Siobhan pictured herself the villainess in this story, then shivered. Awful. She was so absorbed in the thoughts of a horrible sinner that she did not notice Daphne Dixon coming out of the tent until Daphne was practically on top of her. What she saw only registered in the corner of her eye as a flare, a flame-colored blur. And that was what Siobhan meant by “fast”—one minute Siobhan was standing alone by the chandelier, contemplating the injustices of her life, and the next minute there was Daphne, drunk, stumbling out of the tent, headed for Siobhan. She looked like she wanted to tell Siobhan something—oh, dear Lord, what was she going to say?—or maybe she just needed someone to hold her up. Daphne was a lot bigger than Siobhan, and she had a frightening amount of momentum. She knocked into Siobhan, Siobhan knocked into the table, the table tilted, the chandelier slid to the ground. Crash, in the grass, and then whipped by its own chain.

Oh no, broken. So broken. Siobhan untangled herself from Daphne. Daphne got to her feet unsteadily; she took her shoes off—were her shoes the problem?—and staggered away.

“Daphne! Daphne, come back here!”

Daphne did not turn around, though she stumbled again. She was very drunk. Siobhan’s first thought was that she could not let Daphne get into a car. Siobhan chased Daphne out to the parking lot. She caught up to her and grabbed her arm.

“You’re not driving,” Siobhan said.

“It was an accident,” Daphne said. “Accident, accident, accident. Don’t worry. It wasn’t your fault.”

Siobhan tightened her grip on Daphne’s arm and flagged the security guard, who was threading his way through the parking lot. Should she tell him about the chandelier, smashed to bits in the grass? Who had knocked it over? Don’t worry. It wasn’t your fault. Damn right it wasn’t! But Siobhan had been standing in the wrong place; she should have been in the airless catering tent, doing dishes. Siobhan had the sick feeling it was her fault. Siobhan had knocked it over, right? She wasn’t sure; it had happened so fast. Accident, accident, accident. Yes, it was an accident. Claire and Siobhan should have absolutely insisted that Daphne get into a cab so many years ago. Claire had always felt guilty about that, but Siobhan hadn’t, though now Siobhan could see that Claire was right. Don’t worry. It wasn’t your fault. But it was their fault. Their inaction had been negligent, criminal. They had let Daphne drive home, despite the fact that she was wearing the lampshade. They might as well have handed her a loaded gun. If they had only stopped Daphne, everything now would be different.

Or would it?

“This woman needs a cab,” Siobhan said to the security guard. “She shouldn’t be driving.”

“I’m fine,” Daphne spat.

“Please put her in a cab,” Siobhan said. “She’s been drinking.”

The security guard wheeled Daphne toward the exit. “Will do. Ma’am, where do you live?”

Siobhan headed back to the tent, gravel crunching under her kitchen clogs. They were, all of them, sinners.

When Siobhan returned, the tent was rumbling with applause. She approached Hunter, at the bar, who was mopping up Ben Franklin’s drink.

“If anyone asks,” Siobhan said to Hunter, “tell them your back was turned.”

Hunter nodded.

Siobhan entered the back of the tent as Claire rose to accept her flowers. Siobhan would tell her what had happened later, privately. After all the hours Claire had devoted to the chandelier, it had taken only ten seconds to destroy. Less: five seconds, three seconds. How would Claire forgive her? (She would, Siobhan knew, because she was Claire.) Siobhan thought of the blue velvet bag in the secret compartment of her jewelry box, empty now. She had sold the ring for seventy-five hundred dollars—and donated it, anonymously, to Nantucket’s Children, even though she very much needed the money. Carter! What was Carter doing, right this second? Was he thinking of her, sensing her angst and torment—or was he stoned from throwing the dice? She had to get him help. But where? From whom? She would have to suck up the little pride she had left and ask Lock Dixon; he would have the answer. Forgiveness.

Siobhan closed her eyes and crossed herself: In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. It was all she could think of to do.

It was five minutes to ten and he was growing hoarse. That, really, was the worst effect of drinking before a show: he didn’t forget words or lose the melody, but his voice deteriorated. He still had two songs to sing.

He nuzzled the microphone. “This last song is for my . . . friend, Claire Danner.” The word “friend” was lame and insufficient, but he couldn’t very well tell a thousand of Claire’s friends and peers that he had fallen back in love with her. Still, he added, “When I wrote this song twenty years ago, I wrote it for her.” He looked down into the audience. Claire’s eyes were glassy. She blinked; tears fell. Matthew strummed the first chord, and the band eased into “Stormy Eyes.”

He wanted her to come up onstage; he wanted her to sing the last verse with him. Nobody realized this, but Claire could sing. High school chorus, soprano section. He tried to wave her up; she shook her head. She was dancing with Underwhelming Jason. Dick wasn’t around. Matthew felt hopeful.

At the end of “Stormy Eyes,” the concert was officially over. The lights went out. The crowd screamed. They wanted more. Matthew smiled. At a thousand dollars a ticket, he had expected a different crowd—more genteel, more reserved—but this group rivaled sixty thousand New Yorkers at Shea Stadium in the noise department.