He was driving very fast, as though anxious to get to the party. (To see his brother and smoke dope in the basement?) Claire wanted to get there, too, but she couldn’t stand to fritter away this time alone. If they didn’t find each other right now, their marriage would end. This was an exaggeration—it was a manifestation of Claire’s own guilt and stress, and the two glasses of wine taking hold of her senses, and the lingering sting of being turned down—but she felt it, deeply. Did they have any common ground? What had they talked about when they first met, when they were dating, when they were married but had not yet had children? They had been so focused on getting set up, getting situated and organized for the rest of their lives, that they had overlooked the fact that their relationship was based on . . . nothing. Well, there was physical attraction, a mutual love for the island, a desire to raise a family. But was that it? Shouldn’t there be a shared passion for something else—even if it was just for watching Junkyard Wars? (Claire hated it.) She wanted to travel with the kids—take them to Machu Picchu and to Egypt to see the Pyramids—but would that ever happen? She wanted to read novels and see films and talk about important ideas. Claire was reading a book of short stories by an Aboriginal writer that Lock had recommended, but whenever she started explaining the book to Jason, he glazed over.

She looked around the dark truck. It was a mess—coffee-stained napkins, sections of old newspaper, CD cases from his prized Grateful Dead bootlegs, fishing lures, breath mints, keys to God knows what, a rubber duck with the beak chewed off, which had been around since Shea was a baby, the anglers’ club hat that had belonged to Jason’s father, Malcolm. She picked up the hat. “Do you miss your dad?” she asked.

Jason closed his eyes for a split second. “You know, I was just thinking about him today.”

“Were you?”

“Yeah, it’s so strange you asked me. I was thinking about my tenth birthday and how he took me to play my first round of golf at Sankaty. He had a winter membership that year and it was too cold to walk it, so he spent thirty bucks on a cart and he brought along a thermos of coffee with Baileys or something in it that he let me sip from.” Jason swallowed. “It was special, you know, because he was showing me that I was growing up.” He shook his head. “It’s like sex. How many rounds of golf have I played, but I’ll always remember that first time.”

“I miss your dad, too,” Claire said.

“He was a great guy,” Jason said. “The greatest. You know, I want to do something like that for J.D.’s birthday. Maybe I will. See if I can take him for nine holes at Sankaty.”

“Minus the Baileys,” Claire said.

“Right,” Jason said.

Claire relaxed in her seat. She thought of Malcolm Crispin, Jason and Carter’s father, a great, old, salty guy, who worked for the water company for forty years, who loved golfing and fishing and grilling big, fat steaks and drinking red wine and smoking cigars on the deck of the anglers’ club. Malcolm died of mouth cancer when J.D. was a baby, but he’d given Claire a strand of pearls—the ones she was now wearing—for delivering the first Crispin grandchild. Siobhan had been pregnant with Liam when Malcolm died, and she’d never gotten over the fact that Malcolm hadn’t lived to see Carter’s children, or that Claire had gotten the pearls. But even Siobhan’s resentment was born of the fact that they were all one clan, the Crispins. Those ties counted for something.

Jason pulled up in front of Carter and Siobhan’s house; there were cars lined up all the way down the street. Claire drank down the rest of her wine.

Jason opened his door and climbed out.

Claire said, “Jason?”

He peered in at her.

“Thank you for telling me that story,” she said. “About the golf with your dad. It was nice.”

He shook his head. “It’s weird,” he said. “It’s like you read my mind.”

At that moment, Tortola seemed very far away. Claire felt better. They went inside.

The party was lovely. The living room was clean and cozy and lit only by votive candles. People carried drinks in frosted glasses, and jewel-like canapés. There was conversation, laughter, the sexy strains of Barry White floating down from the in-ceiling speakers. Siobhan was across the room wearing something new, something slinky and pink that left one of her shoulders bare. She was surrounded by people. Claire tried to catch her eye, but when she did, Siobhan gave her a half wave that felt like a brush-off. Claire’s good mood was like a basket of fruit balancing on her head; it teetered precariously.

Claire poured herself a glass of wine, and then another glass; she talked to people she had seen only in passing since Christmas—Julie Jackson, Amie Trimble, Delaney Kitt, Phoebe Caldwell, Heidi Fiske.

Where have you been hiding yourself?

No, not hiding, Claire said emphatically. Just so busy. Beyond busy. Now that I’m back at work.

How is the baby? He must be getting so big!

So big, she echoed. He’s doing great, just had his first birthday. He’s nearly started crawling. He’s fine.

She drank, she chatted, she did not eat nearly enough, though the food was to die for—guacamole with fresh corn, mini Asian crab cakes that were sweet with coconut milk, scallops wrapped in bacon with horseradish sauce.

“Yum!” Claire said to Siobhan as Siobhan passed by with succulent Chinese ribs. Siobhan gave Claire a pointed look over the top of her square glasses. Claire’s good mood tumbled. Was Siobhan mad? Claire thought back: They hadn’t talked in two days. Claire had left a message, or maybe two, which Siobhan hadn’t answered. This was unusual, but Siobhan was busy. She was throwing a party! Claire threaded her way through the crowd until she spotted Siobhan offering a rib to Adams Fiske. Claire tapped Siobhan on the shoulder.