Harper nods. “She was born ninety seconds before me. She has always been independent and self-sufficient. Whereas I always needed help.”

“So who is your support?” Ramsay asks.

How is Harper to answer that question?

“In recent years, my love life has been complicated,” Harper says, and she shakes her head at the understatement. “I had a lover, a married lover.”

“Ahh,” Ramsay says.

“His name is Reed Zimmer,” Harper says. It feels so wonderful to say his name out loud that tears stand in her eyes. “He’s a fixer, too. A doctor. He was my father’s doctor, so he took care of my father, and by association he took care of me. He has a quiet authority that made me feel safe when I was with him. Which of course was foolish because I was the opposite of safe. He belonged to someone else. His wife, Sadie. And I fell into the trap that all mistresses fall into: I believed Sadie didn’t matter. I believed he would leave her for me eventually.”

“But he didn’t?” Ramsay says.

“Sadie found out about us,” Harper says. “She caught us together on the night my father died, and then a few days later she made a scene at Billy’s funeral. Reed sent me a text message asking me not to contact him for a while.” Harper stares into the bottom of her martini glass. Truth serum. She never talks this much—but then again, whom does she have to confide in? Only Ramsay, here and now. “I heard from other sources that he moved out. I heard he took a leave of absence from the hospital. I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing. I don’t know if he’s still on the Vineyard or if he’s walking around out in the real world. I don’t know if he’s looking for me or looking for himself. I feel guilty about what I did to Sadie, but I feel more guilty about what I did to Reed. Because I believe he’s a good, true person, and yet somehow I led him astray. I stained his character, shredded his integrity. The night Sadie caught us, I asked him to meet me. He didn’t want to, but I begged him.”

“Well, your father had just died,” Ramsay says. “Right?”‘

Harper spins her martini glass. “I mess up whatever I do,” she says. “It’s like a curse. When our parents divorced, and I got to go with Billy, I thought I’d won some kind of contest. But it turns out I’m a loser, through and through.”

“You don’t believe that,” Ramsay says.

“I do, Tabitha does, and I think even my mother does. And my father, right before he died, turned to me and said, I’m sorry, kiddo. At first I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I figured it out. He was sorry I was the way I was. He was sorry he couldn’t help me.”

“Harper, come on,” Ramsay says. “You are a beautiful, intelligent woman. Every bit as intriguing as your sister but, if I may say so, way more fun.”

“So much fun that I barely graduated from Tulane,” Harper says. “So much fun that while I was cocktail waitressing at this place in Edgartown called Dahlia’s, I agreed to deliver a ‘package’ for a guy everyone knew was a drug dealer. I got arrested, ratted him out, brought down the whole operation.”

Ramsay’s eyes grew wide behind his glasses. “You’re kidding.”

“But that’s not the worst thing I’ve ever done,” Harper says. “And sleeping with Dr. Zimmer isn’t the worst thing, either.”

“Do I dare ask?” Ramsay says.

Harper studied him. “Tabitha never told you why we don’t speak? She never hinted?”

“Never,” Ramsay says. His face is earnest, but Harper can’t believe that Tabitha lived with someone for so long and didn’t tell him about the night Julian died.

“Well,” Harper says. She’s not sure what to say. She almost wishes Tabitha had given her version of the story so that Harper could confirm or deny. She drains the last sip of her martini. What she really wants is a shot of Jäger. “Tabitha blames me for Julian’s death.”

Ramsay shakes his head like he’s trying to clear water from his ears. “What?” he says. “Why? Why would she do that?”

But this is beyond Harper’s ability to answer. She slides off her bar stool and stares at him, willing him to understand that she did not smother Julian with a blanket or drown him in the bathtub or shake him because he wouldn’t stop crying. Harper should explain the events of that day, that night—but even now, fourteen years later, it’s too painful to revisit.

“Thank you for dinner,” she says, and she leaves the restaurant. She turns back once to look at Ramsay. He is sitting, stunned, and makes no move to follow her.

She walks all the way home in her bare feet—kitten heels be damned—and thinks to herself: The halcyon days—days when no storms occur—are over. She can’t last a second longer. She pulls out her phone and stares at the screen—it shows a long-ago photo of her and Billy on the boat, with Billy holding up a striped bass—willing herself to let reason rule here. But no, sorry. She calls Reed and is shuttled to his voice mail. She has something to tell him. It’s only a hunch, but she can’t leave it in a message. She hangs up.

But then, almost immediately, Harper’s phone rings. Reed? Or is it Ramsay, just now recovering from his shock? Harper waits for the ringing to stop and the chime to sound indicating a voice mail, then she checks her display.

It’s an unfamiliar Vineyard number, exchange 693. She stops in her tracks on the side of Cliff Road. Maybe it’s Reed, calling from a landline.

It’s a moment or two before Harper can bring herself to listen to the message.

“Harper, hello. This is Edie Donegal, Brendan’s mother. I understand you might still be away, but I felt the need to call you. Brendan isn’t doing well. I know you care about him, and as much as I don’t want to impose, I can’t help but ask if you might be able to visit him sometime soon. It’s the only thing I can think of that might help. Thank you, Harper. Good night.”

Harper’s head suddenly feels too heavy to hold up. Brendan. Poor Brendan. And yet in her current state of mind, Harper doesn’t believe she can help Brendan. She will only make things worse.

She deletes the message.

She can’t take another step. Her stomach roils, and green waves of nausea wash over her. She vomits into the grass on the side of the road.

More than a hunch, she thinks. She knows.

She’s pregnant.

NANTUCKET

A stretch of days arrives when the weather is so brutal that it’s the only thing people want to talk about. It’s eighty-seven degrees at noon—unheard of since the heat wave of 1936. The brick sidewalks of town bake in the sun; the beaches are unbearable. There is no breeze, no clouds, not a second’s respite from the punishing heat.

It’s too hot to gossip. Nobody can sit still long enough to listen.

But the insurance offices of Striker & McClain are mightily air-conditioned, so much so that every client who walks in sighs with the deliciousness of it.

Percil Ott sinks into the armchair next to the desk of the receptionist, Bonnie Atkinson. Percil tells Bonnie he needs to see Ramsay Striker about a windshield replacement.

“But no hurry,” Percil says to Bonnie. “I could sit here all day.”

Bonnie rolls her eyes. Percil is a retiree who likes the sound of his own voice. She isn’t about to get sucked into his vortex.

“I’ll let Ramsay know you’re here,” Bonnie says.

Ramsay works back in the corner of the office, and Bonnie notices his privacy walls are up, which is unusual. Bonnie has worked at Striker & McClain for twenty-one years, and she can’t remember this ever happening before. Intellectually she realizes that privacy panels mean that Ramsay would like privacy, but Bonnie suffers from an acute case of natural curiosity. She peeks through the crack and sees Ramsay intently studying his computer screen. Bonnie’s hand flies to her chest. Pornography? She never pegged Ramsay for the pornography type; he’s handsome enough to have any woman he wants—look at the twenty-two-year-old bartender he dated for nearly three months! But then Bonnie squares her expectations with reality: everyone watches porn. Everyone except Bonnie and her husband, Norm Atkinson. Norm watches reruns of The Andy Griffith Show.