“I’ll leave in the morning,” Miranda said. “I didn’t realize…I…I didn’t realize things were…so difficult for you.”

“No!” Dabney protested. “Please stay! We’re having a picnic at the beach tomorrow. And we have dinner reservations at the Boarding House.”

Miranda swayed on her feet. Even in the shadowy dark, Dabney could see her rosy aura.

“Let Miranda go,” Box said. “She wants to go.”

“I don’t want to go,” Miranda said. “But I feel I should.”

“She doesn’t want to go!” Dabney said.

Box squared his shoulders, then turned to address Miranda properly. “With apologies, Miranda, I think it would be best if you left tomorrow. I need some time alone with my wife.”

Agnes

In all her growing up, Agnes had never heard her parents so much as quarrel. On a rare occasion, they disagreed—Box was a Republican, Dabney a Democrat, so there was an endless debate about politics. And every so often Box would want to go to the Boarding House for dinner while Dabney would want to branch out and go to Cru or Ventuno. Agnes knew that her parents had their deeper issues—Dabney’s matchmaking, Box’s slavish devotion to work—but those issues were never, ever aired within Agnes’s earshot.

So the screaming match at midnight was startling. Agnes heard every word, Box yelling and Dabney screaming. Miranda’s voice eventually breaking in. She was a brave woman, braver than Agnes, who was cowering in bed like a child. Agnes was upset enough to reach for her phone and call CJ, but CJ would offer little in the way of support. CJ would take Box’s side.

The person Agnes really wanted to call was Riley. Agnes had been out earlier with Riley and Celerie at the bar at the Summer House, listening to the piano player, drinking champagne cocktails, having what Celerie called an “adult evening.” Celerie had trailed Agnes to the ladies’ room, and in one of those confidences that could take place only in a cramped bathroom after three champagne cocktails, Celerie had said, “Riley likes you, not me.” She had said this in a resigned, nonconfrontational way; she was merely stating a fact. It sounded like she was also giving Agnes permission to like Riley back.

Agnes knew that Riley liked her and not Celerie. It was obvious in his body language and in every word that came out of his mouth.

Agnes said, “I’m engaged.”

Celerie had shrugged. “Yeah, but you can’t deny that he’s a great guy, and he likes you. That has to feel good.”

Riley was a great guy, a warm, companionable presence, he was funny and smart and charming, he was a gentleman, and Agnes loved to listen as he sang along with the piano player and tapped out the rhythms on the bar. It did feel good to know that Riley liked her, and as Agnes listened to her parents below, she knew she could call him and explain the situation and he would have something soothing to say. He understood Dabney and appreciated her and valued her idiosyncrasies the way few people but Agnes did.

But as soon as Agnes decided that she would call Riley, the fighting stopped. It was over. Agnes heard footsteps on the stairs and bedroom doors closing.

Did you stop anywhere? Did you see anyone?

Box was only now asking the questions Agnes had been asking for weeks.

Dabney

Forbearance: In the morning, she went for her power walk, waving to the same people, petting the same dogs. When she got home, the rest of the house was still asleep, so she set about squeezing oranges for juice, frying bacon, and making blueberry pancakes.

She was at the stove when Miranda came downstairs with her suitcase packed.

“I’d really like you to stay,” Dabney said. She hoped that the smells of the kitchen would indicate a return to normalcy. “Emotions were running high last night and we’d all had a lot of wine. I know Box wants you to stay.”

A shadow crossed Miranda’s face. It looked for a second like she might cry, and Dabney thought, I will then be in a position to comfort the woman about her unrequited love for my husband. She thought, How do I get myself into these predicaments? She thought, My matchmaking is going haywire. Agnes is still going to marry CJ, Clen went on a date with Elizabeth Jennings, and I have managed to make a grand debacle of Box and Miranda.

“Please stay,” Dabney said.

Miranda sighed. “I can’t,” she said. “I just can’t.”

Agnes

Monday after work, Agnes bade her campers goodbye and drove out the Polpis Road toward number 436. Her heart was banging in her chest. She was petrified to discover her mother’s secret, and yet she had to know.

Again, she wanted to call Riley. It was he who had done the legwork. He should rightly be her sidekick, the Watson to her Sherlock Holmes.

She found the mailbox for 436 and turned into the driveway. She was buzzing with nerves. What was she going to find?

She eased down the long shell driveway, the Prius’s tires crunching along until she came to a clearing, a huge summer home not unlike other showstopping summer homes on the island—it was a fantasy of decks and balconies, gray cedar shingles and impeccable white trim, with a half-moon window over the front door. The house looked unoccupied; all the windows were shut and there was no sign of humanity. Agnes felt an easing in her chest, but also a letdown. This was the address Riley had given her, but it was nothing.

Then Agnes noticed that the driveway diverted behind the house and she followed it. She passed a beautiful rectangular pool shielded by privet. Agnes saw a table and chairs, a red canvas umbrella, a gas grill. And then she saw a smaller dwelling, the guest house, she supposed.