Predictable.

Tennie Gulliver had been dead for years, and Vern had sold both Tennie’s house and his restaurant, taken the money, and bought a place in Florida. Delilah pictured him now as an older man, eating Grand Slam breakfasts at Denny’s. Was he happy?

She fantasized about running away again. Her anger at Andrea Kapenash was a tumor in her lung that was keeping her from breathing properly. Her secret knowledge of Greg’s continuing affair with April Peck was an ulcer in her gut, and the guilt of her silence on that final morning was meningitis, inflaming her brain. Her bones ached with regular old sad sadness. She felt strapped to this island like a crazy person to a bed. If she stayed, she was sure she would die.

Delilah stood up from the curb. A family by the name of Hebner had bought Tennie Gulliver’s house, and it looked a lot better now. The Hebners had jacked up the house and squared the foundation; they had replaced windows and painted the trim and replaced the old door knocker with a brass clamshell. Still, it was Tennie’s house, the very same house where Delilah had spent exactly one night the May she was sixteen. She had been so brave and so stupid. Delilah was older now by more than double; her own life’s circumstances had been squared and given a new coat of paint. But really, nothing had changed.

PHOEBE

They had sent out seven hundred and fifty invitations to the cocktail party that would celebrate Island Conservation’s purchase of the ninety-two-acre parcel in the savannah, and they had three hundred and ten people RSVP to say they were coming. Phoebe and Addison had bought benefactor tickets at a thousand dollars apiece, but Phoebe had not heard from Jeffrey and Delilah or the Chief and Andrea. Her own friends! She had sent them invitations with her name as cochair circled in red pen and festooned with stars as a kind of self-deprecating joke, but she hoped the message was clear: this was her thing, and they would be expected to come. Phoebe had a surprise planned, to boot, which they could not miss. Attendance was mandatory at a hundred and fifty bucks a ticket. It wasn’t the ticket price that was holding them back, Phoebe knew; both couples could afford it. What was holding them back was their grief, their retreat from everyday normal, happy life. With the state Andrea and Delilah were in, they probably didn’t even open their mail.

Phoebe would have to call them. Before, when faced with an unpleasant task, she would take a valium (three, four, six) and operate in a fog. But now she considered her pills poison. She had thrown every last prescription bottle into a shoe box and tucked the shoe box away. She wasn’t hiding it from herself; now she was hiding it from Addison.

The necessary evil of the phone calls. Delilah first, because with Delilah things were slightly easier.

“Hello?” Delilah said aggressively. This could be good or bad.

“My benefit?” Phoebe said. “The Island Conservation thing next Friday? You and Jeffrey are coming.”

“No.”

“Yes, you are. There is no excuse that will work with me. You have to be there. It’s the first thing I’ve chaired in a hundred years.”

“I’m not going to anything this summer. This is the summer of no. This is the summer that wasn’t.”

Well, that was true. In previous summers the eight of them had been out all the time: at the celebrity softball game that benefited the kids’ school, at the circus for the Atheneum, at cocktail parties, at the back table at the Company of the Cauldron, at the back bar of 21 Federal, at the summer concert for the Boys & Girls Club, at the Boston Pops benefit for the hospital. This year they had done exactly nothing.

“Understood,” Phoebe said. Who was she to talk? She had been on a mental vacation for eight years. “But this you have to come to. This one thing. One night. Mark and Eithne are catering. Mark said he’d make the gougères with the melty cheese in the middle for you especially, okay, darling?”

“Not okay.”

“Why not?”

“I won’t be here.”

“Where will you be?”

Silence. She was either bluffing or being dramatic. She never went away in the summer. Nantucket was Delilah’s playground. Nobody enjoyed the island as much as Delilah. At ten o’clock at night you would find her at the turtle pond with her kids, dangling raw chicken from a string, waiting for the calm surface to break. Or grilling three-inch rib-eyes on her back deck, drizzling heirloom tomatoes with olive oil, jumping up and down if her croquet ball actually cleared the wicket. Or singing along as Greg sang “Hey Girl” at the Begonia.

“Where are you going?” Phoebe asked.

“To hell in a handbasket.”

“Jesus, Delilah, you’re coming to my event, that’s all there is to it. Please? For me?”

“I can’t.”

“I have a surprise for you. A big, happy surprise.”

“That’s not going to work.”

“Sure it is. I’m going to RSVP you for two people. Get a baby-sitter, okay?”

Silence.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Phoebe could not bring herself to call Andrea. Some disturbing stories had reached Phoebe’s ears. Andrea allowed the twins to roam town unsupervised, and she was acting out in other destructive ways. Phoebe could not call up with the frivolous business of a cocktail party. But Andrea and the Chief had to be there. Because of the surprise.

And so Phoebe called the Chief. The dispatcher, Molly, put her right through.

“Hey, Sunshine,” the Chief said.