At the beginning of November, they go all the way. They’re in the back seat of the Skylark, parked in the woods by the Canal trail entrance, and the key is turned in the ignition just enough to keep the heater blowing its dry hot air. There’s some positioning required, and for a second, it’s like a game of Twister; Vivi feels the ridged vinyl against her bare back, her clothes now mixed with Brett’s in the shallow wells of the car floor. Vivi pulses like a white-hot star. The pleasure and ache of Brett inside of her brings her to tears, and she ends up crying. They are both crying a little, because it’s Brett’s first time as well. And wow. Just…wow.

After Vivi’s father dies in February, Brett writes her a song. It’s called “Golden Girl,” and at first, Vivi is confused by the title because she has very long, very dark hair. But once she hears the lyrics, she realizes the golden is metaphorical. Vivi is Brett’s golden girl; she’s his sunshine, his light, his treasure, his prize. She’s the fire in his eyes.

Vivi would have loved the song even if it stunk—but she can tell it’s good. Very good. Maybe even good enough to be played on WMMS.

With Vivi’s father gone, Brett Caspian becomes everything to her. He’s her sword and shield, her security blanket, her therapist, her best friend. His love is her oxygen. She will do whatever she must in order to keep him.

Back on Nantucket, at Our Lady of the Isle, the priest gives the Gospel reading and then the homily, which feels sort of generic to Vivi, but it’s her own fault for going to church only on Christmas Eve and Easter. Father Reed once mentioned to Vivi that his elderly aunt enjoyed her novels, and Vivi dropped off a signed, large-print edition of The Photographer at the rectory the very next day—but Father Reed doesn’t mention that in the homily; it’s more about death in general and how it’s really a birth into the Kingdom of God.

The homily is boring enough that the crying stops, but once Father is finished, Savannah ascends to the pulpit and you can hear a pin drop. Vivi takes the moment when Savannah is reviewing her notes to scan the church. Her gaze alights briefly on the front row. The kids are watching Savannah with rapt attention; JP is bent over with his head in his hands. Dennis is on the other side of the church sitting next to Candace Lopresti, Alexis, and Marissa, which is as good a place for him as any.

Joe DeSantis is on the aisle about three-quarters of the way back. He has been absorbed by the parents of the kids in Leo and Cruz’s class. Willa’s boss is here, and a group of people Vivi recognizes from the Oystercatcher. There are teachers, coaches, a bunch of real estate agents and business owners from downtown, all the guys who have worked on Money Pit, including Marky Mark, Vivi’s contractor, and Surfer Boy, the electrician, both of whom put on ties for this.

There’s Jodi, Vivi’s agent, sitting with Wendy, Tim, and Cristina from Mitchell’s Book Corner. There are the women from Vivi’s barre class (exhibiting excellent posture). She will never have to suffer through thigh work again—is that a good thing? Her dentist and dental hygienist are here. Vivi will never have another cavity or another torturous root canal. No more ob-gyn exams. She has escaped the indignities of menopause. What does a hot flash feel like? Vivi will never know.

Sitting in the second row behind the kids is…Lucinda Quinboro, Vivi’s ex-mother-in-law. Well, that’s rich, Vivi thinks. She is the children’s grandmother but…well, Lucinda was never a fan of Vivi’s. She looks happier now than she did on Vivi and JP’s wedding day.

“That’s not true,” Martha says. “And you know it.”

“She never thought I was good enough for him,” Vivi says. “Her little Jackie Paper.”

“She prefers you to Amy,” Martha says. “She thinks Amy is a gold digger.” Martha pauses. “Sorry, that was very indiscreet.”

“What else can you tell me?” Vivi says.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, come on.”

“You know as well as I do that it won’t do you any good to find out what everyone thinks of you.”

Savannah clears her throat.

Yes, yes, let’s get to the eulogy—but first, Vivi seeks out Cruz. He’s skulking in the doorway, his head hanging.

Cruz! Go sit where you belong, up front, with my kids! Vivi thinks. What is going on?

Zach Bridgeman is still in the back corner of the vestibule, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking supremely uncomfortable. As Savannah draws a breath to speak, he slides past Cruz and out of the church.

“I’m sure many of you are wondering how I’m going to get through this,” Savannah says. “The answer is…I took a pill. I may fall asleep up here, but I won’t cry.”

There’s a ripple of laughter that soothes like light rain.

“I need to ask your indulgence. I’m not the writer. Vivi was the writer. So if the universe were working the way it’s supposed to, she would be up here eulogizing me, making me sound like a much more wonderful person than I actually am. Because, see? I’ve been at this five seconds and I’ve already made it all about me.”

More laughs.

“Vivi and I were best friends. That phrase is hackneyed, overused; it has been acronym-ed into BFFs. As girls, we learn from our earliest social interactions that we are supposed to have a best friend. Someone to chant while we jump rope, someone to confide in about our secret crush. I’m not going to snow you. I didn’t have a best friend growing up. Well, I did, but it was my dachshund, Herman Munster.”

People laugh, though Vivi knows this is a sore spot with Savannah.

“That changed my first week at Duke University, in the Craven Quad dorm, when I met a girl from down the hall, Vivian Howe. We were in the bathroom; Vivi asked to borrow shampoo. She had arrived at college woefully under-provisioned, whereas I had an entire CVS stuffed beneath my extra-long twin bed. Vivi was from a town called Parma, Ohio. She was a tiny thing with long straight coal-black hair and cute freckles across her nose, and she had a thin silver hoop pierced through the top of her ear that I was jealous of. The second Vivi accepted the bottle of Breck from me, I felt a recognition: here was the best friend I’d been looking for.

“In the summers during college, Vivi stayed in Durham and waitressed at the Flying Burrito in order to save money for the following school year. I didn’t get her to Nantucket until we’d both graduated. My parents had a rule at our Nantucket house: houseguests stayed one week, not a minute longer. I had other ideas about Vivi; I thought she might be allowed to live in my room for the entire summer. She wasn’t a houseguest and she wasn’t just a friend, she was a sister.” Savannah stops, takes a breath. “My parents saw things differently, and after a week, they insisted that Vivi had to go. I thought Vivi would head back to Durham to sling chips and salsa, but in the seven days of her visit, she had fallen in love with Nantucket Island. She said she had…found her home.” Deep breath. “So…what happened? She rented a room in a house on Fairgrounds Road and found a job at Fair Isle Dry Cleaning. Anyone who has ever been to Fair Isle Dry Cleaning,” Savannah says, casting her eyes around the church, “which seems to be only half of you”—laughter—“knows how hot it can get in there. So that first summer, Vivi chopped off all her hair and got a pixie cut. She started studying the locals and summer people so she could put you all in her future novels.” Laughter. Uncomfortable? “Oh, you think I’m kidding? Clearly no one here has read The Season of Scandal.” Laughter. She’s got them in the palm of her hand, Vivi thinks. Go, Savannah!