The good news is that before Kirby has to decide what to say, their lunch is interrupted.

The bad news is that the lunch is interrupted by…Darren himself. Kirby blinks. Darren Frazier is standing next to their table flashing that drop-dead gorgeous smile as if he can’t believe his fantastic luck. He’s with an older gentleman whose completely bald head gleams like a polished bed knob. His father, the judge.

“Fancy seeing you two Oak Bluffs girls all the way out here,” Darren says.

“Darren!” Rajani jumps up to give him a hug, then turns to his father. “Your Honor.”

“Rajani,” the judge says. He takes her hand in both of his, then kisses her cheek. “We haven’t seen you once all summer. How is this possible?”

While Rajani explains her nannying job, Darren turns to Kirby. “I’m glad we bumped into you,” he says in a voice meant only for her. “I’ve been meaning to stop by to apologize for Sunday night. Something came up.”

Something came up. Kirby wants to know what, exactly, but she can’t very well get into a deep discussion with him right now, and so she shrugs and says, “Don’t worry about it.”

Darren reaches for her hand and gives it a surreptitious squeeze. Kirby feels a thrill zip up her spine.

“Meet my dad,” Darren says. He clears his throat. “Dad, this is Rajani’s friend Kirby Foley.”

The judge shakes Kirby’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, Kirby.”

“We go to Simmons together,” Rajani says. “And I converted Kirby to the Vineyard way of life, even though her family has a home on Nantucket.”

The judge’s eyebrows lift. “Ah! You’re the one who lives on Nantucket. Yes, my wife mentioned you.”

Kirby feels her smile drop a fraction of an inch. “The Vineyard is a lovely change,” she says. “I’m working the front desk at the Shiretown Inn.”

“Well, please give Mrs. Bennie our best,” the judge says. “Darren, should we get this lunch home before it’s cold?” He smiles at Rajani. “Enjoy your lunch.”

Kirby runs through the entire interaction over and over again as she bikes home from Tea Lane. The judge was perfectly amiable, she thinks, until he figured out who Kirby was. Then he cut things short. Or maybe Kirby is being paranoid.

A paper bag holding the remains of her lunch swings from her handlebars. The bad news is that, after Darren and his father left the Homeport, Kirby was unable to eat a bite of food.

The good news is that Rajani was so caught up in describing what happens at the Aldworths’ key parties that she didn’t even notice.

The next morning, when there is only a scant half hour left in Kirby’s shift, Mr. Ames comes into the back office holding a red rose surrounded by greens and baby’s breath and wrapped in cellophane.

“For me?” Kirby asks. She knows the flower can’t be from Mr. Ames himself—he’s married and has never shown anything more than an avuncular interest in Kirby—but she worries it might be from Mr. Rochester in room 3. Mr. Rochester is a rotund, bespectacled, bald man of at least thirty who has been sent by AAA to rate the hotel. Mr. Rochester had leered at Kirby upon his return from what must have been a Chianti-and-sambuca-soaked evening at Giordano’s and invited Kirby up to his room for a nightcap, which Kirby had, naturally, refused, even though she realized that it might sabotage their chances for a respectable rating.

“Not Mr. Rochester?” Kirby asks.

“I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” Mr. Ames says.

Kirby puts the rose in a bud vase and sets it on the desk. She supposes the flower could be from Bobby Hogue, who is back at the inn this week. He’s such a nice man, though even older than Scottie Turbo, and Kirby wonders whether she could be in a relationship with a man with a missing hand. Yes, she decides. If Darren were missing a hand, she would still like him.

When it’s time to leave work and head home, Mr. Ames tells Kirby to go on out front; he has to check in with Mrs. Bennie for a moment. Kirby thinks this is strange—they don’t usually overlap with Mrs. Bennie, who arrives at nine—but she steps outside anyway.

There, idling at the front curb, is Darren in his red Corvair. When he sees Kirby, he hops out of the car and races around to open the passenger door.

“Ride home?” he says.

She can’t believe this is happening. Darren is here at the inn at seven o’clock in the morning to take her home. He’s not wearing his white T-shirt and shorts, which means he isn’t on his way to work. He came only to see her. And Mr. Ames is in on it. Darren is the one who brought Kirby the rose!

Kirby keeps her cool. “I’d love it,” she says as she folds her legs gracefully into the front seat. “Thank you.”

I Heard It Through the Grapevine

Kate never would have guessed it, but Bitsy Dunscombe drinks even more than she does. It’s a Friday night in July and they have managed to score a decent table at the Opera House. This alone is reason to celebrate. Bitsy calls their waiter over and orders champagne, the best, a vintage Krug.

Bitsy Dunscombe, née Entwistle, of Park Avenue, New York City, and Main Street, Nantucket, was born an aristocrat. She married Ward Dunscombe, whose family owns platinum mines, and now Bitsy has more money than everyone else on Nantucket combined—or close to it, anyway. Kate finds Bitsy’s blatant displays of wealth obnoxious, except in situations like this one.

As the piano tinkles away and the regulars sitting at table 1 hoot with laughter, Kate and Bitsy make quick work of the Krug, and Kate eats one of the tiny gougères brought out by their waiter before they order their martinis.

Bitsy isn’t Kate’s first choice of dinner companion on a Friday night but the two of them do make a tradition of getting together once a summer, and neither David nor Ward is coming to the island this weekend, so when Bitsy called, Kate thought, Why not, and accepted the invitation.

David called the night before to say he was bogged down in a case and couldn’t get away, but Kate knows he’s keeping his distance on purpose. He’ll show up when she cuts back on her drinking, when she can make it through a short phone conversation without hiccupping or slurring her words, which hasn’t happened since she arrived.