She smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said. She laid her head against his chest. He touched the shining curtain of her hair. “I’m looking forward to tonight.”

“Yes,” he said. “Me, too.”

Gavin was the man in charge. He had the clipboard with one thousand names and one hundred table numbers. He had the timetable. He had the notes for Lock’s remarks and Adams’s remarks. He had organized the volunteers. He was the point person for the production staff, for Siobhan and her crew, and for Max West in the greenroom.

“If you have a question,” Lock heard a woman wearing a black volunteer T-shirt say, “ask that cute guy in the madras pants.”

Lock had a question. He had a series of questions. There was, according to Ben Franklin, more than fifty thousand dollars missing from their bank account. Fifty thousand dollars! Lock had spent the whole day poring over the financials—while Gavin was at the tent, organizing—just in case Ben Franklin was truly losing it. But no: Lock saw the cash skimmed from every deposit, and it made him sick. Not only would Gavin be fired (and possibly arrested), but Lock might lose his job as well, for not paying attention. Or he might be implicated in the whole scheme. It was unthinkable, that Lock’s name would be dragged through the mud for this.

Lock was the first person to get a drink at the bar. He ordered glasses of white wine for himself and Daphne, and a Coke with a cherry for Heather, but the whole time he kept his eye trained on Gavin, who was clearly in his element with his clipboard and his earpiece. Basking in his own self-importance. How could Lock feel anything but grossly betrayed? Betrayed one minute and hypocritical the next. Lock was hiding his own cache of sins—and it was for this reason alone that Lock had decided to wait until after the gala to confront Gavin. He would do it quickly and kindly—not only to minimize negative press toward Nantucket’s Children, but also for Gavin’s sake.

Lock drank his first glass of wine quickly. Across the green expanse of field, he saw Claire. She was stunning. Damn it! The sight of her pained him. The dress she wore was light green and gold, and it draped around her body in such a way that Lock could easily picture her nude underneath the lacy material. Her legs looked amazing because of her high heels, and she negotiated with the heels gracefully, even in the grass. Her hair had been straightened and smoothed, and it fell around her face in beautiful lines. She was luminous, a movie star. Everyone was looking at her; everyone wanted to talk to her. Lock felt a surge of jealousy—she was his!

Lock got another drink. He had to be careful; he didn’t want to have too much before he gave his remarks, thanked everyone for coming, and started the PowerPoint presentation. But his mind was careening one way and then another; it was a sled without a rider, whoosh, down the mountain, down a double fault line—Gavin, Claire, Daphne, Heather. Around him, the cocktail hour was in full swing. Everyone was chatting and laughing. He had to get out there and shine—that was his job. He wanted, first, to find Daphne and Heather. Daphne needed monitoring, and Lock didn’t want to squander a single second with Heather: she was leaving for school in two days. But there were people to talk to. They appeared, one after another, popping up in his path, hands to shake, connections to establish or reinforce. He wanted to keep his eye on Claire. And Gavin.

He oozed schmooze, but his mind was a runaway. He spied Isabelle French looking lovely in a red dress. Isabelle was another wild card; she had been so upset, so offended by the slight in the magazine. She had told Lock that she would see the gala through to the end, but then she was resigning from the board. Withdrawing her financial support. It would be another stain on Lock’s record.

Lock saw Daphne and Heather talking to one of their neighbors. Daphne held her wineglass aloft for Lock to see. He repaired to the bar to get her another drink. Daphne! Claire! Isabelle! Gavin!

Gavin!

When Lock approached the bar, Gavin was standing there alone. He was slouching against the bar in an uncharacteristically casual way, as though he were playing a part in a western. When he saw Lock, he grinned. “This is great,” he said. “All these people. It’s amazing.”

Lock had overestimated his own kindness. He could not stand to listen to Gavin utter one word about how exciting the gala was when the man had single-handedly robbed the cause of more than fifty thousand dollars. As Lock looked at Gavin now, the pieces of the puzzle fell into place—Gavin’s skittishness around the office, his sense of proprietorship over the finances, his anxiety about getting to the bank at lunchtime, and the way that, when he returned from the bank, he looked like the cat that had eaten the canary. Lock had actually wondered if Gavin had a crush on one of the tellers at the bank, so obvious was the change in his demeanor, from businesslike to slaphappy. It had been Ben’s granddaughter Eliza who had called Gavin into question in the first place. She took special notice of the Nantucket’s Children transactions because her grandfather was on the board of directors. Why did Gavin walk with so much cash? Thousands of dollars, she told Ben.

Doesn’t seem right, she said.

And Ben said, No, my dear, it doesn’t.

Lock had promised himself he would wait until Monday to discuss the financials with Gavin, but because of his anger and the wine and the zooming trajectory of his thoughts, he found he could not wait. It was just the two of them, alone, at the bar; no one else was around. What were the chances? It was a sign.

“I have to talk to you about something,” Lock said.