that whale hadn’t walked into him and Glinty. That was a funny story.”

“Oh, not now, Oliver!” Teddy rolled side to side.

“And don’t forget, he was I4 Implementation force over in Bosnia. Did them exhumations for mass graves. Took it in the hand from a semiautomatic.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Teddy skated this road familiarly. “But all the ex-army jocks are nuts if they were there in the thick of it. And you saw what happens in the jails. They’re all like that. Like the cops. Wall of blue.” He was drunk, too.

Mr. Piet turned him about on his bar stool and looked him dead in the eye. “You’re not saying Morgan’s dishonest, are you? How would you like it if I said all teachers are pedophiles? Huh?”

“Well, they’re not. …”

“Oh, really? I saw it in the papers what they’re up to. I can show you.”

“C’mon, Piet”—he held him on the sleeve—“don’t be so serious. And don’t pretend you haven’t heard the scuttlebutt.” He glanced right and left. “Plenty of folks think Morgan had something to do with pushing Noola over the edge. I’m not saying it was so wrong … I’m just saying.”

“I’m not joking with you. One more word about Morgan’s integrity and I’ll—”

“Okay, okay. Sheesh.”

“And get your hand off my arm.”

We’d all been drinking like we were going to the chair, so anything could happen. Oliver gave me a nod and we stood carefully. He paid the bill, and he and I stalked off arm in arm. There must have been a thousand stars as we rolled unsteadily up the hill. I hadn’t left a light on, and the cottage through the brambles was otherworldly and unwelcoming. “Oliver,” I said nervously, “there isn’t any truth to those rumors about Morgan Donovan, right?”

“Phhh.” Oliver wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spat meaningfully onto the gravel. But he didn’t say no, either. We parted at the cottage path and anyone could hear him singing drunkenly at the top of his voice as he staggered back to Twillyweed.

The cottage was closed and overheated, and I threw open the sea window. I tried to sleep but sleep wouldn’t come. I opened a bottle of Bordeaux and, with the aid of the French, passed out. Then, very late, I sat up in bed, wide awake. In the twisted, whirly place where my dreams and the fog came together, I thought I saw a hunched-up figure pass by the window. A ghost, I thought, but I didn’t screech. I covered my head. Common sense got me eventually and I edged away the plaid blanket to see a small light in the east. And something else. I remembered Morgan’s remark about some people thinking in order to be a lady one has to give up being a woman. I lay back down and snuggled into my pillow, absurdly reassured, and slept.