Gavin was Claire’s opposite: he looked like he went home and showered at lunchtime, his shirt and pants were crisp like the pages of a new book, and he was single-minded in his devotion to Lock Dixon and the seamless administration of Nantucket’s Children.

Claire dropped the contract on his desk in a way that was probably rude. “You heard we got Max West to play the gala?”

He nodded once, solemnly. “Lock told me. Congratulations.”

“Don’t congratulate me. Congratulate us. We should make a lot of money.”

“Indeed, we should.”

“Do you like Max West?” Claire asked. “Have you ever seen him in concert?”

“I listen to classical, Claire, you know that.”

“But not only classical?”

“Only classical. And jazz, every once in a while, on the weekends.”

“But no rock music?” Claire said. “No blues, no rap, no country? No music with words?”

Gavin smiled at her. The classical music came across as an affectation, as did the red and white Mini Cooper that Gavin drove. The sight of him in that car bugged her, though she couldn’t say why.

“This is the contract and the rider. I’d like Lock to look at them, go over them with Adams, whatever the usual procedure is.”

Gavin straightened the papers. “They will go most directly into Lock’s in-box.”

“Thank you, Gavin.” Claire beamed as warmly as she could.

“Is there anything else?”

Claire eyed the clock. It was ten minutes to one. Lunch with donors? Had he left at twelve, or twelve thirty? What if she left right now and missed him by a matter of seconds?

“I have some questions about the catering. The catering of the gala.”

“Mmmmmm,” Gavin said. “What would those be?”

Claire paused. She didn’t know how to handle the whole catering question. Claire had asked Siobhan to sit on the gala committee automatically, right away, because Siobhan was her best friend and Claire wanted to include her. But it would be truly awkward if Siobhan sat on the committee and for some reason she and Carter didn’t get the catering job. Right? Anyone could see the tough position Claire was in. She wanted to proceed fairly, but the more she thought about it, the clearer it became that Claire would somehow have to secure the catering job for Siobhan. Claire eyed Gavin. Was it safe to spill her guts to him about this? It was not, she decided.

“My sister-in-law is interested in bidding the catering job,” Claire said. “You know Siobhan and Carter, right? Island Fare?”

Gavin nodded once, briskly.

“So what is the procedure?”

“They are free to submit a bid,” Gavin said. “We have two bids in already.”

“You do?”

“It’s a big deal, the gala,” Gavin said. As if she didn’t get it.

“Can I see the bids?” Claire asked.

“Well, technically, yes. I mean, you are the cochair. But I’m going to have to ask you not to share the content of the bids with Carter and Siobhan. If you were, for example, to tell Siobhan what the price per head was, and then she came in a couple of bucks under, that would fall outside the parameters of fair business practices. To keep your nose clean, I would suggest you not look at the bids. In fact, I would suggest you delegate catering to someone else. That’s why you have a committee!”

“Right,” Claire said reluctantly. How to explain to Gavin that Siobhan was Claire’s best friend and Claire could not deny her the catering?

“Can you tell me who gave you the bids, at least?” Claire asked.

“I could,” Gavin said. “I certainly could. You are the cochair. But what you have to ask yourself is, do you really want to know? Wouldn’t it be better, from an ethical standpoint, to wash your hands of this? Because, you know, here in this office, we insist things be done in an aboveboard way.”

Claire gazed at the wall next to Gavin’s desk. Only eighteen hours earlier, Lock Dixon had pressed her up against that wall. What would Gavin think if he knew? He would never believe it—and if he’d seen it with his own eyes, he would have fainted dead away.

We insist things be done in an aboveboard way. Gavin was weaselly, Claire decided. And self-important. He was the kind of guy who assumed that any woman he went out with more than three times would want to marry him, and now he was treating the catering bids as if they were the Pentagon Papers. But unlike three weeks ago, when Claire had known nothing about the gala, had done nothing and contributed nothing, she now felt she had some clout, some bargaining power. She had delivered Max West promptly, and free of charge. Surely she could lobby on Siobhan’s behalf?

“Is it really that big of a deal?” Claire asked.

“I’m just trying to keep everything on the up-and-up. You don’t want your integrity called into question, do you?”

Her integrity was becoming a tender spot already. “God, no,” she said. “You’re right. Forget I asked.”

Gavin nodded again and got back to work, effectively dismissing her.

“You’ll show Lock the contract?”

“When he gets back.”

“Okay.” She couldn’t really delay another second. Did she want to delay? Did she want to see Lock? Yes, desperately, but now she would be too nervous, she would be tongue-tied, and Gavin, with his sharp, discriminating eye, would detect something fishy afoot, something fishier than the catering bids. Get out of there! “Good-bye!”