Claire made her way across the field, her heels catching in the grass every now and again. There hadn’t been rain, thank God, but a field was still a field. Flats would have been a better call, but the dress called for heels. She would pay for her vanity tomorrow when her feet ached.

A couple stood outside the locked concession stand, deep in conversation. Claire did not look at them closely—she had no desire to interrupt—but then the woman made a noise and Claire did look over. It was Isabelle and . . . Gavin.

“Isabelle!” Claire called out in spite of herself. “God, I tried to reach you all week!”

Isabelle sniffed and adjusted the straps of her dress. Her dress was beautiful and simple, a red sheath with satin piping. “Hello, Claire,” she said.

Claire looked between Isabelle and Gavin. “I don’t mean to interrupt,” she said. “I just came to get the chandelier.”

“Oh, right,” Isabelle said.

“Is everything okay?”

Claire wondered if Isabelle was crying because of the article in NanMag. Was it that big of a deal? Or maybe she was upset that none of her friends had come to the event. Maybe she was crying over her bad divorce. Whatever it was, she had chosen a curious person to comfort her. Gavin. It gave Claire pause.

“I’m sorry,” Claire said. “I really didn’t mean to interrupt. Just ignore me.”

Claire unlocked the concession stand. Behind her, the party raged. Despite the fact that there were no hors d’oeuvres to speak of, the gala was going smoothly. She had not had the nerve to pop into the greenroom to check on Matthew; if she found him drinking, she would unhinge. It was better not to know. Besides, if she popped in to see him and they got into a difficult conversation, he might start drinking. She would stay away and hope for the best.

The concession stand had no lights, so Claire had to grope through the gathering dark for the chandelier. When she found the box, she became aware of Isabelle and Gavin loitering by the open door.

“I’ve got it,” Claire said. “I’ll unwrap it at the table.”

She hesitated before the doorway, indicating that they should make room, which they did, and Claire stepped through. Should she say anything else to Isabelle? Isabelle, even in the worst of times, had been upbeat and indomitable. She handwrote notes on hundreds of invitations, despite her shame; she got on the phone and interrogated caterers, including the head of the high school cafeteria. Claire should congratulate her, thank her—try one last time to connect with her. Tomorrow, Isabelle French would be out of her life forever.

But Claire stopped herself. Isabelle most certainly did not want to be comforted by Claire. For all Claire knew, she could be the reason Isabelle was crying.

Claire had the chandelier, and right now she needed to concentrate on delivering it safely to the tent. All the way across the field in these heels? Claire proceeded slowly, carefully; the box was heavy.

She set the chandelier down on the designated table and unpacked it, using scissors to free it from its cocoon of protective Bubble Wrap. A card beside the chandelier read, Pulled-taffy chandelier in fuchsia. Artist: Claire Danner Crispin. Starting bid: $25,000. People standing around the table oohed and aahed when the chandelier was finally revealed. Claire tried not to smile, but even sitting on the table, the chandelier was magnificent! She had worked so, so hard.

“It’s my first piece in nearly two years,” she said to no one in particular. At that moment, she wished fervently that Lock would win it. She had made it for him.

She touched the perfect arc of the first arm (four and a half hours, sixty tries).

“Good-bye,” she whispered. “Good-bye.”

He’d had three six-packs since arriving for the sound check, so eighteen beers, but it was nothing to worry about. Terry and Alfonso weren’t happy with him, he could tell, but they weren’t going to blow the whistle on him, either. It was just beer. They were relieved he hadn’t pulled the Tanqueray out.

He could have whatever he wanted. There was a nineteen-year-old Nepali kid named G-Man in the greenroom whose job it was to fetch Max and the band whatever their hearts desired. What Matthew desired was beer, and beer he got, Heineken after Heineken, in cold green bottles. Namaste!

He popped open another beer. Number nineteen. The worst thing about drinking beer was that he constantly had to urinate. On his last trip to the Porta-John, he had felt light-headed. Whether this was because of the beer or because of his deep melancholy at leaving the next day, he had no idea. He wanted to leave with Claire, but he had not been able, yet, to persuade her. He entertained fantasies of just staying on Nantucket, of living with Claire and Jason and their kids, like some kind of eccentric uncle. The fact of the matter was, he needed a family; he should have started one of his own, but his lifestyle hadn’t cooperated. Too many drugs, too many late nights, too little chance for routine and consistency.

Matthew sneaked peeks out of the tent, across the field. Claire was in his crosshairs. He tried to appreciate the other women, but his eyes always landed on Claire. That green dress. It was impossible to believe that Claire was even prettier at thirty-seven than she had been at seventeen, but yes, it was true. She had grown into herself. She had so much confidence now, such a way about her, a kindness mixed with competence. She floated, lit from within.

At that second, Matthew saw Claire talking to a balding man in a pink tie. Claire tucked herself under his ear and whispered something. He, in turn, touched the small of her back, as though he was used to touching her. It was the head honcho of the charity. The guy had come into the greenroom and introduced himself a few minutes ago, but Matthew couldn’t remember the man’s name. Dock? Dick? The man had not seemed particularly starstruck to meet Max West, as so many people were, but he had been grateful and businesslike. Now, Matthew saw this Dick guy and Claire were on intimate terms. God, the way he’d touched her just now, his hand on the small of her back, practically cupping her ass, made Matthew burn with jealousy. He couldn’t trust himself, especially not when he’d been drinking. Was this Dick person the reason Claire had turned him down?