Agnes climbed out of the passenger side and ran to hug her mother. “I’m here!” she said. “I can’t believe all of my stuff fit in that tiny car!”

CJ greeted Dabney with his usual enthusiasm, like she was the only person in the world he wanted to see. He smelled wonderful. He said, “I didn’t want your daughter to have to do the drive alone.”

“Of course not,” Dabney said. She swallowed. “How long can you stay?”

“I’m flying back at nine o’clock tonight with my client, whisper whisper.” CJ winked at Dabney. “Private plane.”

Dabney hadn’t heard the client’s name—either she was losing her hearing on top of all her other maladies, or CJ hadn’t meant for Dabney to hear. She didn’t care; she was relieved that CJ wasn’t staying over.

“I have chicken marinating,” Dabney said.

“I took the liberty of making dinner reservations at Cru,” CJ said. “You’ll join us, I hope?”

Dabney faltered. Were they really hoping she would join them, or did they want to be alone? She felt a wave of exhaustion and weakness; the pain in her abdomen had returned with a vengeance. The antibiotics had done absolutely no good. She supposed her next step was to stop eating wheat. Goodbye to her morning cereal. Goodbye to her beloved BLTs. She might as well stop breathing.

“Please come, Mommy!” Agnes said. “You love oysters!”

Dabney adored Cru—it was chic, polished, and fun. That evening, the restaurant was offering nine kinds of oysters, and Dabney decided to order three of each.

“Great idea,” CJ said. “I’ll do that, too.”

Dabney and CJ’s oysters were presented on an iced platter roughly the circumference of a Goodyear tire. Dabney doctored her oysters the way she liked them—fresh lemon first, then horseradish, then half with a dab of cocktail and half with mignonette.

“Ah, now see,” CJ said. “I’m a purist. I eat them naked.”

The server had brought them a list of the oysters, which ran clockwise around her platter so that they could identify each one.

Dabney beamed. “It’s like a party game!”

CJ had ordered a drink called a Dirty Goose, which came in a martini glass, and he threw it back in one gulp, then spun his finger at the waiter, indicating he wanted another. There were hot rolls on the table. Dabney’s first challenge in not eating any wheat was to skip the rolls. She nudged the basket toward Agnes.

“Have a roll, darling. You’re far too thin.”

“I’m fine, Mom, thanks,” Agnes said.

“CJ, would you like a roll?” Dabney asked.

“No, thank you,” CJ said. “Agnes and I don’t eat carbs.”

“You don’t?” Dabney said. This was news to her. Agnes looked like she could use a big plate of fettuccine Alfredo every day for the next month, but she knew not to press the matter.

Dabney ate the Belon from Maine, then the Hama Hama from Washington State, then the Kumomoto from British Columbia, which was an all-time favorite of hers.

“Would you like one, Agnes?” she asked.

Agnes studied the platter. Of course she wanted one! Dabney and Box were oyster connoisseurs; it was one of their few extravagances. Box ordered twelve dozen Blue Points and twelve dozen Kumomotos for their annual Christmas party. Dabney made a homemade mignonette with crushed fresh raspberries. Agnes had grown up with oysters the way other children had grown up with Pepperidge Farm Goldfish.

“No, thank you,” Agnes said.

“Please, honey, help yourself. We can always order more. How about the Island Creek?”

CJ polished off his Dirty Goose and set the empty glass down so hard on the table that Dabney was surprised it didn’t break.

“No, thanks, Mom,” Agnes said.

“If Agnes wants an oyster,” CJ said, “she can have one of mine.” He lifted one dripping out of its shell and fed it to Agnes like she was a baby bird.

Dabney felt a combination of helplessness and anger rise in her throat. She ate a Wellfleet.

CJ said, “So, Dabney, you’ve succeeded in stealing my fiancée away from me this summer.”

French Kiss from Nova Scotia. Dabney accidentally took a hit of horseradish up her nose, and she reached for her water. “Pardon me?”

“I hope you’re happy.”

“I…?” Dabney looked to Agnes for help. Agnes’s eyes were wide and imploring. Dabney realized that she had been set up as some kind of fall guy. “Well, really, I…when Agnes told me about the funding issue at the club…”

“Agnes doesn’t have to work again, ever,” CJ said. “At the club, or anywhere else. I’m more than able to take care of her in the manner to which she’s been accustomed, and then some.”

“Right,” Dabney said. “I realize this…”

“But you wanted her here at home. I get it, your only daughter back in her childhood bedroom for the summer. Before she gets married and leaves you forever.”

“It’s not like that,” Dabney said. Agnes had now bowed her head; her chin was tucked to her chest. She wasn’t going to say a word in her own defense, or Dabney’s. She was afraid of CJ. Agnes, who had been sailing and water-skiing since she was five, who had flown to Europe by herself at the age of fifteen, and who routinely took the subway home from 125th Street at night in the dark, was afraid of CJ Pippin. She clearly hadn’t told him that it had been her idea to come home to Nantucket. It was she who wanted the beach and the familiar house and the comforting presence of her parents and a chance to work one last summer at her old job as an adventure counselor.