This describes Ursula’s idea of hell, Jake thinks. And his own idea of heaven.

Mallory anchors Greta off Whale Island and they wade ashore with their luggage and provisions. Mallory sets off alone on foot to the house, which is three-quarters of a mile away. Jake stays behind with the things. He feels like a pioneer. What do you need to create a life, after all? Food, clothing, shelter, a person to love. Jake marvels at the sheer beauty around him. Whale Island isn’t an island at all but rather a ribbon of white sand that is the only place boats can anchor. Beyond lie green acres crisscrossed with sandy paths and, here and there, a glimpse of gray-shingled rooftops. Across a narrow channel lies Smith Point and the island of Nantucket, which seems like a metropolis in comparison.

Jake hears someone calling his name and sees Mallory sitting behind the wheel of a battered red Jeep with no top and no doors.

They’re off!

The house belongs to the family of Dr. Major’s wife and was built in 1922. It’s a simple saltbox upside-down house with a great room upstairs that has enormous plate-glass windows all the way around for 360-degree views of the island and the water beyond. Mrs. Major’s niece recently redecorated, so the place feels like a graciously appointed Robinson Crusoe hideaway. There’s a rattan sofa and papasan chairs with ivory cushions; there are funky rope hammocks in the corners, and the plywood floor is painted with wide lemon-yellow and white stripes. Jake is surprised to see a small TV with a shelf of videos, across which lies a hand-painted sign: Rainy Day Only.

Jake whistles. He feels like they’ve stepped into another world. No one will find them here.

It’s their seventh weekend together, lucky seven, maybe, because it’s the best yet. On Friday night, Mallory grills burgers, as usual, and although there’s a small cookstove, she grills the corn as well. On Saturday, they pull two bikes out of the shed and explore the island. They visit both ponds—North Pond, which they swim in, and smaller and murkier East Pond, which they don’t. They lie on three different sections of golden-sand beach. They see other people from afar and simply wave; there’s no reason to exchange any words. It would feel like talking in church.

On Sunday, they hike through the middle of the island. Mallory shows Jake the old firehouse and the old school. Most of the other houses are shuttered now that the summer is drawing to a close. Jake is captivated by a small cottage that has clearly seen better days. Its windows are clouded and cracked, the paint on the trim is peeling, and the gutter on the front appears to be hanging on by one rusted screw. It has a deep porch that is oddly reminiscent of Out of Africa, Jake thinks, and though he isn’t prone to adopting strays, he can’t help but imagine what it would be like to buy the place and fix it up. He says as much to Mallory, who scrunches up her eyes behind her sunglasses. “You have crummy taste.”

“It’s off the grid,” he says.

“Put mildly,” she says.

“We could grow old together here,” he says. It’s always on their Sundays that he starts to feel this way—like he won’t survive if he leaves her.

“How’s Ursula?” Mallory hasn’t asked until now, and he knows her timing is no accident. When he talks about growing old together, Mallory gently reminds him that he’s already vowed to grow old with someone else.

“Things are tough,” he says.

“Good,” Mallory says. She squeezes his hand. “I’m kidding. What’s going on? Can you tell me?”

“I know the person I married,” he says. “But I’m still shocked by the way she is sometimes.” He then regales Mallory with the story of his trip to Vegas.

“Ouch,” Mallory says. “Have you considered that maybe what draws you to Ursula is that she makes herself unavailable? And I’m too available.”

“You’re not available at all,” Jake says.

“Too emotionally available,” Mallory says. “You know how I feel about you.”

“Do I?” Jake says. He turns away from the house to face her. A red-tailed hawk circles overhead, but there’s no one else in sight. It feels like they’re the last two people on the planet. He realizes that every single year he has been waiting for Mallory to cry uncle and say, That’s it, I give up, please leave Ursula and move to Nantucket, or I’ll come to you, or we’ll make it work long distance. But she never says this, and so what can Jake think but that Mallory likes the arrangement the way it is? She prefers it to a bigger commitment. She has him…and she has her freedom, which, in years past, has meant other men. “I’m going to be honest here, Mal. I’m not sure how you feel about me.”

“Jake,” she says. “I love you.”

She said it.

I love you.

Jake has said the words to her thousands of times in his mind, whether Mallory was lying in bed next to him or six hundred miles away.

He doesn’t want to mess up this moment. He wants it to be unforgettable. He’s going to make this a moment Mallory thinks about not only for the next 362 days, but for the rest of her life.

“I love you too, Mallory Blessing,” he says. “I. Love. You. Too.”

It works; tears are standing in her eyes. She hears him—and, more important, she believes him.

When he kisses her, however, she pushes him away. “We have to go,” she says. “We have to be at Whale Island by six. I have a surprise.”

The surprise is a strapping, incredibly handsome man who pulls up to Whale Island in a thirty-six-foot Contender. Jake squares his shoulders and tries to sit up straighter in the wonky seat of the old Jeep while Mallory runs over to greet their visitor. Jake isn’t sure how he feels about this particular surprise.

Mallory and Mr. America talk for what seems like an awfully long time—yes, Jake is jealous—then Mr. America hands Mallory a paper shopping bag and she gives him a kiss on the cheek and waves goodbye. Mr. America revs his engines, expertly sweeps the boat around, and heads back in the direction of Nantucket.

“Who was that?” Jake asks.

“Barrett Lee,” Mallory says. “He caretakes all the homes out here, and in the summertime, he brings provisions.”

“Did we need provisions?” Jake asks.

Mallory opens the bag. Jake sees familiar white cartons and catches a whiff of fried dumplings.

“He brought our Chinese food,” she says. “Now let’s go home. We have a movie to watch.”

Summer #8: 2000

What are we talking about in 2000? Hanging chads; Broward County; Katherine Harris; the Human Genome Project; Yemen; the Subway Series; Walter Matthau; the International Space Station; getting voted off the island; Charles M. Schulz; Sydney Olympics; Slobodan Milošević Pilates; Tony, Carmela, Christopher, Big Pussy, Paulie Walnuts; USS Cole; Microsoft antitrust; Almost Famous; EVOO; “Who Let the Dogs Out.”

The new millennium is upon us and guess what: Cooper Blessing is getting married again!

His fiancée’s name is Valentina Suarez. She’s an administrative assistant at the Brookings Institution. Valentina is from Uruguay, a beach town called Punta Este, which is a renowned resort area with a well-heeled international clientele. Valentina’s family owns a beachfront restaurant, and for this reason, they can’t get away, even for Valentina’s wedding. This sounds fishy, and when Mallory presses her brother, he admits that Valentina’s family have no idea she’s getting married because Valentina didn’t tell them. The reason she didn’t tell them is that they wouldn’t approve. They would like Valentina to marry a Latino, preferably a fellow Uruguayan, preferably the son of the owners of the casino next door to their restaurant, Pablo, who was Valentina’s childhood sweetheart.