The first time Claire had ever laid eyes on Daphne Dixon had been ten years earlier. Claire was pregnant with J.D., and she and Jason were at a pool party. Claire was miserable, first of all because she was wearing a maternity bathing suit the size of a circus tent, and second, because everyone was drinking Coronas and margaritas except for her. Jason, who had never gotten the hang of being a sympathetic partner in pregnancy, was especially drunk. He pointed across the pool at Daphne Dixon, who was wearing a tan bikini that made her look nude, and said, “That woman has beautiful tits.”

She may indeed have had beautiful tits, and Jason may only have been making an innocent observation as he claimed, but once you’ve heard your husband say that a woman had “beautiful tits,” you could never give that woman a 100 percent endorsement.

Somehow, though, Daphne had won Claire over. Later, at that same party, Daphne cooed over Claire because she was pregnant. Daphne and Lock had a five-year-old daughter named Heather, and Daphne confided that she had very much wanted a second child, but she’d suffered complications after Heather was born. When she found out Claire was a glassblower, she went wild. She loved glass; she was a devotee of Dale Chihuly. She would love, someday, to see Claire’s work. Okay, Claire thought. (Claire worshipped Chihuly, too.) Daphne knew what she was talking about.

A year or so later, Daphne and Heather started spending more time on the island. Daphne enrolled Heather in the elementary school, and Lock commuted to Nantucket from Boston on the weekends. Claire saw Daphne every so often and they chatted about preschools and swim lessons and the commissions Claire was working on. Then Claire got pregnant with Ottilie, and Daphne, again, was interested and attentive. She even dropped off a tiny pink sweater at the hospital with a note that said, “As soon as you’re ready for a girls’ night out, call me!”

The Daphne Dixon that Claire remembered from those days was extremely normal and good-hearted. She was lovely, really.

Claire stopped in the chicken section and threw the biggest roaster she could find into her cart. She was afraid to look behind her.

“Claire?”

Claire turned, very slowly. Daphne was right there, inches from Claire’s face. Claire could smell Daphne’s perfume and something else: vinegar. The salad dressing, maybe, from Daphne’s lunch. Claire thought it again: Ohhhhhhhhhh, very bad.

“Hi,” Claire said. She hadn’t seen Daphne Dixon in ages; her voice should convey more excitement. Instead it contained false enthusiasm, dread, the old, useless guilt, and fear that what was coming was not going to be pleasant. “Daphne, how are you?”

“Fine fine fine fine fine fine fine,” Daphne said, in a way that made Claire, like J.D., think, Mental patient. “I’m fine. Lock told me you’re chairing the gala this year.”

“Yes,” Claire said. “I am.”

“You know why they asked you, right?” Daphne said. “Right right right?”

“Right,” Claire said. “Because—”

“They want Max West,” Daphne said. “But Lock doesn’t think you’ll be able to deliver.” They’d been talking for ten seconds, and already Daphne had landed a jab. The most pronounced result of the car accident was that Daphne had lost the filter between the appropriate and the inappropriate. She had lost her ability to finesse social situations, to turn a blind eye, candy-coat, lie. “So Lock has a call in to Steven Tyler, from Aerosmith. We knew him a little in Boston.”

“Okay, but I’m pretty sure that—”

“And the other gal, Isabelle French? She’s making some calls to people on Broadway. Though frankly, I think she’s pretending to be more connected than she actually is.”

“I’ve never met her,” Claire said. “We have a meeting, though, next week.”

“I want you to tell me if Isabelle French makes any overtures toward my husband. Will you tell me?”

“Overtures?”

“If she touches him, or if they spend time alone together. I want you to call me. Between you and me, that woman is a viper. Here, I’m going to give you my card.” Daphne rifled through her purse, which was also quilted. She was wearing jeans and a pair of suede Jack Rogers sandals. She looked great, but this was just plain old deception. Daphne pulled out a business card and handed it to Claire. It was white, with Daphne’s name and various phone numbers printed in navy. Claire had never known anyone to have a business card just for herself, as a person. It was unusual, right, an affectation of the wealthy? The card should read Daphne Dixon, Crazy Person or Daphne Dixon, Mental Patient so that you would know never to dial the numbers. Even if you did see Isabelle French grabbing Lock Dixon by the necktie and planting a kiss on his lips.

“Okay,” Claire said. “Will do.”

“I mean it, Claire,” Daphne Dixon said. She tucked her very dark hair behind one red ear. Why was her ear so red? Agitation? She was standing so close to Claire that Claire could see the delicate purple veins of Daphne’s ear. “I want you to call me if you see anything, if you suspect anything. When I say ‘viper,’ I mean viper. She kissed another woman’s husband in front of everyone on the dance floor of the Waldorf-Astoria ballroom last spring. And it is a well-known fact that Isabelle French wants to fuck my husband.”

Claire laughed. She did not find that statement funny at all, but there was no point in further engaging the woman. Agree—Yes, Daphne, you bet! I’ll let you know!—and extricate yourself from the conversation. Get the hell out of there!