Lots of people had trouble with their in-laws. Willa was hardly alone in this.

Willa reminds herself that Pamela’s life is hardly perfect. There’s a good chance that Pamela’s ill will toward Willa is stoked by jealousy. Pamela’s husband, Zach, the head of air traffic control at Nantucket Memorial, is way more handsome than Pamela is pretty. Their looks are so uneven that it brings up questions, the first one being: How did they get together? (Willa knows the answer—Zach waited tables at the Field and Oar Club in the summer of 1999 and Pamela was so smitten by him that she walked right into the help’s quarters one night and asked him out.) Zach is also cool and funny. He reads for pleasure (including all of Vivi’s books) and he’s a licensed pilot in addition to being the head of ATC. Willa likes Zach tremendously; having him around balances out the unpleasantness of Pamela.

Their son, Peter, looks like Zach—he’s a handsome kid—but he has inherited Pamela’s temperament. He’s a jerk—sorry, but he is. He has always been a jerk. Back when Willa and Rip used to babysit Peter, they were constantly doing damage control. Peter was a biter and a toy-stealer and a sand-thrower, and no amount of reprimands or time-outs ever changed his behavior. In school, he was diagnosed with ADHD, put on Adderall, taken off Adderall, sent to Proctor Academy his sophomore year, kicked out of Proctor for smoking (and selling) weed, then sent back to Nantucket High School. He had to repeat a grade, which put him in the same class as Leo. Leo loathed Peter. “I know he’s sort of family,” Leo said. “But he’s a prick.”

Willa can’t imagine why Pamela is out here in Smith’s Point. She never stopped by the house at Quaker Road, and that was infinitely closer.

“Hi?” Willa says. Pamela is still in the Rover but her window is down; she’s typing something on her phone. “Everything okay?”

Pamela looks up. “Fine.”

“Okay?” Willa says. Is this a social visit, then? It’s a stunning evening, filled with the mellow golden light of early summer. “Do you want a tour? It looks a lot better…”

“Not right now,” Pamela says. She offers Willa a rare smile. “How are you feeling?”

Willa isn’t sure what Pamela is asking. Is she talking about Willa’s earth-shattering loss? Or about her pregnancy? Rip told his sister that Willa was pregnant again, which was (sort of) fine, except Pamela then went and shared the news with the elder Bonhams and so now Tink and Chas are treating Willa like she’s made of bone china. Their desire to pass along the family name has grown only more fervent with time.

Willa hasn’t told her brother and sister, her father, or even Savannah that she’s pregnant. She’s going to wait until after she gets her ultrasound, which is in another six weeks.

“I’m okay, I guess,” Willa says. (Not eating, not sleeping.) “I was glad to move out here.”

Pamela sniffs. “It’s quiet, anyway. Peaceful.”

Willa nods, wondering what Pamela wants. Maybe she’s just checking in. Maybe she feels bad for Willa and intends to offer herself as a mother substitute. The idea is nearly laughable.

“You’re sure you don’t want to come in?” Willa says. “I wish I had something other than tap water to offer you. I think Rip and I are just going to get takeout from Millie’s. I can’t handle the grocery store yet. Too many people. Their eyes give them away—I know they feel sorry for me. Some of them come up and offer their sympathies. Others wave and say hello like everything is normal.”

Pamela looks at Willa and an amazing thing happens: Pamela’s eyes fill with tears. Pamela Bonham Bridgeman is displaying human emotion. Willa tries to abandon her cynicism. Had Pamela liked Vivi? Admired her, maybe? Willa remembers no special connection. Pamela habitually referred to Vivi’s books as “fluff” and always seemed a little pissed off that her husband was such a fan.

“If I share something with you, do you promise not to tell anyone?” Pamela asks. “Even Rip?”

What is this? Willa thinks. A confidence? A…secret? Willa’s mind starts racing. What is happening here? Is Willa’s dream for the past twelve years—half her life—of having a normal relationship with her sister-in-law finally coming true?

“Of course,” Willa says. She isn’t sure she’ll be able to keep whatever this is from Rip, but she’ll try.

“I think Zach is having an affair,” Pamela says.

Willa feels a surge of what she can only describe as lurid excitement. Though she’s aghast too, of course.

“In fact, I’m sure he is,” Pamela says.

Vivi

“This is getting good,” Vivi says. She has pulled one of the peach silk soufflé chairs right up to the edge of the room. “We need popcorn.” She tilts her head. “Why isn’t there food up here? Why isn’t there wine?”

“Heavenly banquet,” Martha says. “Once you join the choir.”

“Only then?”

“Reward for all that singing.”

“Will there be truffle fries?” Vivi asks. “Tequila?”

“Vivian, please,” Martha says. “Let’s focus on the matter at hand.”

The matter at hand: Pamela thinks Zach is having an affair. Vivi knows she should be more sympathetic toward Pamela. After all, Vivi has been in the exact same spot, except Vivi didn’t have to figure it out. JP had marched into the house one late-summer evening and told Vivi he’d “fallen” for Amy, sounding almost proud of himself.

But Pamela is an unsympathetic character in this story. If Vivi were still alive and Willa had confided Pamela’s suspicions about Zach to Vivi, Vivi might have said, Good for him.

Vivi is an absolutely wretched person. How did she end up ascending instead of descending?

Martha chuckles. She’s an unapologetic mind reader.

“Is there more?” Vivi asks.

Martha pulls the second soufflé chair up next to Vivi’s. “Oh, there’s more.”

Carson

The owner of the Oystercatcher gives her two weeks off after her mother dies, but then she has to make a decision: return to work or quit. It’s the Fourth of July weekend, the Oystercatcher is pumping, and they need their bartender. The owner, George, has been subbing in but if Carson doesn’t return for her weekend shifts, he’ll have no choice but to replace her.

She shows up on Saturday at three o’clock, right before buck-a-shuck. George puts his hands on her shoulders. “You can do this.” He sounds like he’s sending her out into the ring with Floyd Mayweather.

“I can totally do this.” Before Carson left her mother’s house, she made herself a double espresso and did a shot of her mother’s tequila, which Savannah had found in the laundry room. (“I figured your mom would hide it someplace you would never look,” Savannah said.)

Carson steps behind the bar and jumps right in: a dozen Island Creeks, a dozen cherrystones, four Whale’s Tale Pale Ale drafts, “Vodka soda, close it” for the Chad in the pink polo shirt, a dozen East Beach Blondes, two chardonnays, a planter’s punch. Carson fields the orders like they’re pop flies. She won’t think about her mother. She won’t check her phone. When she gets a second to breathe, she makes herself an espresso and takes an Ativan. She can do this.