Harper says, “I’ll give you the grand tour.” She leads Polly through the living room into the dining room, where the table is covered with old onion lamps, broken fixtures, wires, cords, outlet covers, bulbs of various shapes and sizes, and a pile of unpaid invoices.

Harper will have to deal with what’s owed, referring Billy’s current customers elsewhere and dismantling the business. It might be a good thing she got fired.

The dining room has four tall, skinny windows that look out onto the backyard, which is a nice size but completely unkempt—woods and unmowed grass, in the midst of which is a patch of overgrown vegetable garden. Billy had allowed Harper to put it in back when she was still working for Jude, and in the first season they harvested zucchini, cucumbers, cherry tomatoes, and one enormous misshapen pumpkin that won honorable mention at the Ag Fair.

“Windows,” Polly says, like a toddler learning new words. “Yard.”

They head into the kitchen, which Harper knows is the weak link. It features peeling linoleum floors, stained Formica countertops, and particleboard cabinets, several of which are loose on their hinges. With a stranger standing next to her, Harper can see how terribly the house presents, but she never gave it any thought because it was what it was: Billy’s house. The fridge is a hundred years old, but it kept Billy’s beer cold. Billy would rather have eaten takeout from the Home Port every night than spend money on renovating the kitchen. But the kitchen looks so bad that Harper feels she should apologize.

“Needs work,” Polly says with a rise of her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Rest of the house?”

They wander through the three bedrooms upstairs, including the lavender bedroom that belonged to Harper before she finally moved out a week after her thirty-seventh birthday. They peek in the two underwhelming bathrooms—the tile floors are fine, but the sinks and tubs and toilets are outdated. And one of the bathrooms is Billy’s and still has a can of shaving cream on the sink, along with his green comb. The green comb had been Billy’s since the beginning of time. It probably cost him five cents at a drugstore on Charles Street in Boston in 1978, but it’s so deeply ingrained in Harper’s mind as Billy’s comb that it’s as if his beating heart is there on the bathroom counter. Harper struggles not to lose her composure in front of Polly Childs.

They peer into the shallow linen closet, then into the deeper closet that holds the washer and dryer.

“Laundry,” Polly says. “Good.”

“Well, yeah,” Harper says. The house is an eyesore, she understands this anew, but at least they aren’t hanging out at the Laundromat every Saturday.

Polly turns to Harper and says, “Listen. I’m not going to bullshit you.”

Harper nods. “Good.” Although really, she could use a little candy coating, a little pie in the sky.

“You have two options,” Polly says. “We sell this as a teardown, lot only. Listings in Vineyard Haven have taken a nosedive lately. This town can’t decide what it wants to be. And Daggett Avenue is… meh. So it would be listing at six, closing at half a mil.”

“Oh,” Harper says. This is far less than she anticipated. “The other option?”

“You gut it. New kitchen, obviously, new bathrooms. The whole house needs a new coat of paint. You pull up the carpet, restore those wood floors, buy new furniture, every stick, and hire a landscaper. If you pour a hundred twenty-five, hundred fifty into this place, I would list it at one point one, and you walk with a million bucks, guaranteed.”

Harper stares at Polly’s feet. She’s wearing Jack Rogers sandals, the same color purple as her Roxie, and her toenails match as well. How does she do it? Harper wonders. How, with all she’s been through, does she keep on keeping on?

“Can I sleep on it?” she asks.

“Absolutely,” Polly says. “Call me tomorrow.”

Harper drives home slowly, and all the while, her phone buzzes. It’s Drew calling. What did he not understand about their last conversation? They went on six dates, and now the relationship is over. The phone rings again, and Harper thinks, That’s it! She’s going to throw the phone out the window, then back up over it. She checks the display: Nantucket, MA. It’s not Tabitha’s phone, but maybe it’s the landline. Maybe her mother’s landline. Despite Harper’s conflicting emotions, she needs to talk to someone with taste and good business sense about Billy’s house. She answers.

“Hello?”

“Aunt Harper?”

It’s Ainsley.

“Grammie fell and broke her hip. Mom’s with her in Boston at the hospital, and I’m here on Nantucket by myself. I was wondering… well… is there any way you can come over?”

“Come over?” Harper says. She’s not sure what Ainsley means. “To Nantucket, you mean?”

“Yes,” Ainsley says. “Can you please?”

Harper is taken hostage by the novelty of the situation: someone is seeking out her company. But then reality intercedes. “What does your mother think about this?” she asks.

“She says it’s totally fine,” Ainsley says. “She would appreciate your help.”

There is no way this is true. Tabitha could be bleeding out in a school of great white sharks and she wouldn’t appreciate Harper’s help. But then Harper remembers the voice mail that came in at two thirty in the morning. She hasn’t bothered listening to it, but maybe it is indeed Tabitha, asking for help.

“Really?” Harper says.

“Really,” Ainsley says.

TABITHA

The break is bad, and after Eleanor is seen by Dr. Karabinis, the orthopedist at Mass General who specializes in geriatric hip breaks, it is determined that Eleanor will need surgery. There is no one to operate tonight, so they’ve stabilized the leg, managed Eleanor’s pain, and they will operate in the morning. Recovery takes six to eight weeks and involves bed rest and physical therapy. Thankfully, Eleanor is knocked out and can’t argue with her treatment plan, though argue she will—eventually.

Tabitha accepts this news stoically, although inside her is a three-ring circus of despair, angst, and resentment. Eleanor is, essentially, out of commission, and not only that, she’s going to need help. Hiring a live-in nurse comes to mind, although Eleanor is finicky about strangers and will, no doubt, want Tabitha to serve as the nurse. A live-in nurse is also expensive, probably more than a thousand dollars a day, seven thousand dollars a week, thirty thousand dollars a month, adding up to a grand total of forty-five to sixty thousand dollars, depending on how quickly Eleanor heals. Eleanor may have that kind of cash lying around, but if she does have it, she won’t want to spend it—at the end of the day, there’s no one more frugal than a Yankee WASP—and if she doesn’t have it, that’s even worse news.

Tabitha will have to live in Boston this summer with her mother. But if Tabitha does that, who will run the Nantucket store during its peak season? They can’t close the store; they owe eighty thousand in rent. There’s the manager, Meghan, who is perfectly capable, but she’s eight months pregnant. First babies are often late, so Tabitha had hoped to make it through the Fourth of July weekend, during which time Meghan would teach Ainsley everything she knows and Ainsley would take Meghan’s place with Tabitha right there overseeing.

Ainsley. If Tabitha moves to Boston for six or eight weeks, what will happen to Ainsley? She’s too young to stay by herself; she would burn the carriage house down and turn Eleanor’s house into an opium den. Tabitha shudders as she imagines the Snapchat photos: Ainsley and Emma in string bikinis pounding cans of Coors Light, doing bong hits, modeling Tabitha’s entire wardrobe. It might even get worse—nude photos, cocaine, older men. No: Ainsley can’t stay alone.

But Ainsley will refuse to come to Boston—of this Tabitha is certain. Would Wyatt agree to have her live with him on the Cape? That might work, except Tabitha really needs Ainsley to work at the store.

If Tabitha were still with Ramsay, there would be no problem. Ramsay would have stayed with Ainsley and kept her in line. He would have had her reading Ayn Rand; he would have taught her to make her bed with hospital corners. He would have delivered her to and from work, and then, once the weather grew consistently clement, he would have made her ride her bike. He would have taken her to dinner at the yacht club on Friday nights and made certain she ordered Shirley Temples.