It surprised Claire that alcohol had reached out and grabbed Matthew, as an adult, by the neck. Why him and not her? Of course, his life—in the interim between their last month together, August 1987, and the present—had contained excesses such as Claire could only imagine. Matthew had told her about some of it—the drugs, the alcohol, the girls, the parties, the complete lack of scruples characteristic of a rock-and-roll tour bus. There was not one wholesome thing about his Stormy Eyes Tour: not one night where he drank water and went to bed early, not one sentence uttered without a swear word, not one steamed vegetable, not one breath of air that didn’t contain the sweet suggestion of marijuana smoke. It was all vodka and tits, he said. And pressure. That was the real monkey on his back: the pressure.

Claire had spoken to Matthew in the Minneapolis airport, as he awaited his escort to Hazelden, for nearly an hour. Mostly it was him talking, reminiscing, apologizing.

I should never have let you go. We were happy.

Happy, she said.

Your father hated me.

He did not.

Your mother thought I sang off-key.

Don’t be silly. She thought you had the voice of an angel.

Remember when I sang at the Pony? Things were simple then.

Simple, Claire said. She laughed. Remember when you let me play the tambourine?

You were a regular Tracy Partridge.

She could hear him smiling.

I miss you, he said. If you ever need anything, anything at all . . .

Or if you ever need anything, she said.

Ask, he said.

Ask, she said.

So. She had an ancient cell phone number and Bruce’s number in L.A. Call Bruce! It was only October. If Max called her back in three weeks or a month or even two months, that would still leave plenty of time to book him as the talent. Or she could write to Matthew’s mother, Sweet Jane Westfield, who still lived on East Aster Road in Wildwood Crest. Claire got a Christmas card from her every year. Sweet Jane was the one constant in Matthew’s life; if Jane received a note from Claire, she would pin it to her corkboard over the sink (Claire could see the corkboard plain as day, as well as the crocheted cover that went over the teakettle) and she would mention it to Matthew when he called, which he did every Sunday.

Claire would do both. She found Sweet Jane’s address in her book and handwrote a note in large print, explaining that she needed to get ahold of Matthew. She wanted Matthew to play a short concert here on Nantucket to benefit a children’s charity. It’s not for me, Claire wrote. It’s for the island kids. Would you please have him call me? My number is . . . In a PS she mentioned that her kids were doing well—no doubt Sweet Jane still had Zack’s birth announcement pinned to the corkboard—and she asked after Monty, Sweet Jane’s cat.

Next she dialed Bruce Mandalay, Matthew’s agent. Bruce Mandalay was the person who’d discovered Matthew at the Stone Pony. It came as a surprise because although there were always agents and managers and record producers at the Stone Pony (thanks to Springsteen and Bon Jovi), they were normally easy to pick out. They had slick hair and diamond earrings; they wore suits. Bruce Mandalay looked like a manager at a box factory; he was ordinary. Paunchy, balding, with rimless glasses and a mustache and sturdy wing-tip shoes. He was soft-spoken, nonthreatening to the point of invisibility. Matthew had signed with him because he was serious, smart, sensible. Bruce thought the song “Parents Know” could be a single; he offered to put the money up himself to have Matthew record it professionally in New York. Matthew did so, and then, almost immediately, Bruce hooked him up with Columbia. Just like that, Matthew shot toward the stars.

When Matthew went to New York to record the single, he’d insisted Claire come along. She rode in the back of Bruce’s Pinto from Wildwood to Manhattan. Bruce had treated her nicely, better than she had thought a tagalong girlfriend would be treated. At a rest stop, Bruce bought her a cheeseburger and a Coke; he asked her about college. She told him, “RISD,” and he said, “Impressive.” He had five daughters himself, he said.

But as Matthew became more important to Bruce, Claire became less important. When she showed up backstage at the Beacon Theatre eighteen months later (Max West was opening for the Allman Brothers), Bruce didn’t recognize her. Was she that forgettable, or were there just so many girls by then that Bruce couldn’t keep track? Claire had been out of touch for so long now that she might have to remind Bruce who she was, but that was okay. There had been hundreds of girls for Matthew, possibly even thousands, including two wives and one unfortunate mistress (the most famous actress of modern times), but Claire had the distinction of being the first girl, the one Matthew had loved before he was famous.

“Hello? Bruce Mandalay.”

“Bruce?” Claire said. “This is Claire Danner calling.”

There was a pause. Well, the request for tickets had been two years ago. And it was possible that Claire had an inflated view of her importance in Matthew’s history.

“I’m Matthew’s—”

“Yes,” Bruce said. “Claire, yes, hello.” His voice sounded the same, very calm and metered. He was a nonagent agent; nothing got him excited or riled up. Being Max West’s agent must have made him a rich and powerful man, but you would never know it. Claire wondered about his five daughters. They had been younger than Claire, but by now they were all grown. Bruce might even be a grandfather. Claire didn’t have time to ask. She had to pick up the kids from school in fifteen minutes.