“Yes,” Claire said. “Absolutely.”

“He went out to the bars for the first time in months the night before last. He found himself a fight and spent the night in jail. It hit the tabloids today.”

“Oh no!” Claire said.

“He needs to get out of town,” Bruce said. “Nantucket will be good for him.”

Claire took the beer and half a bottle of viognier out of the fridge. She took the beer out of the fridge in the garage. She took the vodka out of the freezer. She took the gin, Mount Gay, Patron, Cuervo, vermouth, amaretto, and Grand Marnier out of the liquor cabinet, leaving only club soda, tonic, lime juice, and a sticky jar of maraschino cherries. She put all the alcohol in the supersecret storage place where they hid the kids’ Christmas presents, and she locked the door.

Matthew would be there in a matter of hours.

Claire called the office. It was the day before the gala—surely there were things to do?

“Everything is under control,” Gavin said.

“Have you heard from Isabelle?” Claire said. “I left a message with her Tuesday, and again yesterday, and I sent an e-mail, but I haven’t heard back. I’m afraid she won’t come to the gala.”

“She’s coming to the gala,” Gavin said.

He sounded pretty confident about that, and Claire relaxed a little.

“So there’s nothing for me to do?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said.

Jason was taking the kids to the beach.

“Sure you don’t want to come?” Jason said.

“No,” Claire said. “I’d better stay here and wait.”

Wait for what? Matthew wasn’t due in until seven that evening. Claire wiped down the countertops yet again. The house was clean, the guest room as immaculate and comfortable as the Four Seasons. Claire had stocked her kitchen with chocolate milk and Nilla wafers, and the freezer was full of cherry Italian ice. Claire checked on Pan. Her fever was down to 100.7 and her spots were starting to itch, a good sign. She was sitting up in bed, reading Harry Potter. Claire brought her a fresh glass of ice water and a mug of Thai fire broth.

“I’m sorry I can’t work,” Pan said.

“Don’t be sorry. We’ll figure something out.”

Claire left the room. She had calls out to four different baby-sitters, and she was now waiting to hear back. She would figure something out! Earlier in the week, Claire had bumped into Libby Jenkins, one of the gala cochairs from last year, in town. Libby had asked, “How’re you doing?”

And Claire had said, “Great. We’re right on track.”

Libby had said, “Don’t worry. It’s still early. Everything tends to fall apart at the last minute.” She laughed.

Claire had laughed along, thinking, Clearly the woman has no interest in bolstering my self-confidence.

As it was, things were held together with string and chewing gum. Matthew was coming off a bad drinking binge, the au pair had the chicken pox, Isabelle wasn’t speaking to her, and Claire was being blackmailed by her best friend. In typical fashion, Claire had succumbed to Siobhan; rather than fight her, she had caved in. Rather than say, No, I will not let you blackmail me, she had said, Yes, I will let you blackmail me.I will end things with Lock.

Just let me get through the weekend, Claire said.

Okay, Siobhan agreed. They had parted amicably. They had kissed good-bye.

No doubt the place where Claire could be most helpful today was in the catering kitchen, helping Siobhan. But Claire did not want to work under Siobhan’s judgmental eye. Claire would be chopping cilantro, and Siobhan would be thinking, Sinner! Cheater! Lying Madame Bovary! Aren’t you worried about your soul?

Claire checked her e-mail: nothing. Isabelle had not turned up. Claire checked her outfit. She had finally found the perfect dress at Gypsy. It was a Colette Dinnigan of green and gold lace. It was formfitting but flirty and feminine—silky, lacy, sexy. Claire checked her high heels, and the jewelry she planned to wear. She confirmed her hair appointment at the salon. In the morning, forty women were gathering to decorate—tablecloths, flower arrangements, candles, tasteful and discreet balloons. Lock would make a speech, then give a short PowerPoint presentation. Adams would do the thank-yous. Pietro da Silva would auction the chandelier. Matthew would perform.

Claire sunk into the sofa. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for things to go wrong.

He had played for Queen Elizabeth, Princess Diana, Nelson Mandela, Jacques Chirac, Julia Roberts, Robert De Niro, Jack Nicholson, the sultan of Brunei, the Dalai Lama; he had played Bill Clinton’s second inauguration and Super Bowl XXVIII; he had played at both the Oscars and the Grammys. He had played Shea, Fenway, Madison Square Garden, Minute Maid Park, the L.A. Forum, Soldier Field, the Meadowlands. He had sung with Buffett, Tom Petty, Dylan, Clapton, Ray Charles, Jerry Lee Lewis, Harry Connick Jr., Harry Belafonte, and the Boss; he had recorded sound tracks for sixteen major motion pictures, two HBO series, and five commercials, including ones for Coca-Cola and RadioShack. And Max West, aka Matthew Westfield, thought he had never been so nervous as when he arrived on Nantucket to see Claire Danner again.

Well, maybe once: On the dark school bus, in December 1986, the bus that was taking the chorus from the elderly folks’ home in Cape May back to their high school in Wildwood. Matthew and Claire were juniors; they had been best friends since they were twelve. He had slept next to her, platonically, in bed; he had seen her pee, he had seen her puke beer out her nose. She had broken up with Timmy Carlsbad, and he had listened to her cry for three weeks. He had broken up with Yvonne Simpson, and Claire had fallen down the stairs on her way to get the phone at two in the morning when he called to tell her. On that night on the school bus, Matthew was feeling good. He had performed three numbers with the barbershop quartet, and the old people’s eyes had lit up. They had smiled; they had clapped and called out, Bravo!Encore! It was his first taste of being a star, and he was high from it. He thought, I never want this feeling to end. He had brought those people—whose lives were nearing their dismal end—happiness, just by singing. So let’s say it was all timing: Claire laid her head on his shoulder, put her hand on his leg, and said, “You were great. I’m proud of you.”