“All right!” Matthew said into the microphone. He had an encore, one final song, and he had given it a lot of thought. He had, in fact, arranged for this song even before he arrived on the island. He had called each of the contract musicians himself—one second tenor, one baritone, one bass—and made sure they all knew barbershop.

Nobody would understand but her, and that was okay because she was the only one who mattered. He waited until the crowd grew quiet, absolutely silent, and then he hit the first, perfect note.

Sweet Rosie O’Grady, my dear little Rose.

It was how he’d gotten her before. It was all he had left.

And yes, she was smiling ear to ear, and yes, tears were streaming down her face, and yes, it was as though they were the only two people in the place—Matthew Westfield and Claire Danner, high school sweethearts from Wildwood Crest, New Jersey.

But as the quartet closed in on the end of the song, as their four voices blended with a beauty and a poignancy that Matthew himself could scarcely believe—and Rosie O’Grady loves me!—Claire looked him right in the eye and shook her head.

No, she said. I can’t.

Matthew clipped the note. The lights went out. The audience keened. He was intensely jealous then, as jealous as he’d ever been, not of Underwhelming Jason and not of Dick, but of having a life that you couldn’t, or didn’t want to, leave behind.

No, he thought. You shouldn’t.

It was time for him to go.

Claire woke up to Jason kissing the back of her neck.

“What time is it?” she said.

“Six.”

“Too early.” She closed her eyes.

He let her sleep until nine, an unbelievable luxury. When she came out into the kitchen, the kids had all been fed and the breakfast dishes were washed. Pan was sitting on the sofa, reading to Zack. She was still spotted, but she felt better. Jason was standing at the counter, making sandwiches. Claire watched him in amazement: he lined up the bread and slathered one with mayo (Ottilie), one with mustard (J.D.), and one with mustard and butter (Shea). When he saw Claire, he stopped what he was doing and poured her a cup of coffee.

Claire kissed him and said, “Thank you for letting me sleep.”

“Picnic for the beach today,” he said.

“Okay,” Claire said. “Where’s Matthew?”

“He left.”

“He left?”

“His plane took off at seven. For Spain. I drove him to the airport.”

“He told me his flight was at ten,” Claire said. “He didn’t even say good-bye.”

Jason cleared his throat and started laying down slices of ham. “He told me to tell you he loves you, but that he understands.”

Claire nodded.

Jason closed the sandwiches, then sliced them with the big knife. “You pulled off a great event, despite everything. You should be proud of yourself, Claire.”

Claire took her coffee out to the back deck, stood at the railing, and looked out over the golf course. It was a glorious day.

Her head should have hurt, but it didn’t. Her heart should have hurt, but it didn’t, either. The chandelier was broken. On the way home from the gala, Claire had asked Jason to stop by the grocery store. Claire was about to toss the box into the Dumpster, but she found she couldn’t part with it so unceremoniously. The chandelier, broken or whole, represented a year of her life, and weren’t there things about the past year that had been valuable? Wasn’t there anything she could salvage? She could, she decided, salvage the chandelier. She thought of Mr. Fred Bulrush in San Francisco, for whom she had made the pulled-taffy candlesticks. She would repair the chandelier, and he would buy it. If it was lopsided, if it had hairline cracks, if it had dings and scars, if it contained a story of love and betrayal and ecstasy and regret, so much the better. It’s like all of a sudden you don’t care about your soul. Stand in line together at the post office. You must pray for strength. We need someone who can give it a dedicated effort. There’s been an accident. O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you, and I detest all my sins. They don’t know about the baby. I’ve been watching for you for . . . oh, about five days. Live with me. Marry me. When all this is over, do I get you back? He’s a walker! Ladies and gentlemen, Claire Danner Crispin! . . .

It would mark her triumphant return.