They made a pact: no more fighting. Things had become tense between them.

I feel like you’re squeezing me in, Claire said.

It’s felt that way to me since we started, Lock said. I always have to accommodate your schedule. And you’re a frightfully busy woman. Now I’m busier because of Heather. I squeeze you in, you squeeze me in. We squeeze each other in. Nothing in this relationship is as one-sided as you think it is, Claire.

No? she said. She was dying to challenge him. Just seeing his name on the display of her cell phone made her feel combative. It wasn’t right.

So they’d called a truce. They shook hands. Just get through the next three weeks, past the gala, get Heather back to Andover, the kids back in school. Start over. Agreed? Agreed.

The work for the gala was almost done. It was time to enjoy it, Lock said. After all, it was a party.

A party! Yes, he was right. The g.d. chandelier was completed. Ted Trimble had it now and he was—very carefully—wiring it. Claire had eight spaces at her table to fill. Since Matthew had paid for the table, Claire was able to give seats away. She invited Siobhan and Carter first and—surprise!—Siobhan was thrilled. Claire invited Adams and Heidi Fiske and Christo and Delaney Kitt. She invited Ted and Amie Trimble as a thank-you for wiring the chandelier. Already, Claire was feeling better. She was feeling excited. She would be up front, surrounded by her dearest friends. This was her event. Max West would play, and Pietro da Silva would auction off the first piece she had created in nearly two years. She was the cochair. This was her party, thrown in a tent as big as an airplane hangar. Whoo-hoo!

She needed a dress. She took a full morning off with Siobhan, and together the two of them hit the town. It was impossible to buy certain things on Nantucket—a set of plain blue cotton sheets, for example, or gym socks, children’s underwear, a plastic colander, a softball, anything in bulk. But if you were looking for a party dress, Nantucket was utopia. Claire and Siobhan shopped at Hepburn, Vis-à-vis, David Chase, Eye of the Needle, Erica Wilson. So many sensational dresses! Siobhan wanted something black, something dramatic, something that would stand in contrast to her chef’s jacket. She found a knockout dress at Erica Wilson, a halter dress with a fitted skirt and beading. Absolutely gorgeous. But everything looked good on Siobhan; she had healthy coloring and a tiny little body. Claire was harder to outfit. She tried on everything: some things looked truly hideous, clashing with her red hair, making her look like a cadaver. She found a few things she liked, nothing she loved.

They ate lunch on the patio at the Rope Walk—lobster rolls, fried clams. Claire felt like a tourist, which was nice, if odd. They were drinking wine to boot—Claire a glass of viognier (she ordered it automatically now) and Siobhan a fat glass of chardonnay.

Siobhan raised her glass. “This is fun,” she said. “This is what I miss.”

“Me, too,” Claire said.

“No,” Siobhan said. “I mean it.” She covered Claire’s hand with her own, smaller hand. Claire knew Siobhan’s hand intimately—its elfin size, the nails bitten to the quick, the simple wedding band in white gold. “When all this is over, do I get you back?”

“Don’t be silly,” Claire said. “You have me now.”

Siobhan pushed her darling square prescription sunglasses up her nose. “Do I get you back, Claire?”

Claire sipped her wine. Her stomach squelched at the smell of fried food in the air. Here, on their carefree day of shopping, Siobhan was asking for something. She wanted Claire back with Jason, ensconced in the Crispin clan, fitted snugly in her place. Do I get you back? Meaning: No more Lock.

Their onion rings arrived at that second, and then a woman from the next table asked if Siobhan would take a picture of her and her family. Claire leaned back in her wrought iron chair and looked out at the brilliant blue harbor, the circling seagulls, the white snap of sails, the wispy clouds. The day sparkled. This is fun. This is what I miss. Do I get you back, Claire? Do I get you back?

Claire sipped her viognier and enjoyed the sun on her face, despite the inevitability of freckles. The family said, in chorus, “Cheese!” The question floated away, without an answer.

Eleven days to go. Claire woke up suspicious. Something wasn’t right. She rolled over. Jason was gone. He was at the Downyflake; through a fog of sleep, she’d heard him get up, dress, leave. Out in the kitchen, she found her cell phone and called him. It was considered a major foul to interrupt Jason at breakfast, but she had a persistent, nagging worry that something was amiss. She pictured him in a crowded airport, fed up, leaving. Had he left?

“Hey,” Jason said. He sounded uninspired, impatient—but this she expected. He was marking off the days on the family calendar until the gala. This past Sunday, reclining in his chair at the beach, he’d muttered under his breath (when Claire thought he was asleep), In two weeks the goddamned thing will be over.

“Is . . . everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine.”

“You’re at the Downyflake?”

“Of course,” he said. “Where else would I be?”

Claire made the kids breakfast. She was preoccupied, but she could do it in her sleep. Should she call Siobhan and check on her? No, she was losing her mind. She was looking for something to go wrong.

J.D. said, “Mom!”

Claire looked up, alarmed. “What?”

“I want to go to Nobadeer. Pan keeps taking us to Eel Point, and it’s a baby beach.”