Lock Dixon tapped his pen against his notebook, like a judge with a gavel. “Claire and I have already discussed the auction item,” he said. “And she has agreed to create a museum-quality piece of glass that we will put up as the auction item.”

Claire felt her cheeks burning, as obvious as two circles of red felt. This was quite possibly the most mortifying moment of her entire life. Why had she let Lock talk her into this? She had no boundaries. Her cells, as Siobhan so adroitly pointed out, had no membranes. When she looked up, there would be a table full of uncomfortable looks and throat clearings and scratching of heads, literal and figurative. Museum-quality glass? Huh?

Tessa Kline shrieked. “Oh, my God!” she said. “Claire? You’ll do it?”

“Um,” Claire said, “I told Lock I would. I don’t have an idea yet, though.” Here, she thought, in addition to her cheeks burning, her nose would grow. “Plus, let’s face it: art is subjective. People could hate what I do.”

“But you’re a genius!” Tessa said. “Claire has a piece in the Whitney Museum, you know.”

“I told her this would mark her triumphant return,” Lock said. He sounded, at that moment, proprietary and proud, and although Claire was elated, she was also worried. Would everyone now guess that there was something between them? “Back after a two-year hiatus.”

“But Claire has a point,” Adams said. “Art is subjective. I would hate to see her spend a lot of time and energy creating something and then not have it go for what it’s worth.”

“It would be embarrassing for me,” Claire said. “And bad for Nantucket’s Children. If we didn’t get the money, I mean.” In the two weeks since the gala auction item had first been mentioned, it had jump-started Claire’s career and caused a rift in her marriage—and now Claire found herself backpedaling about it.

“We already have a guaranteed bid of fifty thousand dollars,” Lock said.

“We do?” Adams said.

“Yes,” Lock said. “From Daphne and me. Whatever Claire creates, we’ll pay fifty thousand dollars for. And we can cultivate other bidders.”

“Precisely,” Tessa said. “I’ll do a feature article in the magazine, with a photograph. Museum-quality piece. People will go crazy. The homes on this island have gotten so out of control with their movie theaters and their sculpture gardens and six-thousand- dollar shower curtains—I’ll bet there are a bunch of people who would jump at a chance to own a major work by Claire. It would be one-of-a-kind, right?”

“Yes,” Claire squeaked.

“One-of-a-kind. And she’s been out of commission for a couple of years. That makes it even more special. I say we go for it,” Tessa said. She grinned at Claire. “I say, go home and get blowing!”

Brent Jackson laughed at this, and Edward Melior started to applaud. Lock said, “Great. Tessa, will you head the auction committee? You’re the right person to get news about the piece out there.”

Claire turned to Adams. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“You seem to have the full confidence of our executive director,” Adams said. “And Tessa is right about the summer people having a bad case of one-upmanship. The question is how you’ll find the time.”

Of course, along with the waking nightmares, that was the question.

Claire glanced over at Isabelle, who was quietly tucking her papers into her calfskin portfolio. What did Isabelle think of Claire’s creating a museum-quality piece of glass for the auction? Did she think it was a good idea or a bad idea? I know your work. But did she like Claire’s work? Did she consider blown glass to be art, or did she consider it a hobby, like pottery, or knitting? Strangely, Claire found herself seeking Isabelle’s approval, her endorsement. But Isabelle didn’t respond; she looked exhausted. She had flown in for this meeting with her neatly printed agenda, but things hadn’t gone her way. Claire should have been pleased, but she was plagued with self-doubt. What if Max West was perceived as tawdry and common? What if hiring Siobhan to cater was unethical? What if Lock was the only one bidding on Claire’s piece? Did Claire really know how to run a benefit better than Isabelle French, who had done it for larger organizations, in the most sophisticated city in the world? It was silly to think so.

If Claire was a reluctant victor, Isabelle was a stoic loser. She crumpled the agenda in her fist in a way that seemed more resigned than angry.

“I’m tired,” she said. “And starving. There is still PR and marketing to discuss, but should we save it for next time?”

“Next time,” Lock agreed, and the rest of the committee seemed relieved. People packed up.

“Dinner?” Claire heard Lock say.

“God, yes,” Isabelle said. “Where?”

“I made a reservation at Twenty-one Federal,” he said.

“Is Daphne coming?” Isabelle asked.

“No. She wanted to see you, but she didn’t feel well enough to come out.”

Claire tried to remain calm. Lock was taking Isabelle to 21 Federal for dinner. This really, really bugged her, but why? After all, Isabelle had arrived from out of town. Tessa and Lauren and Francine were lingering by the door. They were waiting for Claire; they wanted to talk to her about the meeting, and she needed to thank them for coming. She should thank Brent and Edward, too. They had been supportive. But Claire could not tear her attention away from Lock and Isabelle. Lock was taking Isabelle and her beautiful hair out for dinner.