She said, “You’re the newest Realtor at Congdon & Coleman.”

I had only had the job for twelve hours. How could she have known?

I said, “Yes, that’s right.”

She said, “And I’ve seen your boys waiting at the bus stop. They’re so handsome.”

I smiled proudly because who can resist compliments about one’s children? But then I grew wary. This was probably just lip service.

Dabney said, “Today is Tuesday. I’m alone tonight. Come over for some wine, will you?”

I did go for “some wine.” We finished two bottles, along with a dish of smoked almonds and some really good French cheese and savory crackers and quince paste, which I had never tasted or even heard of before, but which was delicious. Things were like that at Dabney’s house—refined and lovely and eclectic, but not fussy. She made me feel completely at ease, even after I learned that her husband was some kind of famous economist who taught at Harvard, and Dabney herself had gone to Harvard. Usually when I was in the presence of educated people, I felt embarrassed about my pathetic three semesters at Fairly Ridiculous, but I did not feel that way around Dabney.

She asked me if I was married. I said, Long divorced.

She got a twinkle in her eye and told me she was something of a matchmaker. Forty-two couples to her credit, all of them still together.

I laughed and said, “Oh dear God, don’t even try. I don’t need a husband, or even a boyfriend. What I need is a plumber to fix the toilet in the boys’ bathroom. It runs incessantly.”

The very next day, Flynn Sheehan was standing at the top of my friendship stairs. I caught my breath. He had the most arresting blue eyes I had ever seen.

He said, “Dabney Kimball sent me?”

I thought, She has sent me a husband. And boy, was she spot-on. Just looking at Flynn Sheehan gave me butterflies.

He said, “Something about needing a toilet fixed?”

I laughed, then introduced myself and welcomed Flynn Sheehan inside. I was glad I had just come from work and was still wearing a dress, heels, and makeup. I led Flynn Sheehan up the stairs.

He said, “How long have you been renting the Reillys’ house?”

I said, “Three weeks.”

He said, “I basically grew up in this house. Kevin Reilly was my best friend. He was killed in Iraq in ninety-one.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s why I came on such short notice. Kevin’s parents aren’t exactly known for their upkeep of this place…”

“Oh,” I said. “The place is fine. It’s charming. I love everything about it, except the running toilet.”

Flynn stopped at the top of the stairs. He was looking at marks made on the doorjamb, pencil marks and initials I hadn’t even noticed.

He pointed to a mark near his waist. “This is Kevin, age five, and me age five. Kev at ten, at twelve, me at thirteen, Kev at fifteen.”

I studied the marks: FS 2/10/77. KR 8/29/83.

Flynn pointed to the highest mark, at about his present height. “This was the last time we did it, right before he left. He had me by half an inch.”

I looked where Flynn pointed. FS 3/30/91. KR 3/30/91.

Flynn blinked. “He was like a brother to me.”

I didn’t know what to say but I felt my heart doing funny things, things it hadn’t done in a long time.

Then I noticed his wedding ring, and I thought: Story of my life.

Flynn fixed the toilet in thirty seconds, and when I tried to pay him, he waved me away. He was the most attractive man I’d seen in years and he had shown me the softest part of his heart within three minutes of meeting me. But he was married.

At the door, he handed me his card. FLYNN SHEEHAN PLUMBING. The address was a P.O. box. I found myself wanting to know where he lived. I would drive by his house and try to catch a glimpse of his pretty wife.

He said, “If you need anything, and I mean anything, even if it’s not plumbing, I want you to call me.”

I felt myself redden. I wondered what he meant by that.

Then he said, “The Reillys are my people. If anything goes wrong with the house, they would want me to take care of it.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

Flynn descended the friendship stairs and strode out to his truck, whistling.

“Goodbye!” I called after him. “Thank you!”

A day later, when I saw Dabney, she said, “So, you met Flynn?”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you for sending him.”

Dabney gazed at me. She had dark brown eyes, but they seemed to send out gold sparks at times. “So what did you think?”

“He fixed the toilet in half a minute. I probably could have done it myself if I’d bothered to give it a try.”

“No,” she said. “I mean, what did you think about Flynn?”

“Nice guy,” I said.

“You’re rosy,” she said. She jumped up and down like a little kid, then she snapped her fingers. “I knew it! I knew it! You’re rosy!”

“Rosy?” I said.

“You liked him.”

“Dabney,” I said. “He’s married.”

Dabney’s face fell and I felt like I had just toppled her ice-cream cone.

“Yeah,” she said. “I know.”

I learned something quickly about Nantucket. Although it was a small island, you could go months without seeing someone. I went six months without seeing Flynn Sheehan. Indeed, I went for days and weeks without thinking about him. And then he would pop into my mind—most often when I walked up the stairs and saw the hash marks on the doorjamb—and I would hope and pray that the kitchen faucet would leak, or the light would go out in the refrigerator.