After a moment, Wyatt prompted her. “And what?”

  Ariel sat up. Softly, she admitted, “I’m trying to write a novel.”

  Her voice was so low Wyatt could barely hear her. “Cool.”

  Ariel turned to him, holding his arm. “Don’t tell any of the others, please. I tell people I want to be a writer, you know, generically. But I have an idea for a novel…I write with a pencil in a spiral notebook. When I’m around people, like at college or when we’re all in the Sand Palace, I can’t seem to write. I’m inhibited, I guess, by the fear that someone will barge into my room and catch me and want to read what I’ve written and they’ll pull my notebook away from me and read a few lines and then laugh at me.”

  “That is one very specific fear,” Wyatt said, keeping his tone serious. “Ariel, I won’t tell anyone. Trust me.”

  “I do trust you.” Ariel flushed, removed her hand, looked down at the sand. “The thing is, I have this kind of daydream that I go somewhere quiet, where I can concentrate, where no one will interrupt me. Where I can walk—walking helps me think—without stopping to say hello to people or hearing other voices. When I’m writing, well, I’m already hearing other voices, and I know that sounds moony, but it’s true. When I’m writing, I’m with that world, in that world. I want everything else to be far away for a while. Just a while.”

  “I get that,” Wyatt said.

  Ariel shrugged. “It’s silly. I know some writers who can write while they’re sitting in coffee shops. And I know I’m crazy to think I could ever get a book published, but I did take a creative writing course and the instructor told me I showed promise as a writer.” Ariel suddenly stood up. “Want to walk? Let’s walk.”

  They strolled down the beach, wandering in and out of the water onto the warm sand, stopping to pick up an interesting shell or sea glass.

  Wyatt didn’t speak. He was full of the honor Ariel had paid him, telling him her secret desire to write, and he thought, maybe he was stretching it, but he thought that just maybe this would mean that Ariel wouldn’t mind living in the middle of nowhere. After all, it was a university town.

  Ariel broke the silence. “What do you want, Wyatt? I know you’re all into science.”

  He didn’t want to scare her off. “I guess. I mean, I’m an assistant to my father, who’s a really big deal. I’ve been given an assistant professorship at the University of Missouri. I start in September. I’ll be a lecturer. And a researcher.”

  “That sounds wonderful, Wyatt! How lucky you are to know what you want to do and to already have a job.”

  “I’ll never be as important as my father,” Wyatt replied.

  “You don’t have to be. You’re you.”

  “Columbia, Missouri, is a nice town to live in. Probably lots of writers around. Because of the university and the journalism school.”

  “It sounds nice.” Ariel gazed at Wyatt.

  “Maybe you’d like to see it,” Wyatt suggested.

  “Maybe I would.” Ariel put her hand to her forehead. “The sun’s getting low.”

  “Yeah. We should be getting back.”

  They swam for a while in the cool water then maneuvered themselves back into the kayak. Wyatt and Ariel paddled. They didn’t speak. They were so low to the water, and there was no wind, so when the sun flashed lights all around them, the water reflected the colors. It was like a dream.

  Back at the boathouse, they returned the life vests and chatted with the owner. Wyatt walked his bike as he and Ariel headed back to the Sand Palace. They talked about movies they liked, and television shows, and music, and let the dream go, for now.

  * * *

  —

  Nick was helping a customer, a portly gentleman who enjoyed wearing suits with vests, when Francine Bruel walked into Fanshaw’s. Before Nick could excuse himself, Steve, the other assistant, came from around the counter to greet her.

  Francine shot a sideways glance at Nick before speaking with Steve. Nick finished helping his customer, taking his time to chat with the man, who was actually extremely interesting and jovial. All the time, he was piercingly aware of Francine’s presence. Had she come in specially to see him? But how would she know where he worked? And why would she even care?

  “That silver cigarette case is very nice,” Francine said to Steve. “Of course, my sister shouldn’t smoke, but if she’s going to, she might as well be elegant about it.”

  By the time Nick reached the counter, Francine’s transaction was done. The silver case was wrapped in black paper and placed in Fanshaw’s signature black-and-gold bag.

  Francine was wearing a white dress that clung to her body. Thin straps went over her shoulders from the very low bodice. She was extremely tan. Her blue eyes flashed.

  “Hello, Nick,” she said, smiling.

  Next to him, Steve gulped in unabashed surprise that Nick knew Francine.

  “Hi, Francine. It’s nice to see you again.” He stood casually, smiling down at her. Inside, he was trembling.

  “My father knows Mr. Fanshaw,” Francine said.

  “Why does that not surprise me,” Nick told her, letting his tone verge on the sarcastic.

  She liked that. She stepped closer.

  “I wonder, would you buy me a drink?”

  Nick checked his watch. “My shift is over in—”

  “Don’t worry, Nick,” Steve said. “I’ll manage. It’s only an hour. We’re not that busy.”

  “Thank you.” Francine threw Steve a sparkling smile. “It’s so kind of you.”

  “Thanks, Steve,” Nick said. As he followed Francine out the door, he looked back at Steve with a big smile and raised eyebrows.

  They stood on the sidewalk for a moment.

  “Where would you like to go?” Nick asked.

  Francine shrugged. “Someplace dark and gloomy, where we can huddle together and whisper secrets.”

  “It’s early,” Nick said. “Let’s see if we can get a booth at the Brotherhood.” Without thinking, he put his hand on the small of her back and gently turned toward Broad Street.

  It was only five o’clock when they entered the historic brick building. Few customers had arrived yet, so they were allowed to occupy the booth at the far back, sheltered and private. The lights were low. A small candle in a glass flickered from the middle of the table between them.

  Francine ordered a martini, dry, with an olive.

  “Like James Bond,” Nick observed.

  “He preferred three olives,” Francine said. “And shaken, not stirred.”

  At the same time, Nick said, “Shaken, not stirred,” and they smiled at each other with delight, as if they’d done something remarkable.

  “And for you, sir?” the waiter asked.

  His usual tipple was beer, but today he said, “The same.”

  Francine leaned back in her booth, raised her arms high, stretched, and yawned.

  “Hard day?” Nick asked.

  She dropped her arms. Her breasts moved beneath the silky white of her dress. Four slender gold bangles circled her arms. She wore a heavy gold ring embossed with what had to be a family crest on her little finger. Her fingernails were cut very short. No polish.

  Francine noticed him observe her hands.

  “Long nails are a bother,” she said. “Plus, they catch on things.”

  “I want to know all about you,” Nick said.

  Francine laughed. “What else could you possibly want to know? You’ve seen me on the yacht, you know I’m the carefree, and some would say worthless, daughter of a wealthy man. I do what I want when I want.”

  “Where did you go to school?”

  She laughed again, sarcasm in her tone. “School? Where did I go to school? Will you grade me according to where I went to college? If I say the Sorbonne, will you like me more than if I told you I didn’t attend college? Ah, now I’ve confused you. Did I go to the Sorbonne or not?”

  “You like to play games,” Nick said sharply.

  Francine’s eyelashes lowered, and her smile became knowing. “Yes. I like to play games.” She reached over and lightly touched the tip of her fingers to the back of Nick’s hand as it lay in a loose fist on the tabletop. She swirled her fingers to his wrist.

  Nick sat entranced. He couldn’t swallow. He wasn’t sure he could breathe. He wasn’t certain it was even a cerebral thought that forced him to suddenly turn his hand over and catch her small, smooth one in his grip.

  He said, “Do you want to have sex with me? Because I can certainly willingly and, you’ll find, extremely skillfully have sex with you. But more than that, I want to have a relationship with you that is not only sexual.”

  Her eyes dropped. She pulled her hand away.

  The waiter delivered their martinis, making more of a fuss about it than necessary. Francine waited until the waiter went away before lifting her head to face Nick.

  “Sweet boy, you don’t want to have a relationship with me. I’m crap at relationships.” Francine lifted her martini glass toward Nick. “Santé,” she toasted.

  “Santé,” Nick responded. He drank in silence. The martini was perfect, ice cold, so cold and clear he could scarcely taste it, and a moment later he felt his chest warm. Ice to heat, Nick thought, and gazed at Francine. Ice to heat.

  “And you?” Francine said. “Tell me about you.”

  Nick took another sip before he spoke. The gin worked immediately, loosening his control, causing his fear to vanish.

  “I’m the son of Russian aristocrats who have no inheritance to speak of. I attended Harvard. I’m smart, but not wealthy. Well, obviously I’m not wealthy if I’m catering on your friend’s yacht.” He took another sip. It was amazing to him how such a small amount of clear liquid could loosen him up. “Although, actually, I do live in a palace. We call it the Sand Palace.”

  “We?”

  Nick wanted to please her. From the moment they met, he wanted to please her, and so he told her about his three housemates, their jobs, the half-demolished hotel, the owner’s fancy plans.

  “And what do you want to do?” Francine asked.

  “I want to make money,” Nick told her, all his inhibitions gone. “Not just work to have an ordinary life. I want to make a lot of money. I want to own a chain of hotels. I want to travel to cities because I own real estate there. I want to have so many employees I can’t possibly know all their names, and I want to hold an annual party where my employees drink champagne and cheer because they’ve received a Christmas bonus.”

  Suddenly it seemed to him that Francine was looking at him indulgently, like a mother watching her baby take its first step, or a schoolboy reciting a poem.

  “Why are you humoring me?” Nick asked. “Why did you come to Fanshaw’s? To see me, or was it a spur-of-the-moment decision to play with me because you were bored?”

  Francine set her half-drunk martini to one side. She crossed her arms on the table and leaned toward him. She said, “I attended the Sorbonne. I have a degree in art history. I am embarrassed to prefer the Impressionists. I have no skills. I can ski well. I can swim. I think I was born to play, like a little dolphin in the ocean.”

  “Not a dolphin,” Nick said. “A mermaid.”

  Francine blushed at his words. “For you, Nick, I will be a mermaid.”

  * * *

  —

  Sunday morning, Nick and Wyatt slept late. Ariel and Sheila spread newspapers on the floor around a chair facing the mirror in Ariel’s room and took turns trimming each other’s hair. They were both in bathing suits and flip-flops. Even with the fan, it was hot and muggy in the basement.

  Sheila’s red hair had a slight but determined curl to it. Ariel kept dipping the comb into a bowl of water on her desk.

  “So,” Ariel said, “tell me about your date last night.”

  “It was lovely,” Sheila said, and could not hold back a smile.

  Ariel paused, holding the scissors above Sheila’s head. “Get out. Did you go to bed with him?”

  “Of course not!” Sheila was indignant. The evening had passed with the swiftness of a dream, and Frank had not pressed her to have sex with him. “Frank took me to dinner at the Club Car. We had a crisp Chardonnay and broiled sea bass with lemon. It was so delicious I wanted to lick the plate.”

  “A crisp Chardonnay?” Ariel echoed. “Since when have you been able to judge a Chardonnay?”

  Sheila turned red. “Oh, God!” She buried her face in her hands. “I am the most unsophisticated woman in the entire world!”

  “I’m not sure that’s true,” Ariel said, adding with a smile, “but please stop moving your head like that. I almost cut off your ear.”

  Sheila sat straight, still blushing. “Don’t make fun of me, Ariel. I know I’m naïve, but with Frank, I feel…more grown-up. Last night we spoke about books, and music—he wants to take me to one of the Musical Arts concerts, but they’re always on Tuesday nights, and I’m always tired after working. But anyway, he told me he’s reading Couples by John Updike. I’m going to get it from the library and read it, too.”

  Ariel whistled. “I doubt they have a copy at the library.”

  “I know it’s got a lot of sex in it!” Sheila declared. “Frank isn’t going to corrupt me.”

  Ariel said, “Stop moving your head. I never said he was. But you admit he’s older, and he told you he’s divorced, so it’s only natural he’d be a little more…experienced…than you.”

  “He’s a nice guy,” Sheila said firmly. “He walked me back here, and he only kissed me good night. He didn’t suggest, well, going to his room, or anything like that.”

  “Of course he didn’t, you dope. If Mrs. Reardon saw him take you into his room, she’d throw him out and fire you.”

  “Couldn’t you try to be nice about this?” Sheila asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Ariel snipped the split ends on the back. “Why don’t you ask Hank what he thinks. I mean, I thought you were going to marry him. Yeah, ask Hank about Frank!” Ariel singsonged the words, chiming the names. “And have you told Frank about Hank?”

  “You’re obnoxious,” Sheila said. “It’s a good thing I’ve already trimmed your hair.”

  * * *

  —

  Sheila took the last load of sheets from the dryer, plopped them on the laundry table, and began folding them. Her workday was almost over. She could leave when the sheets were done. She was moving slowly, lingering, hoping Frank would come bounding in and up the stairs to his room and she could catch him to say hello. To see if he was still interested in her, or if he’d decided she was too young and silly to spend time with.

  In her pocket, she had a letter from Hank. She’d picked it up from her box in the post office this morning on her way to work, and she hadn’t bothered to read it yet. She knew what it would say. He missed her, it was hot, he had some potential winners on the high school team he was coaching all summer in preparation for the fall.

  Sheila owed him a letter, but she’d gotten so dreamy since her dinner with Frank, as if she’d fallen off a rock ledge and landed in a flower garden. So what if the flowers were poppies, like in The Wizard of Oz, and the garden would evaporate the moment she left the island? She still wanted—something—from Frank. With Frank. Even if it turned out not to be real.

  She went up the stairs from the basement, through the hall and up to the linen cupboard on the second floor. She laid the fresh sheets on the shelf and shook the lavender sachet that Mrs. Reardon kept in her closets so that the delicate fragrance would, for a moment, float free. Really, she might as well be living in her grandmother’s house.

  In the kitchen at the back of the house, she looked at the wall clock and wrote the time on Mrs. Reardon’s schedule. She stepped into the downstairs half bath and changed in to her shorts and tank top, putting her uniform in a tote. She did not want to walk down the streets in her maid’s uniform.

  If she went out the front door, she might have a chance of running into Frank, but by now she was frustrated and slightly hurt that she hadn’t seen him, so she headed to the kitchen.

  “Sheila?” The front door slammed and a man called her name.

  She turned.

  Frank walked toward her. He was carrying his briefcase in one hand and his suit jacket in the other. He looked tired and unbearably handsome.

  “Hi, Frank.” She couldn’t hold back her smile. She knew she glowed with delight to see him.

  Frank scanned the area for a sighting of Mrs. Reardon.

  “She’s at a chamber of commerce meeting,” Sheila said.

  “I’m sorry I haven’t spoken with you, but I’ve been working and it’s damned hard trying to get you on that business phone. I don’t think that Mrs. Waters likes being your secretary.”

  “It’s understandable. She takes dozens of work phone calls every day. Probably doesn’t want to have to run down to the basement to leave messages. But it’s the only phone in the building.” Sheila ran her eyes over his handsome face. “You look hot.”

  “It’s the humidity that gets me.” Frank took out a handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Listen, I know we can’t talk here. Will you let me take you out to dinner Saturday night?”

  “I would love that.”

  “It’s a date, then. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “I’ll be ready.” Sheila was spellbound by the look in Frank’s black eyes. “I’ll sit on the bench outside.”

  “I’ll take you to ’Sconset,” Frank said. “I’m taking you as far away from this town as we can get without leaving the island.”

  “Good.” She quickly kissed him on his mouth and smiled and hurried out the front door.