“I’m calling for a friend,” Mallory says, then she cringes because this sounds so fishy. “They’re looking for a one- or two-bedroom rental over Labor Day weekend. Preferably on the water. And not too expensive. Do you have anything available?”

Jeremiah laughs. “I don’t have a single thing.”

“Right,” Mallory says. She had held out a tiny hope that maybe there was a separate listing sheet for locals and that Jeremiah, recalling Mallory’s kindness toward him so long ago—because it had been kindness—would share it with her. “Okay, I’ll tell them they’re out of luck, then. Thanks, Jeremiah.”

“You’re welcome,” Jeremiah says. “Take care.”

(Jeremiah hangs up, then stares at the phone. He actually does have something out in Madaket, right on the beach at the entrance to Smith Point, that would be perfect for two people. He considers calling Miss Blessing back and offering it to her, but he stops himself. He loved her so much once upon a time. When she invited him to spend lunch at Gibbs Pond during the darkest days of his senior year, he thought his prayers had been answered. The whole drive out to the pond, he’d thought about kissing her. But when they’d gotten stuck in the mud, she’d been flustered and short-tempered with him. She had treated him poorly, sending him out to the road for help like she was the queen and he her footman, and then, once they got back to school and everyone was talking about them—Jeremiah’s not going to lie, he found this exhilarating—she became frosty. She stopped reading his poetry; she stopped recommending books. She’d been extra-critical on his final assignments and he’d ended the class with an A minus instead of the A he deserved. No, he will not tell her about the cottage on the beach in Madaket, sorry.)

The conversation with Jeremiah Freehold seems to be a sign from above that renting Desdemona is a rotten idea. Even if Mallory were okay with spending twenty-five grand on a weekend rental, Jake would be aghast. If given the choice, he would pick the Greta.

Okay, she’ll put him on the Greta. He won’t be able to shower, he’ll return to Washington with a salt crust, but oh well.

The night after all this deliberating takes place, Link comes home just before his midnight curfew and Mallory is, embarrassingly, scrolling through real estate listings—at everywhere but Grey Lady Real Estate—on her laptop, looking for something available over Labor Day weekend that is less expensive than Desdemona.

Why is everything booked? Why is Nantucket so popular? Well, she knows why.

“Mom,” Link says, sitting down across from her at the harvest table. “Don’t say no.”

“To what?”

“Just promise me you’ll hear me out before saying no.”

“You’re not going to Italy,” Mallory says.

“That’s not what I was going to ask,” Link says.

“Okay.” Mallory closes out her tabs and shuts her laptop. “Shoot.”

“Nicole leaves on Monday, September fourth,” Link says. “Her flight is out of JFK and she and her mom are spending the weekend, Labor Day weekend, in New York City so they can shop for clothes and stuff for Nicole’s trip and they asked me to go with them.”

Mallory’s heart is on a trampoline doing flips. “They asked? Terri is okay with this? She doesn’t want a weekend of mother-daughter time?”

“She’s the one who suggested it,” Link says. “I guess she has some friend, a guy she visits in New York every year, who she wants to see, and so she’s even giving Nicole and me money so we can have a real date night.”

“I’ll give you money for date night,” Mallory says. Her thoughts are whizzing around like moths at a porch light. Terri has a friend in New York she sees every year. She has a Same Time Next Year too, maybe? And her Same Time Next Year is saving Mallory’s? Is that possible?

“So I can go?” Link says.

“Yes, you can go,” Mallory says. “Tell Terri I’m paying for all your expenses. She shouldn’t have to spend a dime.”

Link collapses back in his chair. “Thank you, Mama.”

“You’re welcome, my sweet prince.”

Link’s eyes fill. “I don’t want her to go.”

“I know,” Mallory says. “Believe me, I know just how you feel.”

Summer #26: 2018

What are we obsessing over in 2018? The Parkland shooting; Kim Jong-un; tariffs; Justify; the Philadelphia Eagles; the opioid epidemic; Mark Zuckerberg; Waffle House; Bill Cosby; Anthony Bourdain; the Tham Luang cave rescue; Banksy; Larry Nassar; the Colorado baker; Peloton; Kate Spade; family separation at the border; the Boss on Broadway; duck boats; Cardi B.; Annapolis; Barbara Bush; Tree of Life synagogue; Stephen Colbert; Chris Pratt and Anna Faris; Daenerys, Jon Snow, Arya, Cersei, Tyrion, Sansa, and Bran; Bohemian Rhapsody; Jerome Powell; “Kiki, do you love me?”; California wildfires; Jamal Khashoggi; George H. W. Bush.

Ursula wakes up to twenty-four text messages, twice as many e-mails, and fifteen voicemails, three of which are from Lansdell Irwin, chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee.

Eighty-four-year-old Supreme Court justice Cecil Anne Barton, known as Justice Cece, has died in her sleep. It’s not exactly a tragedy at her age, but she was loved by one and all.

The three voicemails from Lansdell Irwin are variations on Wake up, Ursula. We have work to do.

The selection of a Supreme Court nominee is delicate and Ursula de Gournsey happens to believe it’s the most important thing a president will do during an administration. The current president, eighty-three-year-old John Shields, is a kindly gentleman who comes across like a fun grandpa, the one who takes the kids out to Carvel for dinner. It’s understood that because of his advanced age, he’s a one-term president, a placeholder until the Future steps forward. Shields gamely admits that he doesn’t understand “the social media”—he can’t figure out Facebook, never mind Twitter—so he leaves that to “the youngsters.” Ursula doesn’t have high hopes for any Supreme Court candidate Shields nominates; she’s heard whisperings of some of the names on the short list and they’re all uninspiring.

When his nominee is announced, Ursula is pleasantly surprised. It’s Kevin Blackstone Cavendish; he goes by “Stone” or, to his closest friends, “Stonesy.” The only sticky issue with Stone Cavendish is that he’s yet another white male, and aggressively WASPy: St. Paul’s, Dartmouth, Yale. But overall, he’s a solid choice, one that is notably nonpartisan. He’s married; he has three kids in public schools; he’s personable (for a judge), charming, even. If Ursula herself were president, he might be her nominee. She predicts he’ll be confirmed by both the House and the Senate with very little drama.

Ursula is wrong.

A woman steps forward, a well-respected superintendent of schools in Richmond, Virginia, who claims that Stone Cavendish physically and sexually abused her in the summer of 1983, which was the summer before both she and Stone left for college. They met at a bonfire in Point Pleasant, New Jersey. Stone was working as a lifeguard there and the woman, Eve Quist, was visiting her friend’s summer home for the weekend. Stone and Eve talked at the bonfire; Stone brought Eve a can of Coors Light. Eve claims that when she went into the dunes to relieve herself, Stone Cavendish sneaked up behind her, tackled her in the sand, hiked up her skirt, and started to unbutton his shorts. When Eve started screaming, he threw a handful of sand into her face, and some of it went into her eyes and some of it into her mouth. She felt like she was choking, she says.