Hank might not even be there.

  “Hello?” He was there, his voice as lovely and husky as she remembered.

  “Oh, Hank,” Sheila cried. “I’m so upset. My employer just let me go, without my summer bonus, because one of her guests didn’t pay her, and it’s the end of the summer, and people are going home, so I won’t be able to get another job, and I don’t know what to do!”

  Hank hesitated.

  Sheila’s heart sank to the bottom of her shoes. Had he met someone else during the summer?

  His voice came over the phone, sure and strong. “I’ll tell you what to do. I’ll have to work tomorrow, but then I can take a few days off. You pack up. Day after tomorrow, say goodbye to that place, and take a boat to Hyannis. It’s about seven hundred miles from here to Hyannis. About twelve hours. I’ll gas up the car and start driving tomorrow evening. I should be there sometime Wednesday morning. You take the boat over and I’ll pick you up in Hyannis and we’ll come home.”

  Sheila burst into tears. “Oh, Hank. Oh, Hank, I’ve missed you so much. I can’t wait to see you.”

  “I can’t wait to see you, sweetheart.”

  She couldn’t stop crying. “But, Hank, you should come to Nantucket. I mean to see the island, to see how beautiful the ocean is. You could stay with me for a day or two and then we could go home.”

  “Sheila,” Hank said. “All I want to see is you.”

  * * *

  —

  Business was slow at Fanshaw’s. Dead, really. That was probably a good thing, Nick thought, because he was in a shit of a mood. He hadn’t heard from Francine. Of course, he wouldn’t. She would be too busy with her friends. A postcard would be nice, but that would take time to arrive, and anyway, Francine wasn’t the type for postcards.

  It was early afternoon when the store phone rang.

  “Nick, it’s Jean-Paul Bruel. How’s business?”

  Nick’s heart lurched at the sound of the man’s voice. “Rather slow,” Nick answered. He tossed the “rather” in because he thought it made him sound aristocratic.

  Jean-Paul Bruel chuckled. “I’m not surprised. Listen, I’m here in New York where they’re gearing up for the autumn season. Floods of tourists flocking in to see the newest hits on Broadway. The newest fashions at Bergdorf’s. So on. What would you think of leaving Fanshaw’s early and coming down to the city?”

  Nick hesitated. This was the devil’s tightrope, the razor’s edge. If he said yes, he would be admitting he was the type of guy to quit a job before the arranged date. If he said no, he might endanger his relationship with Jean-Paul Bruel.

  “I’d like to check with Mr. Fanshaw,” Nick said. “If Steve is staying, it might be fine if I leave early.”

  “Good man,” Mr. Bruel said. “Do that. Let me know.”

  Toward the end of the day, when no one was in the shop—and no one had come in for hours—Nick phoned Mr. Fanshaw. He was nervous, not wanting to provoke an argument, but wanting very much, more with every hour, to leave the store and the island and start his real life in New York.

  “Of course, you can leave early,” Mr. Fanshaw bellowed over the phone. “Most of our customers have already left the island. I’ll mail your check to your home address, shall I?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fanshaw.” Nick was surprised and delighted, and he spoke with honesty when he said, “I’ve very much enjoyed working for you this summer, sir.”

  “Well, you did a fine job. If you need a reference, I’d be glad to give it.”

  It was odd, Nick thought, as he hung up the phone, how exhilarated he was to leave this job, when at the beginning of the summer he’d been thrilled to start it. This was how he was, he learned this about himself again and again. He liked change. He like challenges. He liked climbing the professional ladder in the same way Hillary liked climbing Mount Everest.

  He didn’t like failing.

  Entering the humid Sand Palace felt like failure to him. Ariel and Wyatt, practically swooning with happiness, were engaged. They were leaving the island on Wednesday, going to have a wedding at the town clerk’s office in Wellesley, and getting married, with their parents attending. Then they would fly to Missouri, where Wyatt would work toward his PhD and teach freshman classes. Ariel planned to make them a cozy home and write brilliant novels in her spare time. Nick wished them well, but he secretly doubted that he’d ever see them again.

  Sheila was leaving Wednesday, too. Nick had a hollow space in his gut that could be loneliness. He wanted the Sand Palace group together one more time.

  But no, he didn’t really need to see them again. He needed Francine.

  Where was she? Why hadn’t she called or written to him? Had he been only a toy for her? He had thought she loved him. He certainly loved her.

  He wasn’t a natural letter writer. In fact, he knew his spelling was horrendous. He’d been told so many times.

  Still, he went to his rickety desk and sat down. A pen and hotel stationery headed ROCKERS was in the desk drawer. He’d never used it before, but he was glad to have it now. The paper was creamy and thicker than what he was used to. He marked out the word ROCKERS and wrote in SAND PALACE.

  He wrote: Dear Francine,

  He stopped writing. He looked at the two words. Oddly, just seeing her name in his handwriting made him feel closer to her. He felt less alone.

  I miss you so much. I think about you all the time. It’s odd to know that while I’m here at my desk in this horrid basement room, you are half the world away, probably sleeping in a luxurious Paris flat.

  I told you that I love you, and I do. It seems I can’t stop loving you, even though you’ve left me and gone to Paris. I’m sure that if I never see you again, you will be the woman I love for all of my life

  Nick put down the pen. He stood up so suddenly his chair rocked backward, falling on the floor.

  He couldn’t stay in this rat hole blithering away with pity for himself and love for a woman he didn’t deserve.

  Nick left his room and stormed out of the Sand Palace. He headed toward the Atlantic Café. People there at least knew his face. He’d flirt with a woman, have a couple of beers, maybe run into some old friends. He’d cheer up.

  It was still early, but the restaurant was filling up. The AC was a popular place, with great food and a friendly waitstaff. Nick found a spot at the bar and ordered a Heineken. He chatted with the guy next to him, an Irishman who’d painted houses all summer and was going home with a fat wallet.

  “My girl’s waiting for me,” the Irishman said. “We’re going to marry and get a flat in Dublin and save up for a house in Kilkee, where we come from. Sure, it’s on the west side of the island, on the mouth of the Shannon, a beautiful place, you never saw such a beautiful place.”

  The Irishman nattered on and on about his lovely fiancée and their lovely plans to live on the lovely mouth of the lovely Shannon, and Nick ordered Irish whiskeys for them both and was glad for the slug of heat hitting his lungs. Nick could almost see the dream the Irishman described, and when he had to leave, Nick was sad, as if he’d lost a good friend.

  He ordered another whiskey. All around him, people laughed and chattered. He was all alone.

  “I’d like one of those.”

  The girl who approached him was Nick’s age, more or less. She was pretty and had an easy laugh. Her name was Christi. She was down for the summer, returning for her last year of college in Boston. She’d been cleaning houses with a group of friends, and working for a babysitting service most evenings. When she laughed, she tilted her head back and her wavy chestnut hair fell down her back, almost touching her waist. Her throat was as white as a swan’s feather.

  “What about you?” Christi asked. “Why are you here this summer?”

  “I came with some friends,” Nick said, and caught himself. He’d come alone. He’d made friends, perhaps, but the truth was, at the end of the summer he was as solitary as he’d arrived. Often before, he’d entertained a woman with a humorous story about the odd little cave they called the Sand Palace. Now, if he wanted, he could tell Christi about Francine, this la-di-da French girl who thought she was too good for him.

  But he couldn’t say that. He couldn’t even think that. He remembered Francine whispering that she loved him, saying that they would be together for a long time.

  “I’m sorry,” Nick said to Christi. “You’re a beautiful woman, but I’ve been going through a bad breakup. I’m not fit company.”

  He put a twenty on the bar, stepped off the stool, and left the restaurant. It was quieter outside, but families and friends were in clumps at the Juice Bar, at the Dreamland theater, on the streets. As he walked, he watched the others with envy. It didn’t matter, he told himself. He’d go back to his room, pack all his belongings, and take the first boat away from here tomorrow.

  The entrance to the Sand Palace was dark. He’d forgotten to leave a light on for himself. He was used to one of the others having a light on. He stumbled into the corridor, flicked on the bald overhead lightbulb, pushed open the door to his room, and went in.

  The sun was setting early now, but pale light came through his window to illuminate his room. His desk, with his letter on it.

  His bed, where Francine lay curled, her head on his pillow, sleeping.

  “My God,” Nick said.

  Francine stirred voluptuously. She peeked through her lashes. “There you are.”

  “I’m sorry to wake you.” Nick stood by the side of the bed. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “I did not like being away from you,” Francine said. “I’m so glad you wrote me a letter.”

  “I didn’t send you a letter,” Nick told her.

  She laughed, deep in her throat. “Yes, but you wrote that letter.” She pointed to the desk.

  Nick nodded. “I did.”

  Francine patted the side of the bed. “Sit down.”

  Nick sat. The warmth of her body and the fragrance of her perfume drifted next to him. “I don’t want to lose you, Francine.”

  “I don’t want to lose you,” she replied. “We must be careful, you and I. We’re so much in love and yet so cynical. We know each other deeply and yet in many ways we don’t know each other at all.”

  “Oh, I think we know each other very well,” Nick said. “But I have to go wherever your father directs me, and I don’t know where you’ll be or how I’ll find you.”

  Francine was quiet for a moment. “I will go where you go, Nick. You’ve told me I will be the woman you’ll love all your life.” She saw his confusion and smiled. “In your letter, Nick. There on your desk. And you will be the man I will love all my life.”

  Nick struggled to keep calm. This day—this summer—had been overwhelming. He wanted to tell Francine that, and he wanted to promise her he’d love her forever, and he kind of wanted to tell her that a girl named Christi just tried to pick him up at the AC and he’d refused because he loved Francine even though he didn’t know if he’d ever see her again. He didn’t know where to start.

  Francine watched him. She lay back down on his bed. She pulled the covers back. “Come, my love,” she said. “Lie down with me and rest.”

  Nick lay down. She snuggled against him.

  Francine said, “Let’s sleep. Now everything is all right.”

  * * *

  —

  Ariel, Sheila, Wyatt, and Nick walked to the Brant Point lighthouse, carrying their picnic dinners and drinks in their hands. They’d discussed going to the AC or the Brotherhood for their last dinner together, but decided, instead, to be frugal. Besides, it was a perfect summer evening. The wind had dropped and the sea rolled gently, like a blue whale turning over in its sleep. The sailboats in the outer harbor looked like paintings.

  Wyatt had asked the town clerk for permission to have a fire pit on the beach, but she said that wasn’t possible. Nick wanted to argue—he’d been to many beach parties with fires, but they were all on the other side of the island, far out of town. Anyway, Ariel had pointed out, it was too hot for a fire.

  They had spent the day packing and cleaning their rooms. They’d returned their rented bikes and the rented Jeep. Tomorrow they’d catch a boat to the mainland, and the summer would be over.

  They found a spot near the lighthouse where they could watch the boats come and go. The sand was warm, the tide going out, leaving behind a woven line of seaweed.

  “We should have brought a blanket to sit on,” Ariel said as they settled onto the beach.

  “Yes, because we always remember to do that,” Nick joked.

  “We haven’t had that many meals on the beach,” Wyatt said. “We’ve had Wednesday nights together, but usually at the Sand Palace.”

  “And that one time at Francine’s,” Sheila added.

  “Did you invite Francine to join us tonight?” Ariel asked Nick.

  “I did. She said she thought tonight should be for just the four of us.” Nick popped open his beer and the liquid hissed into the air.

  “She’s right,” Sheila said. “I’m glad she’s not here. She’s a snob.”

  Ariel uncorked a bottle of white wine, poured the wine into two plastic cups, and handed one to Sheila. “Be good, Sheila. Francine is nice. You can’t hate her because she’s rich.”

  “I’ll drink to that!” Nick said, touching his can to Ariel’s cup. “Because if you hate rich people, you’re really going to hate me.”

  Sheila laughed. “I’d never hate you, Nick. And I hope you do get rich.”

  “We came here with such dreams,” Ariel said.

  “I wanted to make a lot of money and have an adventure.” Sheila drew a wandering line in the sand with her finger. “I made a lot of money—a lot for me, not for someone like you, Nick—and I had an adventure. It certainly wasn’t what I expected.”

  “That’s what makes it an adventure,” Nick said. “It’s something you don’t expect.”

  “I bow to your wisdom, O Wise One,” Wyatt said, opening his own beer.

  “Are you glad you had an adventure?” Nick asked Sheila.

  She still gazed down and swirled the sand with her finger. “I suppose I am. I probably grew up a little because of it.”

  Ariel touched Sheila’s arm. “I bet you realized how wonderful Hank is.”

  Now Sheila looked up, and she was smiling. “You’re right. Maybe this island is like Oz, and after spending time here, I realize how fortunate I am to have Hank waiting for me and—”

  “Don’t go any further with that metaphor,” Nick said. “I adamantly decline to be a scarecrow, tin man, or lion. Although actually, I guess I wouldn’t mind being a lion.”

  “You are a lion,” Ariel told him. “Nick, you absolutely are a lion.”

  “Hey,” Wyatt called to Ariel. “The lion in Oz was cowardly.”

  “All right, all right. Nick is not a cowardly lion.”

  “Did you ever wonder,” Sheila said dreamily, “if the tin man was the first robot?”

  “No, Sheila,” Nick said, very earnestly, “I never did.”

  “Are you drunk already, Sheila?” Wyatt asked.

  “Are you still boring, Wyatt?” Sheila responded.

  “Way to go, Sheila!” Nick applauded. “You’ve grown a spine since you’ve been here.”

  Sheila grinned, pleased. “I guess I have.”

  “Have some more wine.” Ariel refilled both their cups. “Really, you guys, when I think about it, we’re all lucky.”

  “Did you write your novel?” Nick asked.

  “I can’t believe you remember that I want to,” Ariel told him. “And no, I didn’t. But I certainly collected plenty to write about.”

  “And you collected me,” Wyatt joked.

  Ariel leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I did.”

  “Oh, that’s so romantic,” Sheila cooed.

  “I’m like you in a way,” Wyatt said to Sheila. “I enjoyed being here. It’s a beautiful place. But I know more than ever that I want to work at the university. It’s a huge honor and responsibility to work with my father.”

  “Ariel, I hope you like Wyatt’s father,” Nick said, half joking.

  “I hope he likes me,” Ariel shot back.

  “Come on, you guys!” Nick shouted. “We can’t all be so pleased with ourselves.”

  Sheila protested, “But, Nick, we should be! I mean, you met Francine and her father here. You made an amazing connection, a kind of miracle, you have to know that.”

  “Yeah,” Nick agreed. “I guess I do. I have been lucky.”

  Wyatt said, “On the downside, we’ll probably have a long-term lung disease from all the mold and mildew in the basement.”

  Ariel said thoughtfully, “I wish I’d gone to more of the island’s museums.”

  “You can always come back,” Nick told her.

  “Yes, but will I? Once we get back to our real lives, this place will seem like a dream.”

  “Oh!” Sheila held up her tote bag. “That reminds me. I have photos for all of you.” As she took separate envelopes out and passed them around, she said, “Most of them are of sunsets or yachts, but look, there the four of us are the first night we were here.”

  “We’re all so pale we look like we have tuberculosis!” Ariel cried.

  “And here’s a photo I took one night before we went to a party. We were dressed to kill.”

  “What a dreamy photo of you, Nick,” Ariel said. “You’ve got your bedroom-eyes look going on.”

  “He was probably drunk,” Wyatt snapped.

  “Do you have your camera?” Nick asked. “Why not snap a shot of the four of us now?”

  Sheila searched the beach for a likely volunteer. “I’ll just go ask them.”