“Don’t you worry. We’ve got it all on video. We’ll watch it a dozen times when you get home. Now tell me, Sheila, what have you been doing with all your old mates?”

  It took Sheila a moment to switch from the image of her young freckle-faced boy—had she paid him enough attention? Had she paid any of her boys enough attention? She had read to them often when they were young, and made cookies with them, but as they got older, it seemed they were always at some kind of athletic event, which she hated attending because it made her nervous. All that yelling and booing. She hated the competition. Once at the dinner table when the guys were talking about a game, Sheila had said, “I wish they would all just play until they had the same score, and then go home.” How the guys had laughed!

  “You still there?” Hank asked.

  “I am. Sorry. I miss the boys. I miss you.”

  “But you’re having a good time, right?”

  Was she?

  “Yes, I’m having a great time. Exhausting. Nick has all of us bumping in Jeeps over the sand to lighthouses and walking beaches at sunset. Everyone’s nice. But I’d rather be home. It’s crowded with tourists here.”

  Hank laughed. “Sheila, you’re a tourist there.”

  “I know, I know. I suppose I mean the tourist population must have doubled if not tripled since I worked here. And the shops! Sweaters for two hundred fifty dollars. Necklaces for thirty thousand. Houses for ten million. It’s extremely upscale now, very posh. Ariel and I took Francine for dinner Wednesday evening, and the restaurant was wonderful, but the bill for three people was over three hundred dollars without a tip!”

  “Jesus,” Hank said. “You’re going to have to get a job when you get back here, just to refill up our bank account.”

  “No, Ariel and I meant to split it, but Francine knew everyone there and insisted on paying. I need to think of something to give her to show appreciation for this week.”

  “It was Nick who invited you, wasn’t it?”

  “True. But Francine has been great. Kind and generous. I can’t buy her a gift here—I couldn’t afford it.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll overnight you a couple of Wildcats baseball hats.”

  Sheila blinked, hesitated, then grinned. “Hank, that would be perfect. I think Francine would carry off a Wildcats cap beautifully.”

  When they disconnected, Sheila realized she was smiling. Hank’s prodigious energy wasn’t often focused on her, and she still felt nervous when he was scolding one of their sons. But he was a generally optimistic, happy man, and he still loved her. The boys loved her, too. She knew that. But they didn’t need her as much.

  They didn’t need her as much. She let the thought tumble in her mind. This could be a good thing, as well as a sad thing. She could have little adventures of her own. After all, she was having one now.

  Please, God, not like the adventure she’d had the summer she worked here. For years, Sheila had managed to keep Frank Johnson and the terrible car accident out of her thoughts. As a wife and mother, she’d had more than enough to worry about. But here on the island, as hard as she tried, she couldn’t help but remember those days of her youth when she went a little bit wild, and how it all had ended.

  She’d never told Hank about it. It would hurt him too much and destroy the trust between them. She’d put that memory at the farthest reach of her mind, but now, with Penny out on a boat with a man she’d just met, the memory of those traumatic summer days came flooding back. She was driving herself mad with worry about Penny and Liam. Maybe, when they returned, Sheila would take Penny somewhere private, and tell her about that car crash, and convince Penny to be more careful.

  That idea was unsettling. Now she’d never get to sleep. She decided she was just a tad hungry. She threw on her raincoat, which made her look slightly, if oddly, dressed, and left the room.

  * * *

  —

  When she got into their hotel room, Ariel said, “I’m going to take a shower.” Without waiting for a response, she stepped into the bathroom and shut the door firmly behind her. She leaned against it, catching her breath, slowing her heart.

  How angry she was, at both her men. Jason, for taking a job on Nantucket without bothering to consult with his parents. Wyatt, who was in one of his black dog moods because his twenty-four-year-old son wouldn’t do exactly what he wanted.

  She stripped off her clothes, let them lie where they fell, pulled a shower cap on over her hair, and turned on the water.

  Ahhh. She could adjust the water temperature to her exact pleasure, something that never happened at home because their old plumbing was inefficient at best and disastrous at worst. The soap the hotel provided was citrusy, and she sighed. She’d read somewhere that citrus fragrance was psychologically soothing. She let her head fall back as the water streamed over her, and felt the tension in her body float away.

  Here, on the island, it was easier to get some perspective on her husband. When they married and set up house in Missouri, Wyatt had been more affectionate. When she met Wyatt’s father, the great Benjamin Smith, she understood why Wyatt allowed himself to follow the same path. Wyatt’s father wanted nothing less than to change the world through science, and Wyatt was his replica, his assistant, and his acolyte. As the months passed and she met the other department wives, she came to understand that the scientists, each and every one of them, thought they were doing the most important work in the world. They considered themselves superior to everyone. They were always focused on their work, and nothing else really interested them.

  Fortunately, Ariel gave birth to Jason, and her world centered around her son’s every breath. As the years went along, her friends, “the Wives,” as they called themselves, kept her sane and happy. Margot, Bitsy, and Carolyn had become friends years ago, and ever since Jason was nine, Ariel had met with her gal pals on Friday nights for dinner, drinks, and gossip. In the early years, it had been Applebee’s or Shakespeare’s Pizza, but as they all grew older and were less financially strained, they chose fancy restaurants and filet mignons and custom cocktails. Their conversation early on focused on parenting, soccer games, and the joy of a new household appliance. Now they talked about celebrity crushes: movie stars and hunky athletes, cruises they wanted to take together, and if wearing a French maid’s outfit complete with high heels and a thong would revive their sagging sex life. They told dirty jokes and howled with laughter. They went shopping for sales and came away with four-hundred-count sheets and a Keurig as triumphant as if they’d won first place in a marathon.

  They often criticized their husbands, but they never mentioned divorce.

  A few years ago, Ariel had apprehensively posted on Facebook that she wanted to start a writers’ group. At first, few people responded, but she continued to post and even began a blog, and now five women and two men met once every two weeks to talk about writing and read and critique one another’s work. Her group praised her short stories and urged her to dig in and write a novel.

  Ariel had a seditious thought: If Jason stayed on Nantucket, she would have even more time to focus on her writing.

  Wyatt didn’t have friends, Ariel realized. He had colleagues. They attended departmental holiday parties, but as Wyatt chatted and chuckled, Ariel knew it was a front. His department at the university was fiercely competitive with other departments, and within his particular section, he was competitive with the people he worked with. His father was now professor emeritus, slowly developing memory loss but never losing his arrogance. When they had Sunday dinners, Benjamin talked the entire time. Ariel could understand why Wyatt’s mother had divorced his father and moved far away.

  And Wyatt now had no one with whom he could share his frustrations and triumphs.

  No one except Jason.

  All these years, Wyatt had relied on Jason to be his personal cheerleader, to be intelligent enough to understand how brilliant Wyatt was, but not so smart Jason could compete with Wyatt. If Jason left the university, who would Wyatt have to adore him? Ariel loved Wyatt, and sometimes she admired him, but sometimes she thought he was a selfish, introverted spoiled baby. Wyatt’s father had told them he had begun a scientific dynasty, and Wyatt had dutifully and happily gone along with that thought, but Jason was breaking the chain. And it was Jason’s right to do that.

  Ariel dried off from her shower, took her robe down from the hook on the bathroom door, and tied it at the waist. She brushed her hair. She was going to have a serious, significant talk with Wyatt right now.

  She opened the door and stepped out into the room.

  Wyatt wasn’t there.

  * * *

  —

  Wyatt was restless and cranky. Plus, it didn’t take a psychic to predict that the moment Ariel stepped out of the bathroom, she’d be ready for one of her “discussions” that always ended in tears for her and exhaustion for him.

  Tonight he didn’t want to argue. Jason was a traitor and Wyatt was not going to let him get away with it. Wyatt hadn’t spent weekends helping his son do his homework and learn the complicated mysteries of science only to have him become a manual laborer.

  He knew the bistro wasn’t open this late, but next to it was a small alcove with soda and snack machines. He’d get something, a Snickers, anything, just to leave the room and walk in impersonal air. He called to Ariel that he’d be right back. He wasn’t sure she heard him with the water running, but he’d probably return before she got out of the shower.

  He carefully pulled the door shut and hung the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. As he walked to the elevator, he decided that Nick had really done a fine job with this hotel. The plush carpet, the teak and beveled glass elevator, all first class.

  The elevator doors slid smoothly open. He headed for the snack alcove.

  “Hi!” Sheila said. Her face was crimson. She was in a raincoat, holding a pint of ice cream.

  Wyatt smiled. “Stress relief?”

  Sheila nodded. “I’m so worried about Penny.”

  “She’ll be fine.” Wyatt sighed. “I wish I could say the same about Jason.”

  “He’ll be fine, too,” Sheila assured him. “He’s a wonderful boy. Much more, um, personable than you were at that age.”

  “I have great plans for him,” Wyatt said.

  “Well, it looks like Jason has his own plans.” Moving closer to Wyatt, Sheila said, “They’re fine, Wyatt. Our children have made it through adolescence. I remember when we all used to say we’d be happy if our kids ended up alive and not in jail.”

  Wyatt forced a chuckle. “I don’t think I ever said that.”

  Sheila gave him a wry look. “No, I suppose you didn’t.” Sheila looked down at her hands, turning her wedding ring, watching the small diamond in her engagement ring sparkle. “You know, you’re not an easy man, Wyatt.”

  “You’re saying I should let Jason spend his life doing manual labor?”

  “You might consider it. If that’s what makes him happy.”

  “Then you should consider letting Penny sail off with that nitwit,” Wyatt snapped.

  Sheila laughed. “I don’t think people say ‘nitwit’ anymore. Plus, you’re right. I agree with you. I should let her go. I mean, really, I can’t not let her go. She’s gone.” Sheila cocked her head. She reached out and took Wyatt’s hand.

  Wyatt looked down at her hand on his, shocked. Sheila felt him fold his hand around hers, clasping their hands together. They hadn’t changed much in twenty-five years. For a moment they were together again, young, eager, hopeful, clueless.

  “We thought we knew everything,” Sheila said.

  “We still don’t,” Wyatt replied, with a grin.

  “We know enough to let our children choose their paths,” Sheila said softly.

  Wyatt pulled his hand away. “Next, you’ll be telling me to try yoga.”

  “It would be good for you,” Sheila observed. “Relieve some of your tension.”

  Wyatt sighed. No one respected his work. “Good night, Sheila,” he said, and headed back to his room.

  nineteen

  That Summer

  When Sheila opened her eyes, the morning sun was streaming through the small high window.

  She sat up, feeling a burning pain in her abdomen, and it all came back to her, the night before, Frank’s anger, the accident, her bizarre barefooted walk in the forest.

  In the bathroom, as she showered, she saw the plum-colored bruises on her rib cage, and a long scrape on her ankle—she couldn’t remember getting that—that had bled and clotted. The soles of her feet were blistered and torn. The moment of the crash came back to her in blips. She couldn’t seem to focus.

  She started to dress for work at the Rose Hotel, then realized it was Sunday. All the doors to the others’ rooms were closed. She was sure everyone was sleeping. Sheila pulled on shorts and a tank top and got back in bed.

  This time, she couldn’t slip into the oblivion of sleep. Her mind raced. How was Frank? Why had he told her to run? The only phone number he had was for Sharon Waters’s phone on the first floor, and on Sunday, no one answered it. The island had no local television news, and the island newspaper came out only once a week, on Thursday. Maybe someone had reported it on a radio station, but she had no access to a radio.

  Throwing back her covers, she paced the floor. A shroud of guilt clung to her. She couldn’t think, she couldn’t breathe. She had been the one to tell Frank they had taken the wrong road. Had she shouted too loudly and alarmed him? But he had already been in a strange, agitated state.

  Finally, desperate, she knocked on Ariel’s door.

  “Come in,” Ariel called.

  Sheila found Ariel lying in bed with a book in her hand.

  “You look awful,” Ariel said, sitting up and tossing the book aside.

  “I feel awful,” Sheila said. “Ariel, I don’t know what to do.”

  “Sit here.” Ariel patted the bed. “Tell me.”

  Sheila sat. She needed to talk. “I went on another date last night with Frank. We were on Milestone Road. He was going to take me to Toppers! He missed a turn, and circled back, and when he made the right turn, another car was coming right at us. We crashed. It was terrifying, Ariel, the crash, the noise, and then he yelled at me, told me to go away, he looked angry and mean. So I did run, I hid in the trees. I heard sirens, and I saw tow trucks, and I walked home, and I haven’t heard from him.”

  “Are you okay?” Ariel asked, gently touching Sheila’s arm.

  “I’m fine. I have a bruise on my chest from hitting the dashboard, but that doesn’t matter. I don’t know how Frank is. I can’t call the hotel and ask to speak to him because Mrs. Reardon would know it’s me. I don’t know what to do.”

  “That must have been so scary.” Ariel put her arm around Sheila’s shoulders and hugged her.

  “I don’t know what to do,” Sheila repeated.

  Ariel said, “Let me think.” She got up and walked to her dresser, put on her watch, nodded to herself, and finally said, “How about this. Let’s go to the Rose Hotel. If you see Mrs. Reardon, you can tell her you’ve lost something—a bracelet, maybe. If she’s not there, well, you can peek into Frank’s room.”

  “That’s a good idea.” Sheila was wonderfully cheered. “You are so smart! And you’ll go with me, right?”

  “Sure. Let me put some lipstick on. And you need to brush your hair and work on your face, put some blush on so you don’t look so deathly pale.”

  * * *

  —

  The Sunday morning town was quiet. The air smelled like coffee and cinnamon.

  Sheila and Ariel entered the Rose Hotel by the front door. They stood for a moment in the foyer, listening for noises. Nothing.

  “His room is on the second floor,” Sheila whispered.

  The women walked up only two steps before, with a clatter and a rush, Mrs. Reardon appeared from the kitchen into the foyer.

  “Sheila! Oh, my dear, how good of you to come over! I’m at my wits’ end! Did you hear about Mr. Johnson? The police came to my door!” She clutched her hands to her chest. In a trembling whisper, she added, “The police.”

  Sheila put her hands in her pockets to hide their trembling. “What’s happened?”

  “There was an accident. A terrible accident,” Mrs. Reardon said. “Mr. Johnson was in his car, heading to the Polpis road, and he collided with another car that was turning left. You know how impatient our summer drivers can be.”

  “Is he…is Mr. Johnson okay?”

  “He’s in the hospital. Some injuries, not life-threatening, but bad. I have his information on file, so I told the police I would call his wife, and I did.”

  Sheila sagged against Ariel. “His wife.”

  “Yes. Her name is Bethany. Isn’t that just the prettiest name? She told me she’d fly in as soon as she could arrange it.”

  “I thought Mr. Johnson was divorced,” Sheila whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

  Mrs. Reardon looked confused. “Why would you think that?”

  Ariel spoke up. “The people in the other car. Are they okay?”

  “I’m not sure. Agnes, my best friend, is a nurse at the hospital. I phoned her right after the police left. She couldn’t say much, everything is confidential, you know, but she did say a man came into the emergency room with a broken arm and other injuries.”

  “No fatalities?” Sheila asked.

  “Oh, dear, I don’t know.” Mrs. Reardon wrung her hands together. “Maybe,” she whispered.

  Ariel said, “I’m Ariel Spencer, Mrs. Reardon. Sheila’s told me so much about you and how beautiful your inn is. Sheila thought she’d left a bracelet here, but as we came in the door, she remembered where it is. We’re so sorry to bother you—”