What about turning the idea upside down? Upside-down candlesticks: a chandelier. Claire had always wanted to do a chandelier. What about a pulled-taffy chandelier that would cascade from the ceiling like party streamers, each strand ending in a lightbulb the size of a grape? God, it could be utterly fantastic. Would Lock like that?

Two o’clock came and Claire picked up J.D. and Ottilie at the elementary school, then Shea at Montessori. J.D. and Ottilie had Little League at three, and Shea had soccer at three thirty. Claire had snacks and drinks for everybody, J.D. and Ottilie’s mitts, hats, and uniform shirts, Shea’s cleats and shin guards. The kids piled into the car with their lunch boxes, their backpacks, and assorted art projects. J.D. had a flyer for an open house, which wafted like an autumn leaf into the front seat.

“How was school?” Claire asked.

J.D. ripped open a bag of Fritos. Nobody answered. Claire checked the rearview mirror; Shea was struggling with her seat belt.

“What did you do today?” Claire said. “J.D.?”

“Nothing,” J.D. said.

“Nothing,” Ottilie said.

“Shea?”

“I can’t get my seat belt buckled.”

“J.D., will you help her, please?”

J.D. huffed. “Of course,” he said.

Claire smiled. She was not Julie Andrews, these were not the von Trapp children, these were children who had apparently done nothing during a whole day of school—but everything was okay. She had gone into the hot shop, but the fact of the matter was, she liked her life the way it was now. She was consumed with making sure the kids had what they needed. Because she had spent so much time mooning over her sketchbook, she had forgotten to put the laundry in the dryer, and she hadn’t done anything about dinner, so things would be insane when she got home, and there would be Zack to deal with because Pan was off at five. Claire didn’t have time to create a museum-quality piece. And yet the feeling remained, the tug. The pulled-taffy chandelier was the most exciting idea she’d had in a long time. Claire turned into the parking lot of the town recreational fields. The rec fields were the site of the summer gala; they were the only place big enough to accommodate the tent and a concert for a thousand people. Claire wondered if there was any reason she would see Lock Dixon at the rec fields, and decided the answer was no.

The soccer fields were a great place to get a glimpse of “Nantucket’s children.” On Shea’s team alone, the kids spoke five languages—there were two Haitian girls, a Bulgarian boy, a pair of Lithuanian twins whose parents were deaf (they spoke English, Lithuanian, and Lithuanian sign language). The diversity was amazing, it was exciting; the soccer program was well organized and impeccably administered. It was funded by Nantucket’s Children.

When Claire saw her own group of friends—Delaney Kitt, Amie Trimble, Julie Jackson—she felt the way men must feel about their fellow soldiers: We’re all in the foxhole together, fighting the same war. Raising young children, enjoying them, because they would only be young once.

Claire walked up to Julie Jackson. Julie was a natural beauty; she had curly blond hair and was even thinner than Claire (kick-boxing). Julie Jackson had three kids, she sold stationery and occasionally hosted an at-home show, and she served on the board of the ice rink. When Claire saw her, she thought, Committee!

“Hey,” Claire said.

“Hey!” Julie said. “How are you? Did you bring the baby? God, I haven’t seen him in forever. He must be getting so big.”

“Yeah,” Claire said. Her good mood was like a balloon that she accidentally let go—floating away, up over the trees, out of sight. Claire didn’t bring Zack to the soccer field on purpose. She didn’t want the other mothers to see him and sense something wrong and then confer with one another about whether it was because he’d been so premature. “He’s home with Pan.”

“So, what’s new?” Julie asked.

“Oh, not much,” Claire said. How to broach the subject? She should send an e-mail, she decided. But that was cowardly—and this was the perfect place to ask. They were overlooking a veritable United Nations on the six-and-under soccer team. “I agreed to cochair the summer gala. The benefit for Nantucket’s Children? Hey, you know, I would love to have you serve on the committee. Would you consider it?”

Julie Jackson had her eyes glued on her son, Eddie, who had the ball. Julie didn’t answer Claire, and Claire debated whether to repeat herself. Claire suddenly felt like she’d asked Julie Jackson to join her on the chain gang.

“Do you know what I’m talking about?” Claire said. “The summer gala? It’s held right here, in August . . .”

“I know,” Julie said. “Lock Dixon’s thing. Was he the one who asked you?”

“Yes,” Claire said. She found herself flustered at the mention of Lock’s name. Julie had been in the cab the night of Daphne’s accident. Was she making a connection? “They want me to get Max West.”

“Oh, right,” Julie said. “I forgot you knew him.” Did she say this ironically, or was Claire just too sensitive?

“Yeah,” Claire said.

“I can’t take on one more thing,” Julie said. “I just can’t.”

“Right,” Claire said. “I understand.”

“Me, either,” Delaney Kitt said.

“Me, either,” Amie Trimble said. “Ted would kill me. It always seems harmless to join this committee or that committee, but it ends up being hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars.”