“We are so lucky that the only thing that broke was the chandelier,” she said. She raised her head and looked at him. For much of the past year, he had seemed wonderful and mysterious; he had seemed all-knowing, a repository of wisdom and right answers and sound judgment. He had served as her savior. She had been needy in ways she didn’t even know about, and he had filled her up. But he was wrong about there being no hell; there was a hell, and they had narrowly avoided it. “We could have ruined our lives. My marriage could have broken up, or yours could have. Our kids, your job, our friends, our lives—they all could have ended up in the trash.” Claire thought of herself living with Lock in a rental house with Claire’s children in strange rooms, displaced and resentful. After six months, Lock would be going to work at night to escape her; she, in turn, would be making secret phone calls to Jason. Claire shook the image from her head and filled up with an emotion that was as thick as syrup, an emotion she could only describe as bittersweet. God, she had loved Lock Dixon so completely, with such bright intensity that it had blinded her. But now, finally, it had burned itself out.

“Claire . . .”

She smoothed his tie. The worst thing about adultery, in the end, was that it had shaken her belief in the things she had always held sacred—love, marriage, friendship. “I need something from you,” she said.

“Yes, of course,” Lock said. “God, anything.”

He was earnest, supplicant, hurting. He had been hurting since she’d met him; he was the injured bird on the side of the road, the one no one would stop to save but her. He was the tar in her hair, on her hands, weighing one side of her head down, impossible to get out. He was the one person she had been unable to say no to. Until now.

“I need you to let me go.”

Lock nodded. He was stunned, maybe, or maybe in his infinite wisdom he was saying, Yes, you’re right. Go now, while you can. Claire didn’t ask. She hurried back toward the bright tent, toward the music.

Siobhan knew what her childhood priest, Father Kennedy, would say: They were all, every last one of them, sinners. That included Carter, her gambling husband, and Claire, her adulterous best friend. That included Siobhan herself.

The whole thing had happened so fast, the way it had when Liam broke his arm: one second he was handling the puck, and the next second he was up against the boards, then down on the ice, his arm dangling off him.

Siobhan had been setting out dessert samplers and listening to Lock Dixon up onstage, giving his sappy “save the children” speech. To Siobhan, the whole idea that this evening, with its cocktails and canapés and women in their summer diamonds, had anything to do with the actual children and working families of Nantucket was fucking nonsense. This evening was about the guests celebrating their own wealth and good fortune; it was about seeing a famous rock star up close. It wasn’t about doing the right thing so much as being seen doing the right thing. Some people under the tent probably had no idea which charity their money was even benefiting! The whole world of charity benefits, Siobhan decided, was shallow and obnoxious. But perhaps that was too cynical: Siobhan was just tired, bone-weary, and suffering from a foul, foul mood caused by visions of Carter at the roulette wheel.

She had just stepped out of the tent when the security guard—a doughy guy from the UK—rushed past her. There were people, crashers, Max West fanatics, trying to jump the fence. For most of the evening, there had been people lingering outside the tent, getting fresh drinks, sneaking a cigarette, going to the bathroom. But now, everyone was packed inside, listening to the speeches, waiting for Max West to hit the stage. The only people behind the tent were her bartender, Hunter, and, at the bar, Mr. Ben Franklin, who appeared to be talking to himself. Siobhan felt a stab of empathy; she had been talking to herself all night long, and nothing she’d said had been very nice.

Siobhan looked to her right and saw Isabelle French pick up Claire’s chandelier. It was dangling from Isabelle’s left hand. Isabelle was saying something to Gavin that Siobhan couldn’t hear. Siobhan thought back to the night of the soirée intime and how awful Isabelle had been, harassing Claire about taking a $25,000 table. It had been no better than sorority hazing.

Siobhan did not like the sight of Isabelle holding Claire’s chandelier so carelessly. Siobhan did not think before she spoke. She barked at Isabelle in the meanest shanty Irish voice she could muster.

“Put that down!”

Her voice was too loud and too sudden; it was a gunshot in the dark. It caused Ben Franklin to spill his drink all over the bar. And Isabelle—naturally skittish, drunk, holding carelessly onto the cord—swung around, and the chandelier swung with her.

Siobhan cried out. Gavin cried out. The chandelier narrowly missed hitting the edge of the table.

Isabelle turned on Siobhan accusingly. “What?”

“Put it down,” Siobhan said.

Gavin took the chandelier from Isabelle and set it safely back on the table.

Isabelle looked like she was about to burst into tears. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

Gavin said, “I’ll wait for you right here.” Siobhan glared at him, thinking of his coming out to spy on her and Edward that night. He was creepy. He would not look at Siobhan now, would not offer an apologetic word on behalf of his “date.” In so many ways, the two of them deserved each other. Gavin lit up a cigarette, flipped open his cell phone, and disappeared into the shadows.

Siobhan touched the chandelier gingerly; it was as delicate as spun sugar. To think that Isabelle had nearly cracked it. Inside the tent, the slide show was playing. Adams would be next with the thank-yous, and Claire would be last, the biggie. Siobhan knew she should not begrudge Claire her moment of recognition, but begrudge it she did. It wasn’t fair that Claire got everything. She was the artist, she was the gala cochair; she was the nice to Siobhan’s naughty. She had received the first-child pearls from their father-in-law, Malcolm; every time Claire wore them, like tonight, it was a slap in the face to Siobhan. Siobhan loved Claire better than any other woman in the world, but along with that love came resentment. You want naughty? Siobhan indulged in a mean little fantasy where she trashed the chandelier. She had not dropped or spilled anything in more than two years, since the full sherry glasses went over in Martin Scorsese’s lap during the film festival. Siobhan was due for an unfortunate accident.