“Think of Shea,” Claire said. “And Zackie.”

“I want waves,” J.D. said. “I haven’t used my boogie board once all summer.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” Claire said.

“You don’t care about me.”

“That’s not true.”

“You only care about Zack.”

“J.D., you know that is not true. It hurts me when you say that.”

“It hurts me that I can’t go to Nobadeer.”

“I can’t let Pan take you there. Zack would drown in ten seconds. And even worse is your sister—she’ll be out in those waves, trying to keep up with you, and—” Claire shuddered. “I can’t even stand to think about it.”

“You take me, then.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Why can’t you take me?”

The obvious answer was that she was busy. She had been doing another set of vases for Transom—for income, to appease Jason—and out of the blue, Mr. Fred Bulrush of San Francisco had called. I heard you were back at it. How had he heard? Claire had no idea—she had yet to call him back—but it would be nice to get a commission and see some real money. Claire was supposed to meet Isabelle at noon to go over the seating chart, though really this was fruitless: Isabelle would seat people where she wanted, no matter what Claire said. So why not spend the afternoon at Nobadeer with J.D.? She loved spending time with the kids one-on-one, though she rarely got the chance. Why not take advantage today? Get sandwiches and sodas at Henry’s and take her oldest son to the waves? She could read the new Margaret Atwood novel while J.D. rode his boogie board.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll take you.”

“I want to go,” Ottilie said.

“Me, too,” said Shea.

“No,” Claire said. “This is just an outing for J.D. You two are going with Pan. I’ll pack extra Oreos.”

Ottilie scowled; Shea was appeased by the cookies. Claire’s phone rang. It was Lock—calling at five minutes to eight? Fear gripped Claire’s knees. Here it was: the bad news.

“Hello?” Claire said.

“I have bad news,” Lock said.

Claire killed the burner under the bacon. “What is it?”

“Genevieve can’t do it.”

“Can’t do what?”

“The gala.”

“She can’t cater the gala? Ten days and counting, and she can’t—”

“That’s right. Something about her mother in Arizona—she’s sick, terminal, I guess. Genevieve has to get there now, today, she doesn’t know when she’ll be back, she can’t prep an event for a thousand people, and she has no second, no one to take over. We have to find someone else.”

“Like who?”

“Well, I thought you might call Siobhan.”

“Siobhan,” Claire said.

“Yes. That’s the obvious answer, right?”

“Right,” Claire said. But was it? The catering question had been painful from the beginning—it had caused a rift in Claire and Siobhan’s unriftable friendship—and only now had things settled. Only now did Siobhan seem comfortable with the outcome. To reopen discussions of Siobhan and Carter’s catering was unfair. But if Genevieve couldn’t do it, someone had to step in, and if Claire overlooked Siobhan as that person—if Siobhan wasn’t asked first—there would be a fresh hell to face.

“Okay,” Claire said. “I’ll call.” She hung up the phone and looked at J.D. “Get your suit on.”

J.D. breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God,” he said. “I thought you were going to bag on me.”

“Bag on you?” she said. “Never.”

She picked up Zack, washed the syrup off his face and hands, and carried him into her bedroom, where she dialed Siobhan.

“Hey,” Siobhan said.

“Hey,” Claire said. “You know, I woke up with a funny feeling that something awful was going to happen, and it has.”

“Are the kids okay?” Siobhan said.

“Everyone’s fine. It’s a different kind of awful.”

“Tell me.”

“Genevieve flaked.”

“Huh?”

“She canceled. Her mother is sick in Arizona. She has to go. She bagged the gala.”

Silence. Then laughter. Siobhan was chuckling musically. There were two ways in which this was not funny: it was not funny that Genevieve’s mother was dying (Claire had lost her mother to cancer, and so had Siobhan), and it was not funny that the gala had no caterer.

“I hate to ask you this, but—”

“Oh, no!” Siobhan said. “No way!”

“You won’t do it?”

“Are you kidding me?” Siobhan said. “I have seats right up front and a kick-ass dress. Why the hell would I trade that in so I can spend the next ten days slaving and sweating and swearing? Bad enough I have the Pops to do on Saturday. I have no desire to turn around on Sunday and start prepping for another monster job.”

“It’s a lot of money, though, Siobhan.”

“I am happy to say, I don’t care.”

“So you won’t do it?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked. But I thought you wanted this job.”

“No,” Siobhan said. “After all the crap I’ve been through . . . I mean, I realize I’m ‘on the committee’ and that means I should be there in the final hour to bail you guys out, but Edward had a chance to hire me, and he passed. He chose Genevieve. The fact that Genevieve flaked is utterly predictable. I find it gratifying that she flaked because that means I was not bad-mouthing her back in April but rather speaking the truth about her. She’s unprofessional and she should never have been given the job. When someone comes forty-dollars-a-head under, there’s a reason.”