He drank and smoked pot at the bonfires. Everyone did.

Harper lost track of Brendan for a bunch of years. They had never been close, never hooked up. Harper had been downright thrilled when Brendan had, one day, wandered into Mad Martha’s, ordered a double scoop of shark attack ice cream (vanilla ice cream colored blue, with white chocolate chunks and raspberry swirl, a wonderfully sick joke and very, very popular), and called Harper by name.

He had returned to the Vineyard for good, people said, to establish a surfing school. But shortly thereafter, he had an accident.

He’d been high on something stronger than weed, and he’d gone out in prehurricane swells. The waves were real monsters, although presumably nothing Brendan Donegal couldn’t handle. But the combination of the drugs and the waves got him. People spotting thought he was gone. He was under forever, his buddy Spyder said. But then they saw his board pop up, and shortly thereafter Brendan became visible in the washout. Spyder dragged him out and performed CPR; the Edgartown Fire Department showed up seconds later and brought him back from the dead.

It was a tremendous story—until it became clear that Brendan wasn’t the same after that. Simple tasks eluded him. He could watch TV but couldn’t read. He could ride a bike but couldn’t tie his shoes. He could not surf, could not own or operate a surf school. That dream was over.

Thank goodness Brendan’s mother, a woman who was only ever referred to as Mrs. Donegal, was wealthy and owned a house on Chappy’s East Beach that had a guest cottage where Brendan could live; he went to occupational therapy once a week in Falmouth to try to regain at least part of what he once had.

After Harper got fired by Jude, she was left with nowhere to go during the day. It was autumn, and Harper had wanted to ride her mountain bike, but she feared that one of Jude’s work trucks would run her off the road. She couldn’t take Fish to Great Rock Bight or take yoga—too public—nor could she drink all day at the Wharf or the Ritz because Joey Bowen still had friends there.

And so, at that confusing and painful time in her life, Harper went to the place many Vineyarders go when they want to get away: Chappaquiddick. She started out by packing up for the day with Fish and heading out to Cape Poge with her surf-casting rod, but the weather soon grew too chilly, at which point Harper sought refuge at Mytoi.

Mytoi, owned and operated by the Trustees of the Reservations, is a full-fledged, beautifully maintained Japanese garden, complete with a koi pond spanned by an arched wooden bridge, a stone sculpture garden, and benches well placed for introspection, even as autumn deepens, even as snow falls in December.

It had been snowing when Harper first saw Brendan there, the snowflakes light and dry, so pretty against the steel-gray sky. Harper had gone to sit on what she thought of as “her” bench, a long red wooden seat with a curved back that overlooks the koi pond and bridge—but someone else was sitting on it. This was the first time Harper had encountered another soul in the garden. Although it was a magical place and, she thought, transformative, it was largely ignored in the off-season. Who was this, then? Harper’s first instinct was to leave—the whole point of Mytoi, for her, was solitude—but she approached. And then she saw it was Brendan Donegal.

“Hey,” she said. He was far less intimidating since his accident. Not an object of pity, exactly—at least not to Harper. More of an accessible god. He wore a knit cap and a Carhartt work jacket over a flannel shirt; his feet were in sturdy work boots. She wondered if he had tied the laces himself or if he’d had to ask his mother to do it.

“Brendan?” Harper said. “Hi—it’s Harper. Harper Frost.”

A slow smile spread across Brendan’s face. He was still good looking—gorgeous, really—with his light blue eyes and his sandy blond hair kept long and shaggy.

“Harper,” he said. “Hi.” He patted the spot on the bench next to him.

She knew enough, somehow, not to bombard him with questions, and they sat in silence for a long while as the snow fell and the wind rippled the surface of the pond.

Finally Brendan turned to her. “Why do you come here?”

“To get away,” she said. “I made a bad decision, and I lost my job and most of my friends.”

“Really?” Brendan said. “Me, too.”

When Harper went back to Mytoi the next day, Brendan was there, and Harper sat with him again. The third day it was bitterly cold, and Harper nearly skipped her trip to Chappy, but it had become a ritual of sorts, so she bundled up and went. Brendan was there yet again, but after a few minutes of sitting and shivering side by side on the bench, Brendan stood up and offered Harper his hand.

“We’re going,” he said.

“Okay,” Harper said. “Where?”

“My house,” he said. “I’ll make you an Irish coffee.”

Harper had been hesitant because of Mrs. Donegal. Mrs. Donegal was wealthy and well connected; Harper feared she had heard about Harper’s fall from grace. She might have been friends with Jude or one of Jude’s clients; it was impossible to comprehend the millions of circuitous routes that gossip traveled on the island.

But it had been fine. The Irish coffee Brendan made was strong and hot, and Harper had two mugs of it. When she was finished with the second, Brendan took her mug and set it in the sink.

“I’m not the same,” he said. “I’m not the same as I was.”

“It’s okay,” Harper said. She had no idea if it was okay or what kind of scrambled messages his brain might be transmitting. “I like you the way you are now.”

“You do?” he asked.

“Yes,” Harper said.

And he had kissed her on the cheek.

They spent time together on Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings, always meeting at Mytoi, then going back to Brendan’s house for Irish coffee. After a few months, Harper introduced Brendan to Fish—dogs weren’t allowed at Mytoi, so Fish slept across the backseat of the Bronco in the parking lot—and it was love at first sight. Fish had cuddled up to Brendan immediately, his tail wagging as though he’d found a long-lost friend.

Harper has been going over to see Brendan twice a week for nearly three years. Their relationship has no name; it has depth but no breadth. Harper isn’t about to suggest that she and Brendan go to dinner or grab coffee or spend a summer day on Lobsterville Beach. There is only Mytoi and the coffee and a kiss on the cheek when she leaves.

The Chappy ferry is a platform barge that holds three cars and travels the 527 feet that separate Chappaquiddick from the rest of the Vineyard in ninety seconds. Harper prefers the On Time II to the On Time III because her favorite ferry master, a woman in her seventies named Indira Mayhew, works on the II. Indira is as salty as they come, but after three years of Harper’s regular Chappy visits—summer and winter, spring and fall—she knows Harper and even grants her a smile or two.

“Missed you last week,” Indira says.

Harper feels a swell of tenderness. Perhaps Indira hasn’t heard the rumors about her and Dr. Zimmer, or maybe she has but she doesn’t connect the name Harper Frost with the brunette in the navy-blue ’68 Bronco.

“I missed you, too,” Harper says. Then she feels guilty. She missed a visit for the first time ever. She will have to explain it to Brendan, or try to.

A few minutes later, Harper is driving off the barge onto Chappy. Her heart is pounding. If Brendan isn’t at Mytoi, she will have to go to his house unannounced, which makes bumping into Mrs. Donegal—something Harper has managed to avoid up to this point except for a few waves from afar—a valid concern. Harper pulls into the parking lot; hers is the only car, but that doesn’t mean anything. Brendan walks from home.

Okay, she thinks. Here goes.

The gardens are another place altogether now, at the start of summer. The cherry trees are blushing pink; their luscious blooms and fragrance are almost indecent. The ferns have unfurled, and the dell planted with camellias is in its full glory. The pond is full to brimming and nearly overflowing with fat koi. The fish swim with renewed energy, flashing the silver and tangerine of their scales. There are butterflies flitting and a concert of birdsong.