Joey holds up a finger and Blair thinks he’s about to inform her she’s a spoiled brat, but instead he races down the beach to the ice cream concession. Blair squints to see him pulling coins out of his pocket, and the next thing she knows, Joey is headed back toward her, holding a can of whipped cream. He sets it next to her plate.

“Ask and you shall receive,” he says. “Go crazy.”

This, Blair thinks, is what it feels like to be adored.

When they arrive at the ferry, Joey loads Blair’s suitcase onto the luggage rack and holds her arm as he walks her to the pedestrian ramp.

“I should take the ferry over with you,” he says.

“No, no,” Blair says. She can’t imagine her mother’s and grandmother’s expressions if they were to see Blair arriving on Nantucket with Joey Whalen instead of Angus. Her grandmother, especially, would be cross and confused, and there would be a lot of explaining to do. “You’ve done so much already. I’ll be fine.” She holds up a battered copy of The House of Mirth, which she brought for the ferry crossing. She has read it half a dozen times; it’s her literary security blanket.

Joey takes the book from her and inspects it. “Edith Wharton,” he says. “I should read this. That’s how Angus won you over, isn’t it?”

“Oh, Joey,” Blair says. She stands on her tiptoes and gives him a chaste kiss on the lips.

He says, “I’ll let you get settled over there and then I’ll come see you.”

“More than likely, I’ll return to Boston next week,” she says. What she means is that she will return when Angus comes to his senses and begs her to come home.

Joey grins. “That would be great!” He hugs Blair close and hard, so hard Blair fears for the babies, and then, after a final squeeze of her hand, he heads back to the car.

Blair turns around to see him one more time before she steps into the dim hold of the boat. Joey is behind the wheel of the Lincoln, waving like crazy. Blair waves back, though she feels an undeniable sense of relief when he finally drives away.

Everybody’s Talkin’

June 24, 1969

Dear Tiger,

You aren’t going to believe this.

I’ve been on Nantucket an entire week and have only been to the beach once, Sunday afternoon, just me and Mom and Dad, and Dad insisted on going all the way out to Great Point because he wanted to surf-cast. The trip out there took over an hour and we almost got stuck because Dad lets the tires down to only fifteen pounds when it’s supposed to be eleven. Mom put a bottle of Chablis in the cooler and once we finally got to Great Point, she started drinking. She seems to have given up all her mom duties—like, she didn’t offer to make sandwiches, so Dad made them, and he put mustard on my cheese sandwich and I had to throw it to the seagulls. There was nobody out there except for other fishermen and one seal that was swimming offshore. Dad said the seal meant there were fish but Mom said the seal meant there would be sharks so I couldn’t swim. Mom didn’t offer to put Coppertone on my back and I was afraid to ask her, so I got sunburned.

It was the worst beach day of my life.

(But that’s not the part you won’t believe. I’m coming to that part…just wait!)

Mom promised she would take me to Cisco Beach so I could hang around with kids my own age but after Dad left Sunday night, Mom was so sad she said she needed a day to recuperate. So we were supposed to go today (Tuesday) after my tennis lesson. My tennis lessons with Suze are going okay…

Here, Jessie pauses. Today, she had adamantly signed herself in as Jessica Levin, and Exalta had ripped the pen from Jessie’s hand and crossed Levin out with a bold, angry stroke. She’d said, loud enough for everyone, including the Dunscombe twins and Mrs. Winter, to hear, “Jessica, this membership has been in the Nichols family since 1905 when this club was founded. I pay the bills, not your father. Therefore, you will use my name while you use this club or I will revoke your signing privileges altogether. Do you understand me?”

To keep herself from crying, Jessie imagined Exalta crossing North Beach Street without looking both ways, as she often did, and getting hit by a car.

Jessie excused herself and went to the locker room, where one of the Dunscombe twins—Helen or Heather, she couldn’t tell which—disappeared into a bathroom stall. Whichever twin it was had left her Bermuda bag with a navy-blue linen monogrammed cover on the counter between the sinks. Jessie eyed the Bermuda bag. The monogram was HAD; she wasn’t sure what either twin’s middle name was, but it was possible, even likely, that Helen and Heather had the same initials. While Jessie was thinking that she would never steal from the Dunscombe twins—it seemed much worse, somehow, than stealing from the club—she lifted the wooden handle and grabbed the first things she could get her hands on, a five-dollar bill and a Bonne Bell lip gloss, root beer flavor. She jammed the items into the pocket of her tennis dress.

The toilet flushed. A second later, the twin emerged and smiled at Jessie.

“Hi, Jessie,” she said.

Jessie’s heart sank as she realized it was Heather, the nice twin. “Hi,” she said.

But Jessie decides not to burden Tiger with this story. The last thing Tiger needs to know is that while he’s off being a hero, Jessie is on Nantucket turning into a hardened criminal. She doesn’t intend to steal. It just happens.

…but I have a long way to go when it comes to serving. I asked Suze whether anyone had ever double-faulted through an entire match and she told me I needed an “attitude adjustment.”

Jessie realizes she’s making Suze sound mean, which she isn’t; Suze is just tough in the most admirable way. She doesn’t want Jessie to even consider double-faulting through an entire match. Instead, she encourages Jessie to use positive visualization. She has a few pet phrases: Follow through with your stroke! Charge the net! But she has also given Jessie advice that has nothing to do with tennis, such as Don’t ever change your maiden name. And Make your own money.

“You don’t want to be financially dependent on a man, do you?” Suze had asked that very morning as they collected balls off the court.

“Um…no?” Jessie said.

Suze rolled a tennis ball up the side of her white sneaker, and in one swift motion with foot and racket, she flicked it up and caught it. “Tell me, Jessie, do you have any role models?”