“It’s no bother at all. Sundays are quiet. Would you both like to have a cup of tea?”

  “No, thank you. Perhaps another time.” Ariel linked her arm through Sheila’s and walked to the front door.

  Sheila managed to give the landlady a normal smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Reardon.”

  “Yes, yes, have fun on your day off.” The older woman looked at them with a bit of envy in her eyes.

  Ariel and Sheila hurried down the stairs and onto Centre Street.

  “I want to see him,” Sheila said. “I’m going to the hospital. It’s only a short walk.”

  Ariel put her hand on Sheila’s arm. “Wait. Don’t. That’s a ridiculous idea.”

  Tears stung Sheila’s eyes. “I don’t believe he’s still married. He told me he loved me. I want to ask him myself. I want to see that he’s okay. Mrs. Reardon gets confused. I’m going even if you don’t go with me.” She pulled away from Ariel.

  Ariel sighed. “Okay, okay, Sheila. Hang on. I’ll go with you.”

  Sheila was already racing past Main Street and down Fair Street toward the hospital. Ariel trotted along behind her, hoping the brief walk would settle Sheila’s nerves. The town was small, and so was the hospital.

  The Nantucket Cottage Hospital was a two-story structure with a receptionist in the lobby and an elevator to the second floor. Sheila bypassed the receptionist, who was helping a patient, and sped through the hallways and up the stairs. Ariel followed. The stairs opened on to the nurses’ station.

  Sheila approached their desk. “What room is Frank Johnson in?”

  “Are you family?” the nurse asked. She was older, with curly gray hair and tortoiseshell glasses that framed careful eyes. Her name was Marleen, and Ariel guessed that this woman had grown up on the island, knew everyone who lived here, and spotted Sheila as a summer person immediately.

  “No, not exactly, but yes, sort of,” Sheila stammered, impressed by those wary eyes.

  “His wife is with him now,” Marleen said. “You and your friend can wait in the waiting room down the hall. I’ll tell his wife you’re here. What’s your name?”

  Sheila froze.

  “Evie,” Ariel said, stepping in front of Sheila. “Her name is Evie Lovelace.”

  “Very well.” Marleen made a note on a Post-it and stuck it to her desk.

  Ariel pulled Sheila down the hall and into the waiting room, where several dark green faux leather sofas sat against the walls. Side tables held old issues of People and Sports Illustrated.

  “Sheila, we have to leave,” Ariel said.

  “I want to see his wife,” Sheila insisted.

  “Do you want her to see you?” Ariel asked.

  Sheila looked helplessly at Ariel. “I can’t believe he’s still married.”

  “Here’s what I’ll do,” Ariel said. “I’ll walk down the hall and if I see a man in bed and a woman sitting with him, I’ll tell you what she looks like.”

  Sheila shook her head. “No. No, you don’t have to do that. If that Marleen says his wife is with him, then I guess I believe he’s still married. But, Ariel, he told me he was divorced.”

  Ariel took her arm and gently guided Sheila out of the room and down the stairs to the main entrance. They stepped out into the summer sun, and the sudden difference between the bright, warm day and the dim hospital space was almost shocking, like stepping from a dream into reality.

  The two women walked together toward the Sand Palace.

  Sheila said, “Evie? Evie Lovelace?”

  Ariel laughed. “Okay, you try to come up with a believable name in two seconds.”

  Sheila linked her arm with Ariel’s. “Thank you for going with me. Without you, I think I’d still be standing in that hospital corridor, frozen like a statue.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Ariel said. “I think I’d punch him in the face if I ever saw him, not that I know what he looks like.”

  “He’s handsome,” Sheila said sadly. “He’s charming, and smart, and funny, and he treated me with such…gentleness. Until last night anyway. He said he loved me. When he looked at me, I believed he loved me.”

  “He probably did love you, Sheila. People can love two people at the same time. I mean, you still love Hank, don’t you?”

  “Oh, God.” Sheila buried her face in her hands. “Hank can never know about this. It would break his heart. I’m such an idiot!”

  Ariel could tell that Sheila was on the edge of a crying jag. It was a glorious Sunday morning, and people were out enjoying the day. Babies cooed, dogs barked, children begged for ice cream even though it wasn’t lunchtime yet, men in Nantucket red trousers came out of the Hub carrying The New York Times, and flocks of people were crowding up the stairs and into St. Mary’s church. Ariel said, “Sheila, hush.”

  Sheila pulled herself together and didn’t cry as they walked to the Sand Palace. But once they were in the dim corridor of the building, the tears started to fall again.

  Helplessly, Sheila turned to Ariel. “Will he ever contact me again? How can he? How can he do anything when his wife is with him? Ariel, he said he loved me. I thought he told me to run from the accident because he didn’t want me hassled by the police and all the red tape. I thought he was trying to take care of me. Instead, he didn’t want his wife to know he had a girl with him.” Tears streamed down Sheila’s face. “Every time I think of this, it seems worse.”

  “You’re exhausted, Sheila, and an emotional wreck. You need to get back in bed and rest.”

  “I know. Thank you, Ariel. You’ve been wonderful.”

  “Listen, you’re going to get past this. It was a summer romance, and it never could have lasted. Be glad you had it. You were special to him. He probably did love you, but it was a fling. You’ve got Hank waiting for you at home, and Hank is a genuine good guy, right?”

  “Right.” Sheila began to sob. “I’ve been so bad. Hank can never know about this.”

  Ariel gently but insistently moved Sheila into her room, where she fell down on the bed, dissolving into tears.

  “I’ll see you later,” Ariel said, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  She returned to her own room, trying to gather her thoughts. Often on Sunday mornings, while the guys slept late, Ariel and Sheila went out for huge calorie-filled breakfasts. She felt sorry for Sheila, but she felt hungry, too. She still was shy about eating alone in a restaurant. She decided to walk down to the strip and get a takeaway muffin and juice.

  Love was such a complicated mystery. Sheila loved Frank, who was obviously not making long-term plans with Sheila. Ariel loved Wyatt, and she wanted to make love with him, too, but because she was pretty—she knew she was pretty, she’d certainly learned that—lots of men and boys over the past few years had wanted to be with her. Ariel was holding out for true love.

  She did love Wyatt. She believed his love was real. She believed he wanted to marry her. Still, this disaster with Sheila and Frank had unsettled her. Ariel sat on a bench staring out at the water, wondering what to do on this beautiful day.

  Two women walked past her, heads leaning together as they talked.

  “Did you hear that a man died in a car accident last night?” one woman said.

  “Oh, no, that’s terrible! Who was he?”

  “I don’t know, but at least it’s not someone we know. Our husbands are safely at the beach, surf casting.”

  “If they catch anything, they can clean it. Let’s go shopping.”

  Ariel couldn’t get her breath. She went cold all over. Had Frank died? Dear God. She tossed her muffin into a barrel and hurried back to the Sand Palace. She should be there when Sheila heard.

  * * *

  —

  Nick always experienced a pull of emotions when he went to the magnificent house on Main Street to see Francine. Part of him was a little boy, full of envy and a fear of not being good enough. Most of him was a grown, competitive man, full of determination to someday have the money to buy a house as good as this or better.

  Francine opened the door herself. She was in very short shorts and a halter top. Barefoot. Her blond hair pulled into a ponytail.

  “Nickie!” She flung her arms around his neck when he entered the foyer. “You’re here!” She tried to kiss him, but he pulled away. “Your father.”

  “He’s in New York today. Or someplace. Natalie has gone to the mainland to visit friends. It’s just you and me.”

  “Well, then…” Nick kissed her, pulling her against him.

  Francine whispered in his ear, “Would you like to see my etchings?”

  Nick said, “Oh, yes.”

  She led him up the stairs, down the hall, and into an unexpectedly modern bedroom. He thought Francine would have a canopy bed and roses on her carpet. Instead, everything was modern, structural, the colors muted gray and a cream so rich he thought he could taste it.

  They fell onto her unmade bed together. Francine tore off her clothes. Nick quickly undressed. He no longer thought of interior décor but only of Francine’s lithe, slender body pressing against his.

  They made love slowly, memorizing each other’s bodies, stroking, kissing, and lingering here and here and here, and afterward, covered in a sheen of sweat, they smiled at each other.

  “Je t’aime,” Francine murmured.

  Nick’s breath caught in his throat. “Did you just say you love me?”

  Francine ran her fingers over his chest. “I did.”

  “I don’t say that frivolously,” Nick told her.

  “Nor do I,” Francine said, and tugged on his chest hair, hard. “Don’t take me for a fool.”

  Nick rolled over on top of her, supporting himself on his elbows, and cupped her face with his hands.

  “I love you, Francine. I seriously love you.”

  She smiled. “That makes me so happy.”

  They rested, side by side.

  After a while, Francine said she was hungry, so they pulled on clothes and went down to the kitchen where Francine served Nick strong coffee in a large cup. She made eggs and bacon and toast and bowls of cut fruit. While she cooked, they chatted about the island, the Sand Palace friends, local gossip.

  When they had finished eating, Francine said, “Nickie, my sweet, tomorrow I’m going to France for a week. Maybe two.”

  “You are? Why?”

  “A good friend is getting married. The wedding will be in the country, an entire weekend of celebrations. There will be other parties, before and after.”

  “Two weeks?” Heat rose up Nick’s neck and flushed his face. “That’s a lot of the summer.”

  “Chéri,” Francine said, “I assume you and I are going to be together after the summer.”

  “Will we? I’ll be working for your father, but you—you’ll be able to go wherever you want.”

  “True. That’s what happens, Nick, when you love a rich girl.” She touched his arm lightly. “I think you and I are going to be together for a long time.”

  Nick shook off her hand and stood up. “Francine, you and I haven’t even been together for a short time.”

  Francine rose and came close to him. “These plans were made months ago. I had no idea I would meet you. Lise is a dear childhood friend. I have to go. There will be so many parties, events, lunches with grandparents, and, yes, dancing at nightclubs.”

  “I will miss you,” Nick told Francine. He was too proud to admit how he felt, although they had said those serious words, I love you. But she was French. Maybe she said that easily, to many men. He was confused, and hurt, and too self-respecting to tell her he was hurt by the news…and afraid that she might not come back.

  “I will miss you, too,” Francine said. “But now I must pack.”

  “Of course.” Nick walked away from her, pausing to say in the nicest tone he could achieve, “I hope you have a good trip.”

  Then he went down the hall and out the door.

  * * *

  —

  It was after eleven when Wyatt got up, but he always slept late on Sundays, often later than this. His room still held the coolness of night, and the fan purred along quietly, stirring the air gently. He’d yanked the curtains over the window to keep out the light, and his room seemed, for a while, like his own private world. He sat on the side of his bed, trying to decide what to do with his free day.

  He had dreamed that Ariel and Sheila were singing. Now he heard them enter the Sand Palace. Sheila was crying. Ariel was comforting her, speaking in a low, sympathetic voice. He couldn’t hear their words, only the sad music of their voices. Wyatt didn’t know whether to go out and see what was happening or let them have their privacy.

  He rose, dressed in board shorts and a T-shirt, and pulled up his sheets in a half-assed effort to tidy his bed. He tried to read a paperback mystery, but couldn’t concentrate. Finally, he heard the women’s voices in the hall.

  Wyatt stepped into the hallway. Sheila was going back into her room, shutting the door softly.

  Wyatt said, “Ariel, are you okay?”

  “Oh, Wyatt.” Ariel came toward him, and she was crying and shaking. “Something terrible has happened.”

  He put his arm around her and guided her into his bedroom. “Sit down. Tell me. Are you okay?”

  Ariel nodded. “I’m fine. But Sheila’s broken-hearted. She was dating a man and last night they were in a car accident on the Milestone road, and Frank’s car—the man’s name is Frank—he turned too fast and collided with a station wagon with a family in it. Frank is in the hospital, but the father in the station wagon died.”

  “God. How awful.”

  “I know. Plus, this morning Sheila discovered that Frank is married. His wife had flown to the island to be with him in the hospital.”

  Ariel broke down, sobbing wholeheartedly. Wyatt wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. He kissed the top of her head as if he were a parent comforting a child.

  Actually, he had no idea what to do now. His parents had always been sparse with their emotion, and when he became a teenager, it was a sign of weakness to cry. He was sorry for Sheila. It was tough to find out someone you’re dating had lied to you. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Ariel’s reaction. She wasn’t really involved. She was extremely kind and sympathetic, but she’d been crying against him for a long time, and he didn’t understand why she was so upset about what had happened to Sheila.

  He was more concerned with what was happening to him now, in this room, with this woman in his arms. Her hair smelled like flowers and her skin was so soft. He wanted to make love with her, not to have sex, but to embrace her body and soul with his love and protection, with his promise to never cheat on her. He wanted to embrace her with passion, and so he put his hand on her chin and lifted her face to his and kissed her. Her cheeks were wet with tears, which he found unbearably sexy. She kissed him back, whimpering, and he gently leaned her back on his bed and pulled her on her side, so that their bodies touched.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

  He put his hand on her breast.

  She struggled and pushed him away. “Wyatt, stop.”

  “Ariel—” He tried to hold her back.

  She shoved him away, twisted so she could stand up, and drew her hand across her mouth, as if wiping away his kisses.

  “How can you at a time like this?” Ariel asked. “Is sex all you care about? God, you men!” She stormed out and he heard her enter her room, and lock the door. Click. What did she think, that he’d storm after her and force himself on her?

  Now he wanted to cry. What had just happened? Girls could get so dramatic. He’d seen them weep and hug one another if their football team lost a game. Wyatt was sorry for Sheila, and really sorry that a man had died last night, and sorry that that guy Frank had lied to Sheila, but why was Ariel so upset with him?

  And his day just got worse.

  He rode his bike to the Jetties and swam for a long time. The sheer effort kept him from thinking about Ariel. When he returned to the hotel, he was hungry, so he showered and shaved and walked into town to have breakfast, or, more likely, lunch. The sun was right overhead, and he thought it was the hottest day of the summer. He stopped at a takeaway on the strip, bought two cheeseburgers and two iced cans of Coke, and returned to his room. He read his mystery while he ate, then went back to bed and the oblivion of sleep. He was tired, he was confused, he was furious at Ariel and at himself.

  When he woke, it was almost four o’clock. He’d wasted his day off. In Columbia, he lived with his parents, and usually on Sunday afternoons he watched a baseball or football game and enjoyed one of his mom’s Sunday roasts. He wished he could go somewhere with Ariel, but he heard no sounds from her room or from Sheila’s.

  A knock came at his door.

  Nick stuck his head in. “Hey, man. Let’s go to the AC and have some brews.”

  Wyatt thought Nick was irritating with his cool dude persona. The AC instead of the Atlantic Café, as if Nick and the restaurant were close buddies. But Wyatt was glad to have company and he knew a “brew” would make him feel better.

  This time when he left the Sand Palace, the wind had come up and the sky was clouding over. As they walked, Nick talked incessantly about Francine.

  “She’s the one, man,” Nick said. “I know it. I just know it. I’ve met her family. They’re snobbish, but we get along. I’m going to work for her father after the summer. But this is not about Mr. Bruel. I have serious feelings for Francine, and she’s leaving for Paris tomorrow and I’ll miss her like hell. I hope she misses me.”

  They sat at the bar right at the front of the restaurant and ordered beers.

  “Have you seen Ariel or Sheila?” Wyatt asked Nick.

  “Not today,” Nick said.

  Wyatt filled him in on Sheila’s disastrous evening, and how she discovered her boyfriend was married, and that a man had died in the accident.