Her mother is gone.

Sometimes when Willa cries at night in bed, Rip will hold her and whisper into her hair. He says he would do anything to make the pain go away; he would take it from her and endure it himself if he could. But Rip can’t make things better. Nobody can make things better. Willa loved her mother so, so much, and now her mother is dead. Willa is aware that everyone loses a loved one eventually; it’s part of being human. And everyone must bear the pain alone.

Willa won’t say that Pamela showing up with the news that she suspects Zach of having an affair was welcome—but it has certainly served as a distraction. On that first day, when Pamela drove out to Wee Bit to confide in Willa, they ended up sitting at the picnic table out back. Willa said, “What, exactly, makes you think this?”

Pamela lifted her sunglasses to the top of her head and stared into the dunes. Willa noticed some strands of silver in the white-blond streak of Pamela’s hair; her face was tan from playing so much tennis, and there were lines around her blue eyes. Willa couldn’t recall ever being this close to her sister-in-law before because Pamela had always held herself literally at arm’s length. But now the barrier was coming down.

“He’s been disappearing at night,” Pamela said. “Midnight, one o’clock. He claims when he has insomnia, he drives out to the beach. He says watching the waves makes him sleepy.”

Willa agreed—this was suspicious behavior. “Have you checked his phone?” Willa asked.

“I can’t check his account to see what calls he made,” Pamela said. “His phone is issued by the FAA. They pay the bill. He can use it for personal calls too, of course, but there’s no way I can access the account.”

“But you could check his actual phone.”

“If I knew the passcode. But I don’t.”

“He has a passcode?”

“Everyone has a passcode, Willa.”

“I don’t,” Willa said. “Rip doesn’t. Rip and I are in and out of each other’s phones all the time.”

“Well, you guys aren’t normal,” Pamela said.

Willa relaxed. This, at least, was a Pamela she recognized. And Willa knew that she and Rip had an unusually close relationship. She was proud of it, thank you very much. “Have you noticed anything else?” Willa asked.

“He’s happy,” Pamela said, and again, her eyes brimmed with tears. “And that’s what makes me dead sure. He whistles. He sings.”

“Couldn’t his happiness be due to something else?” Willa asked.

“He has insomnia and sneaks out of the house after I’m asleep. But he’s happier than I’ve seen him in years.”

Willa had to admit, this equation had only one likely answer. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I’m going to find out who it is,” Pamela said.

Willa is intrigued, and it pains her to have no one to share this with. She can’t tell Rip. He works with Pamela every day, and though he’s normally a vault when it comes to secrets, Pamela is a weak spot for him. He would break, and Willa would be deemed untrustworthy.

She misses her mother. If her mother were alive, Willa would confide in her.

Can she tell Carson? They’ve become closer since Vivi died. Carson texts to check in at Willa’s request, and Willa has invited Carson over to Wee Bit for dinner the next time she has a night off. But Carson doesn’t care for any of the Bonhams—she thinks they’re cold and superior—and if Willa told her that Pamela thought Zach was having an affair, she would roll her eyes and say, Girl, who cares?

Willa can, maybe, tell Savannah—but Savannah is doing so much already, trying to settle Vivi’s estate. Willa offered to take over the admin of the Vivian Howe Memorial Facebook page and Savannah seemed relieved.

She said, “Look at the message from someone named Brett Caspian, would you? He claims he was your mother’s boyfriend in high school.”

“Mom didn’t have a boyfriend in high school,” Willa said.

“Just look, please, Willie,” Savannah said.

The Vivian Howe Memorial Facebook page has over two hundred new messages since Willa last checked. Vivi starts scrolling through the messages—so much love, so much heartbreak. One woman, Eden F., from Niagara, New York, says she can’t stop crying and has personally called the Nantucket Police Department to demand justice.

This seems like a bit much. But Vivi inspired this kind of devotion. She shared unvarnished looks at her life—she would video the kitchen when there were dishes in the sink or the hallway when there was a pile of stuff at the bottom of the stairs—and her readers appreciated these details. We all have dirty dishes, dirty laundry, stuff waiting at the bottom of the stairs, even our favorite novelist. Vivi’s readers felt like they knew her. Of course they’re upset.

Willa thinks that finding the message from Brett Caspian might be a needle-in-a-haystack quest but only a few posts in, there it is—a message sent that very morning.

I hope someone in Vivi’s family will read this. I was able, with a few phone calls to the publisher, to receive an advance copy of Golden Girl. In high school, I wrote a song called “Golden Girl” that was inspired by Vivi. She was my girlfriend from September 1986 to August 1987. Once I read the book, I saw that she used more than just the title. She used our story. I’m going to go out on a limb and leave my phone number here in hopes that someone from the family will contact me so we can discuss this further. Thank you. Brett Caspian

Willa reads the message twice. Brett Caspian wrote a song called “Golden Girl” that was inspired by Vivi? Vivi used their story in her new novel? Willa has read only two of her mother’s thirteen novels (she prefers nonfiction, biography in particular), but this is two more than Carson and Leo have read. Willa knows the premise of Golden Girl; it involves a high-school romance and a song called “Golden Girl,” but she thought it was made up.

Willa googles Brett Caspian and Golden Girl. She gets a handful of hits about her mother’s novel, and the rest are about a sitcom featuring old ladies.

Vivi never once mentioned that she’d had a boyfriend in high school. She studied and had two good friends, Stephanie and Gina, whom she sometimes talked about but wasn’t in touch with, as far as Willa knew.

You’re a fraud, Brett Caspian, Willa thinks.

And yet.

She writes his number down, because what if he’s not a fraud, what if he opens a door to a part of her mother’s life that Willa knew nothing about? What if Willa learns about a secret Vivi kept until her death? This is exactly like something that would happen in one of her mother’s novels. The line between real life and fiction is becoming blurry indeed.

Even dialing the numbers feels illicit. Willa reminds herself that Savannah asked her to check this guy out and that she’s merely doing her due diligence with the Vivian Howe Memorial Facebook page.

He doesn’t answer and his voice mail is an automated recording. She leaves a message: “My name is Willa Bonham, I’m Vivian Howe’s daughter, I saw your Facebook message and I’m calling you as requested.”