“The Jag is yours?” Jason said.

“It is.”

“Sweet.” Jason eyed their drinks. “Can I get you another? Lock, another beer? Isabelle, more wine?” Jason was suddenly the consummate host.

Claire said, “We’re having a meeting. The caterer for the gala, Genevieve, can’t do it. Her mother is very sick. We have no caterer.”

“You should ask my brother,” Jason said to Lock. “And Siobhan. They’ll do it.”

“I did ask them,” Claire said. “They said no.”

“Ask again,” Jason said, popping a beer. “Or I’ll ask.”

“That would be great,” Isabelle said. “It would honestly be so great if you would ask again. We’re up against the wall.”

“No problem.” Jason clapped Lock on the shoulder. “Are you two staying for dinner? Claire, what’s for dinner?”

Was this really happening? Claire couldn’t be sure. Maybe she was still asleep in her chair on the beach.

“Steaks,” she said. “And corn.” She raised her eyebrows at Lock. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to say something grossly inappropriate. “You’re welcome to stay if you’d like.”

“No, thanks,” Lock said. “I have a dinner at the yacht club.”

“Oh, funny,” Isabelle said. “So do I.”

Funny? When Claire smiled, her teeth were cold. Her face was stiff from the sun and the salt. She wanted Lock and Isabelle out of her house. They could go on to the yacht club for dinner; that was fine. Claire wanted to sit with her kids on the back deck and shuck the corn, and while the corn was boiling and the steak grilling, she wanted to take a long, hot outdoor shower. Jason could call Carter and Siobhan and ask about the catering yet again at Isabelle’s behest, but they would say no and Claire would be able to end her day with a fat, satisfying I told you so. Claire smiled at Isabelle and Lock a little more broadly. They weren’t finished with their drinks, but she didn’t care.

“I’ll walk you out,” Claire said.

Isabelle downed her wine in one gulp. “Everything is going to work out,” she said. “I can feel it.” She slid off her stool, and at the door she linked her arm through Lock’s. Lock glanced at Claire. Claire could not look at him.

“I’m sorry we just barged in on you,” Lock said. “I tried calling.”

“I know,” Claire said. “I was avoiding my calls.”

“We’re in a legitimate bind,” he said.

“I realize that,” Claire said.

“We both found your little disappearing act today discouraging and immature,” Isabelle said. “You were at the beach! You should have been helping us. You are the cochair.”

She couldn’t wait for them to leave. Get in the car, she thought. Please! Leave!

“Did you?” she said. “Well, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.”

“I took my son to the beach. I had a nice day.”

Lock cleared his throat. He looked like he wanted to shrug Isabelle’s arm off, but he was too polite.

“The gala is in—”

“I’m well aware of when the gala is, Lock.”

He sighed and searched her face for . . . what? Love? Tenderness? A sign that she was contrite for not sitting on the phone all day, dialing caterers? At that second, she thought, Run away with Isabelle, since she’s so devoted to the cause! Lock and Isabelle found her immature and discouraging. What was discouraging was that they had dumped the catering disaster in her lap, and now she would have to own it.

They made their way down the porch steps, Isabelle’s arm wrapped through Lock’s like a snake. Isabelle trailed Lock to his car, and after he got in, she stood at the driver’s side, talking to him sotto voce. Talking to him about Claire.

Jason was in the kitchen. “Claire!” he said.

Claire wanted Jason next to her at the front door. He was the other half of her united front: the happy Crispins.

“Claire!” he called.

“What?” she said. If he wanted dinner, he could start by lighting the grill.

“Look at this.”

She turned to see Jason crouching down, holding Zack by both hands. But then he let go, and Zack took one, two, three, four, five steps, bumped into the cabinet that held the pots and pans, and fell onto his butt.

Claire shrieked, “He walked!”

Zack grinned at his parents, then started crying.

“He walked!” she said.

“He walked,” Jason said. “He’s a walker.” He grabbed Claire’s hand and pulled her in tight, kissed her throat. She hugged him—and suddenly she was so, so happy, happier than she’d been in a long time.

“He’s a walker,” she said. And she hoped that this was all she would remember about today.

The morning after Claire had offered Siobhan the gala catering job and Siobhan turned it down—once and for all, she hoped that was clear—Siobhan was awakened by a voice in her walk-in closet. She looked at the clock: ten past six. Fucking absurd. Siobhan climbed out of bed, naked as a jaybird, and stood in front of the closet door to make sure.

Yes, Carter was in there. On the phone. Growing up, Siobhan and her siblings had pulled blankets over their heads, spoken in pig Latin, stretched the cord of the phone all the way to the stairs of the root cellar, then slammed the door for privacy. Gossiping about Michael O’Keefe at first, and then, in later years, about where they hid the beer. They didn’t do it to save their father’s ears.