The following night, Wednesday, there was a real meeting. Jason grumbled and Claire snapped at him for grumbling. He was angry that Claire had gone back to work, and she was angry that he was angry. She was more than angry; she was disillusioned. Jason didn’t value her career—and not only did he not value it, but he hated it. He had told his own brother that he wanted to bomb Claire’s hot shop. Bomb it—like a terrorist! When Claire had heard him say those words, they had not seemed as egregious as they did now. Jason had asked Claire to give up her career; he made her feel like her career was evil. He did not appreciate or respect her work. Lock was responsible for getting Claire back into the hot shop. That was a bond that went beyond the kiss in the office.

As she grabbed her purse, Jason said, “Have fun at your meeting.”

“Thanks,” Claire said with open hostility. “I will.”

Claire could see the lights of the Nantucket’s Children office blazing from half a block away. Then she saw Brent Jackson, Julie’s husband, and Brent’s friend Edward Melior (who had the distinction of having once been engaged to Siobhan) heading toward the office from Water Street. Claire waved and they all climbed the stairs together, and Claire was glad she was entering the office with these handsome, successful men (Brent and Edward were both real estate agents) rather than alone. The office was a hive of activity. Adams Fiske was there, shaking hands, pounding backs, directing people toward the boardroom. Francine Davis was there, one of Claire’s recruits, as well as Lauren van Aln, and the biggest coup, Tessa Kline, who was an editor at NanMag, the island’s biggest, glossiest magazine. She would give them great press. Right away, it was a party of sorts, all these people, a veritable who’s who of year-round islanders, and Claire was so overwhelmed and so pleased with herself for gathering these fine souls that she nearly forgot to look for Lock. There he was, in the corner, talking to a woman Claire didn’t recognize. The woman was attractive, wearing a red silk Chinese jacket and jeans. She had the sort of long, straight hair that distracted men, and the hair was loose, which seemed like a come-on, a call for attention, on a woman in her forties. Why not pull it back or pin it up? The hair—a pretty light brown—was making some kind of statement, and Claire didn’t like what it was saying. She felt as if her own hair—true, deep red and naturally wavy—was a Brillo pad in comparison. It was Ronald McDonald hair. She felt immediately defensive, not only about her hair, but about Lock’s talking to an attractive woman. Claire realized—just as Lock turned and looked at her (blankly, as though he didn’t recognize her)—that the woman was Isabelle French. Here, in person. Claire was taken aback; she had expected that Isabelle would call from New York. She had been ready for a disembodied voice, not an intriguing flesh-and-blood presence.

Lock said, “Claire!” and waved her over in a way that made her feel like his servant.

She tried to smooth the wrinkles in her mind. When she was working and she blew out a piece too thin, or she marvered lopsidedly, the best thing to do was start over—go back to the crucible and get a new gather. She could do that now, with Isabelle: start fresh, with a glob of molten possibility that could be coaxed into something divine.

The room seemed to part as Claire made her way toward Lock and Isabelle.

Lock said, “Claire, this is Isabelle French, your cochair. Isabelle, Claire Crispin.”

Claire smiled. She and Isabelle clasped hands like two heads of state. Claire could imagine the caption beneath their official photograph: Gala cochairs meet for the first time.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Isabelle said. Her voice was smooth and rich and a touch smoky, like some kind of complicated sauce. “I know your work, of course.”

That was a nice touch, Claire thought. I know your work. It made Claire feel like Gertrude Stein.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.” This was the woman in the Indian-print tunic whom Claire had seen at the benefit. Claire remembered seeing her one other time before that, from across the room at a board meeting—but Claire could never have guessed from either of those previous sightings that they would someday be shackled together.

“Let’s get started,” Lock said. “Will everyone take a seat?” He pulled out a chair for Isabelle and took the seat beside her. Claire felt a twinge of jealousy. She remembered Daphne Dixon: If she touches him, or if they spend time alone together, I want you to call me . . . But who was the real threat? Why, it was Claire! Claire was the only woman Lock had kissed other than Daphne in twenty years. But Lock Dixon hadn’t pulled out her chair. Okay, stop, she thought. Back to the crucible. She needed to remember why they were there—to help people like Marcella Vallenda, to raise money, to fund programming, to improve people’s lives.

Claire wanted to get away from Lock, but the chairs were filling up quickly . . . She felt a momentary panic, as if this was a child’s game, the music was going to stop at any second, and she would have to grab a seat . . . and the only seat remaining was to Lock’s right. Claire sat down; now she and Isabelle were flanking him. To Claire’s right, thankfully, was Adams Fiske, with his mop of brown curls and glasses sliding down his nose. Claire adored him unconditionally. His youngest son, Ryan, was J.D.’s best friend. Adams was in Claire’s foxhole; he would watch her back.

Isabelle cleared her throat. “I’ve written up an agenda for the meeting,” she said. She opened up a luscious calfskin portfolio and took out a sheaf of papers, passed them around. Claire felt the first drop of poison sully the new waters of her relationship with Isabelle. She had written up an agenda?All right, Claire thought. That made sense. She wouldn’t travel all the way from New York City on a Wednesday in October to show up at a meeting unprepared. So, the agenda. Claire glanced at Lock, who had put on his bifocals. Forty-eight hours earlier, they had been making out like a couple of teenagers in the other room, but now that seemed like a figment of Claire’s imagination.