“There were problems with the catering last year,” Isabelle said. “Some people said their steaks were raw, and some said theirs tasted like shoe leather.”

Claire tried to keep the eagerness out of her voice. “Maybe we should switch caterers,” she said.

“Absolutely,” Isabelle said, and for a split second, there was harmony. Palpable relief around the table. The cochairs agreed! “Do you have anyone in mind?”

Claire paused. Did she dare say it? “I know someone who’s interested in putting in a bid.”

“Who’s that?”

“Island Fare.”

“Never heard of them,” Isabelle said.

“Really?” Claire said. She pressed her back against the chair again and did the thing with her feet and her pelvis in an attempt to keep her mouth shut, but that was impossible. “The owner, Siobhan—she’s my sister-in-law—said she catered a lunch at your house last summer.”

“Oh,” Isabelle said. “Well, I threw a lot of catered luncheons last summer. I don’t remember who I used for each one.” There was silence around the table. If the rest of the committee hadn’t hated Isabelle French before, they did now. Claire tried to keep her expression neutral. She had never had an enemy before, or even a rival; she wasn’t used to feeling pleased when someone said something asinine.

Adams cleared his throat. “They’re very good,” he said. “They cater the Boston Pops every year.”

“We don’t want to use the same people as the Pops,” Isabelle asked. “We want to distinguish ourselves.”

“It would be different food,” Claire said. “It seems to me we want the most creative, delicious food at the best price. Yes or no?”

The table murmured yes. Edward Melior piped up. “I think Siobhan would be great.”

“Let’s have them give us a bid,” Adams said. “I happen to have two other bids here, though one of them is from the catering company we used last year.”

“Well, forget that,” Isabelle said. “They were awful. Half our table had their entrées, but the other half had to wait, and by the time their food came, the rest of us were finished.”

Things were looking good for Siobhan, Claire thought, and she’d barely had to say a word. “Edward, will you take charge of catering?” she asked. She knew he would pick Carter and Siobhan because he and Siobhan had once been in love and engaged to be married, and everyone in the universe knew he still carried a flame for her. The only person who would not be thrilled about this situation was Carter—he didn’t like Edward—but Siobhan wanted this job, and here was one way for her to get it without Claire’s having to perform subterfuge with the paperwork.

“My pleasure,” Edward said.

“Item four,” Isabelle said. Was it Claire’s imagination, or did it sound like she was wearing down? “Auction item.”

Lock had been sitting, this whole time, still as a statue, his hands folded on top of his legal pad. He had not written a single note, and he had not (as Claire had hoped) looked meaningfully in her direction. Possibly he was afraid to speak. He had a cochair to his left who was making the meeting difficult and unpleasant, and a cochair to his right whom he had kissed two days earlier. Claire was hurt that he wasn’t placing himself solidly in her corner, but perhaps he was afraid to show his hand. He had feelings for Claire but couldn’t let anyone know it, so he would let Claire flounder and take Isabelle’s arrows. Or he was exercising his usual good judgment and listening to everyone’s opinions before weighing in. Claire should admire his impartiality instead of letting it bother her.

“I have a few spectacular ideas for an auction item,” Isabelle said. She did the tucking-and-tossing thing with her hair again. Claire was certain that none of Isabelle’s “spectacular ideas” included a museum-quality piece of glass conceived and fashioned by Claire Danner Crispin. If Lock hadn’t told Isabelle about Max West, then he certainly hadn’t told her about Claire’s coming out of retirement for the auction item. Claire had considered bringing the sketch of the chandelier, but in the end she had been too afraid. Art was subjective and always included the possibility of failure. Already there had been a few nights, before she drifted off to sleep, when she imagined Pietro da Silva, the island’s best auctioneer, starting the bidding on her piece and looking over a sea of people, all of whom were sitting on their hands.

“Since we’re not going to ask Kristin Chenoweth to perform,” Isabelle said, “we might ask her to donate private singing lessons.”

“Singing lessons?” Tessa Kline said skeptically.

“Her face is plastered across every subway station in the city,” Isabelle said.

Edward Melior shrugged. “What about orchestra seats to the show, with a meet and greet afterward?”

“Or dinner,” Tessa said.

“I’m willing to ask,” Isabelle said gamely.

Claire’s breathing was shallow. No one was going to want her glass. It wasn’t sexy; it wasn’t interesting.

“I also have a friend willing to donate his G5,” Isabelle said. “That’s a private jet. I could ask for a round-trip anywhere in the United States with twenty people onboard for a cocktail party.”

“That sounds incredible,” Edward Melior said.

“Incredible,” Claire echoed. She felt like a complete ass. Lock had led her to believe that people would want her glass—but compared with singing lessons from a Tony Award–winning actress, or a cocktail party on a private jet flying to Palm Beach or over the Rockies, what Claire was offering up felt like a crayon drawing.