As for the women…Wyatt wasn’t a teenager anymore. He’d never been a romantic. But when he looked at Ariel, even the first time he met her, he experienced an immediate physical reaction. Like a volcano inside him, rumbling, threatening to spill over. As if when he saw her, who he was changed. He’d never felt this before. It was both alarming and comforting, as if all the cells in his body had said: Here she is, at last. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to be with her forever, for God’s sake. Impatience was a flaw in a scientist. He knew that. But his body and mind had gone behind his back, so to speak, to combine into a serious crush on a woman way out of his league.

  * * *

  —

  Being a sales clerk at Fanshaw’s was a perfect fit for Nick. The clientele was friendly and jovial, often complaining because their wives insisted on a new blazer or a pair of golf pants. Nick understood how clothes should hang on the body, and he wore them well himself. People trusted him. Privately, he was amused to see a distinguished silver-haired man, head of a city bank, purchase a pair of pink trousers embroidered with spouting blue whales. And the women! They entered the store intending to buy a tie or a scalloper’s cap for a birthday present for their husbands or fiancés. Nick didn’t have to do much more than smile to make them interested in a sweater or button-down shirt, and also a needlepointed belt and some lizard-skin loafers. He liked talking to the other guys behind the counter, too, and often after work he went out for a drink with them.

  Nick liked his roomies as well, but he tended to like pretty much anyone. The girls were gorgeous, but he wasn’t here for that. He’d had his share of summer lovin’ and he wasn’t an adolescent anymore. He was here to work. His heart was filled with ambition, and his whip-smart mind kept him aimed at the best opportunities. He was here to learn how the upper five percent dressed, talked, joked, and treated women. His father was a high school teacher and he certainly didn’t make the kind of money Nick was determined to have in his life. Nick wanted to travel, meet people, make people happy. Also, he wanted to make money. Own property. Lots of it. Part of the family lore was about Nick, at five, building rows of skyscrapers instead of sand castles on the beaches where the family vacationed and using small slipper shells as people. And at seven, he’d stolen all the houses, hotels, and money from the Monopoly game and set up his own bizarre real estate fantasy in his room.

  He’d never lost that fantasy. But he needed money and experience, and he knew that summertime Nantucket was the place to find it.

  * * *

  —

  The Amos Longenecker Real Estate Agency was located on Main Street, in a prime location, with a bright blue door in the center of two wide glass-paned walls. Much of the glass was covered with listings of houses for sale, but some was left open so that passersby could see the people in the office, typing, phoning, busy as bees. Ariel was given a desk at the very front, which made sense because she was the receptionist, but also because she was so elegantly beautiful she caught the eye. Ariel was happy with the buzz and rush of the office and with the realtors, who sat on her desk to chat. This was almost paradise, so much sunshine, salt air, and laughter.

  Ariel hadn’t spent much time with her fellow basement dwellers, but she liked them. She felt comfortable with them. Well, except for Wyatt. Just the thought of him made her pulse race in a way it never had with any other guy. Nick was handsome, clever, funny, and wickedly charming, but no current of attraction ran between them. He was ambitious; he had made that clear. Ariel respected that. Sheila, oh dear, Sheila. She was so naïve. If you told Sheila a marble was a pearl, she’d put it in a necklace and wear it. Ariel felt protective of her.

  * * *

  —

  Sheila didn’t exactly hate her job. The Rose Hotel was an older building with slanting floors and chipped bathroom tiles. She changed linens, dusted, vacuumed, scrubbed bathrooms, all tasks she’d done before at a large cosmopolitan hotel in Cleveland. There she’d at least had a chance of meeting a guy her age. Only married couples seemed to stay at the Rose, but the tips were good. The owner, Mrs. Reardon, was nice, but frazzled.

  It was hard not to envy Ariel, who got to float off to work in some nice dress with her nails painted pale pink. Sheila didn’t bother painting her nails. They’d only get ruined in scrubbing bathtubs and sinks. Really, Ariel was nice, in spite of her annoying perfection. As for the guys, the truth was she’d be thrilled to have either of them notice her. Nick was drop-dead gorgeous, and clearly he was a player, but that would be fun, not to get her emotions involved. Wyatt was maybe a little boring? That didn’t matter. He was obviously infatuated with Ariel. Too bad Ariel didn’t have pigtails, Sheila thought. Wyatt could dunk them into the ink bottle. As soon as she had that thought, she mentally slapped herself in the head. Who did she think she was, Anne of Green Gables? Why was she so old-fashioned? People didn’t have ink bottles anymore, or pigtails. Sheila understood that she sometimes preferred reading historical romances because they made her feel more comfortable than this rarified world of Nantucket.

  She knew she was, in a way, being unfaithful to her fiancé, Hank, but it was only in her thoughts, and why shouldn’t she have a little fun before marriage? She’d never been a brave person, she’d never really gone wild. This summer was her chance.

  * * *

  —

  Sunday morning, they woke to a cloudy sky and a gusty wind. This was the weather the shopkeepers loved, when the summer visitors couldn’t enjoy the beach. The Sand Palace Four all had the day off. The guys slept late. Ariel and Sheila did their laundry, tidied their rooms, shampooed their hair, and tried each other’s lipsticks. The four had become, if not friends, then comrades of a sort. After the guys rose and showered, they all went to the Downyflake for lunch.

  Nick and Wyatt ordered eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns, and pancakes. Ariel ordered blueberry pancakes and bacon. Sheila ordered the same. The food was delicious. For a while, they ate, groaning with pleasure, too focused to talk about anything. Finally, they sat back in their chairs, asked for another cup of coffee, and relaxed.

  “I needed that,” Wyatt said. “I got a beer last night at the Muse with Don Cabot. He introduced me to some of his friends, good guys, but when I got home, I realized all I’d had for dinner was two brews and a handful of peanuts.”

  “Want my bacon?” Ariel offered, holding out her plate.

  “Sure. Thanks.” Wyatt’s hand touched Ariel’s when she passed him the plate.

  Nick, not one to be outdone, said, “I met Tinsley for drinks at the Club Car.”

  “Tinsley?” Wyatt asked. “You know someone named Tinsley?”

  “Tinsley Carnegie,” Nick said, arching an eyebrow. “She’s rich. I think I’ll marry her.”

  “God,” Ariel said. “You are so shallow.”

  Nick snorted. “You won’t be so critical when I buy one of the houses you’re selling.”

  “Oh, please,” Ariel retorted. “These houses are beyond your wildest dreams.”

  “Tell me about them,” Sheila pleaded.

  “Squash courts,” Ariel said. “Indoor swimming pools with mosaic murals. Game rooms with pool tables. Oh, and one house—I’ve only seen it on the folders—one house has a master bathroom with the sink bowl made of glass etched with flowers. The floor and walls are marble. The bathtub is like a small swimming pool, in the middle of the room, with whirlpool jets and gold-plated fixtures.”

  “I’d love to see that,” Sheila said longingly.

  “I would, too,” Nick said. “Take us there.”

  “What?” Ariel shook her head. “I can’t do that.”

  “If these places are so fabulous, why are the owners selling?” Wyatt asked.

  Ariel shrugged. “People get bored. They have other houses in Saint-Tropez and Aspen. They have a private jet with a personal pilot. They probably want to try someplace new.”

  “Are they here this summer?” Nick asked.

  “No. The house is for sale. Transactions will be by their lawyers.”

  Wyatt asked, “So the tub is stand-alone? They must have run the pipes and wiring under the floor. I’d like to see it.”

  “Dude,” Nick said. “You are so weird.”

  “I’d love to see the house myself,” Ariel said. “But I’m only a receptionist. They’re not going to give me the keys.”

  “I’ll bet there’s some real estate agent you could persuade,” Nick said, waggling his eyebrows.

  Ariel groaned. “You’re disgusting. Plus, you’re wrong. Longenecker Real Estate deals with some of the wealthiest people on earth. I live in the basement of the ‘Sand Palace.’ No way am I getting the keys to the place.”

  “Please, Ariel,” Sheila said sweetly. “We only want to look at it. It’s probably my only chance to learn how the one percent live.”

  “You are all asking way too much,” Ariel said. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

  * * *

  —

  By her third week, the realtors had learned to trust her. Ariel was cool, blond, classy. She never showed off her cleavage or wore too much perfume. She did her job perfectly. One Wednesday, when the realtors were racing off to attend soirees or show houses, Ariel coolly pocketed the keys for the Monet Lane house, shut down her computer, stepped out into the warm summer afternoon, and locked the office door.

  She strolled along Main Street, gazing in the windows, admiring the flowers in the window boxes and the clothes displayed in the small, elegant shops. A dark gray Jeep waited in front of the pharmacy. She and the other three had pooled their money in order to rent the oldest, rustiest, most broken-down Jeep for the summer. The Monet Lane house was far out of town, overlooking Dionis Beach and Nantucket Sound, reachable by a long washboard dirt road. No way could the four of them bike out and back without being noticed. On the island, Jeeps were everywhere. Perfect camouflage.

  Nick was driving. Wyatt was sitting shotgun. Ariel eased herself into the backseat next to Sheila. Nick drove them out of the small perfect town, into the wilds of the outer island.

  The top was down, so their hair blew back and the sun was high enough to burn their faces. When they hit the dirt road with its roller-coaster ride over the ridges and dips, Sheila shrieked at each bounce. By then no one had to shush her because the landscape all around them was empty of people. Just acres of sand, scraggly bushes, small wildflowers, and more sand.

  Who would want to live out here? Ariel wondered. When Nick brought the Jeep to a stop facing an enormous house with a stupendous view, she understood. The house looked out over Nantucket Sound, the water expanding forever, sparkling beneath the sun.

  “Monet house,” Nick said. “I think they mean Money house.”

  Sheila laughed appreciatively.

  Ariel forced herself to stop gawking. She went to the front door and opened it with the realtor’s keys. “Come on. No more than five minutes.”

  The others hurried in behind her. The house was built of wood, glass, and metal. Everything in it was oversized—the freezer, the sofas, the beds. Wyatt and Nick checked out the media room. Ariel and Sheila inspected the walk-in closets of the main bedroom. One large room held everything a man needed: suits, shoes, jackets, shirts, golf slacks, bathing attire. The wife’s clothes and accessories required three separate rooms: clothes, shoes, jewelry. Three-way mirrors hung in each room.

  “Feel how soft this is,” Ariel said to Sheila, holding out a pashmina. “What do you think it’s made out of?”

  “Nun’s hair,” Sheila joked. She turned red and put her hand to her mouth. “I can’t believe I said that.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re funny,” Ariel assured the other girl. She sat down at a mirrored vanity and opened a silk-covered box. “Wow. Look.”

  A pirate’s treasure of loot lay in a scrambled mess. Pearls twined around gold bracelets; diamond rings caught on the post of a diamond earring. Silver, turquoise, emerald, ruby, topaz. Rings, necklaces, bracelets, earrings.

  “What a hoard,” Sheila said. “Think how much jewelry she has if she can just leave this here.”

  “It’s probably all costume jewelry,” Ariel told her. “I’ve heard that when the rich travel, they have costume jewelry made to look like their real jewelry in case it gets stolen.”

  Sheila held up a necklace with emerald-cut diamonds sparkling from the heavy gold. “Don’t you ever feel envious?”

  “Sure, I guess,” Ariel replied, walking back to Sheila. “Everyone does. But take a look at yourself in the mirror.” Ariel took Sheila by the shoulders and turned her to face the full-length mirror. “How many women would sell their teeth to look like you?”

  Sheila forced a smile. “If they sold their teeth, I don’t think this bosom would help them.”

  Ariel laughed, too. “Come on. Let’s join the guys.”

  “What did you think?” Nick asked as they bumped over the gravel drive and onto the dirt road.

  Sheila admitted, “I’m in a state of shock. I’ve worked in some pricey hotels, but I’ve never seen such luxury as in that empty house in the middle of nowhere. It seems…wrong. Un-American.”

  Nick laughed. “Honey, that house is as American as you can get.”

  Ariel patted Sheila’s arm. “You don’t know anything about their personal lives. Having all that stuff doesn’t necessarily mean they’re happy.”

  “I suppose.” Sheila could never tell them that it had taken all the courage she possessed to come to this island for the summer, to see a different part of the world, to see another kind of life, before she married her college love, Hank. She had known she would meet wealthy people, but she was seeing homes and places and people whose lives she couldn’t imagine. She would never have a mansion as a summer home—she would never have a mansion! But she was determined to have a summer to remember.

  “Look,” Wyatt said, after Ariel dropped off the keys at the agency, “let’s stop feeling sorry for ourselves. Who needs all that crap. We’re young, the sun’s shining, we’ve got a Jeep for the summer. Let’s go out to Great Point. I’ve heard it’s amazing out there.”

  It was a long, rolling ride to the stretch of sand dividing Nantucket Sound from the Atlantic Ocean. Both sides of the water were roiling dramatically, surging forward, crashing, and plunging back. Along the shore, men cast their fishing lines, families lay on blankets, and dogs wandered around, occasionally chasing a seagull. The afternoon light glared steadily.

  “We need a Frisbee,” Wyatt said.

  “Next time,” Nick told him. He stripped off his polo shirt and dove into the waves.

  Wyatt did the same.

  “Come on,” Ariel told Sheila. She’d already taken off her shoes. Now she removed her watch and earrings and piled them on the back seat. “Let’s have a swim.”

  “It looks cold,” Sheila said. “And I’m not wearing a bathing suit.”

  “We’ll go in with our clothes on,” Ariel told her. “The sun will dry us out in minutes.”

  Without waiting, Ariel raced barefoot down the sand and threw herself into the waves. The cold burned and the water was turbulent, smashing up against her with turquoise slaps. She swam underwater until she had to come up for air. Her eyes stung from the salt water, but she dove back down, kicking her legs and spinning, as the careless, powerful ocean lifted her up, pulled her down. A kind of ecstasy swept through her. This sweet abandon of herself, as a person, as a woman, as a dutiful daughter and ambitious spirit, all that simply vanished, and she was a creature of the sea, a creature captured by the sea. She laughed, taking in water and choking and arrowing up to the surface to cough. Getting her breath back, she floated for a moment, settling down, pulling in deep draughts of air. What had just happened? For a moment, she’d been transformed, body and soul. She had been terrified and euphoric.

  “Ariel!” From far away, someone was calling her name.

  She twisted into a dog paddle and spun around, searching for the shoreline. She was very far out. She hadn’t realized she was so far away from the beach. She waved and began swimming hard back to the shore. After a moment, she realized the tide was ebbing, the currents fighting her every move to go forward. She plunged ahead, and gained several yards. Something black and round reared up in front of her, its dark eyes meeting hers.

  “You’re a harbor seal!” She yelled with joy and reached out to touch the creature, but it disappeared instantly, and she saw Wyatt swimming toward her. “I’m fine!” she called to Wyatt. “I’m fine! I just met a seal!”

  Wyatt continued swimming until he reached her. “Hold on to my neck,” he ordered, turning his back to her.

  Ariel grabbed his neck, and then his shoulders, and allowed Wyatt to tow her through the water to the beach. For a few moments it seemed they were lovers, as his legs kicked up between her legs, and she felt his body moving and saw his head, his brown hair as slick and gleaming as the seal’s. He had rescued her. He had noticed where she was and swum out to her. Ariel wanted to wrap her legs around him, clutching him to her, but when they reached the shallow water, Wyatt stood up. Ariel slipped off his back and stood next to him.

  “Thank you, Wyatt,” she said. They were both breathless.

  “You’re welcome.” His look was intense when he said, “Wouldn’t want to lose you.”

  Ariel met his eyes. “Wouldn’t want to be lost.” She wanted to hold him, kiss him, crush herself into him, but she couldn’t, not here on the beach with people around. “I should give you a reward,” she said teasingly.

  “Like buying me a beer?” Wyatt suggested.

  “Oh, I think you deserve much more than a beer.”

  Ariel saw his chest heave as his breath caught. She couldn’t take her eyes away from him.