To Clen, Agnes said, “Can you keep a secret?”

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Clen said.

Right. Clen was a good, neutral person to talk to about this.

“Has my mother told you anything about CJ?”

“Not really,” Clen said. “Only that she doesn’t approve. No rosy aura or whatever. Not a perfect match.”

“She doesn’t approve,” Agnes said. “But that’s not why I did what I did. Or not the whole reason, anyway.”

“What did you do?”

“Sent the ring back,” Agnes said. “I’ve been away from CJ for three weeks and two days, and I feel great. I’m my own person again.”

Clen raised his eyebrows.

“CJ is very confident,” Agnes said. “Very Master-of-the-Universe. He snaps his fingers and things happen. Front-row seats to the Knicks, and to Broadway shows, backstage passes to Madison Square Garden. A car service all the time with a bottle of Veuve Clicquot on ice because he knows it’s my favorite champagne. Flowers at work, love notes on my pillow. Victor Cruz, who plays for the New York Giants, showed up in Morningside Heights to sign autographs for my kids. Really sweet stuff. And he’s smart…and he’s funny…” Agnes blinked. What had she done? Had she made the world’s biggest mistake? “He’s a lot older than me, eighteen years older, and he expects certain behavior from me. I’ve spent the past year wanting to be his good girl. Maybe I was looking for a father figure.” She looked at Clen and laughed unhappily.

He said, “Well. That’s not impossible.”

“But since I’ve been at home, I realized that my relationship with CJ isn’t healthy. He’s very controlling. I’m like a marionette. I can’t disagree with him, I can’t make my own decisions. He hated my friends, so I don’t see them anymore. The relationship looks good to most people—Box loves CJ, they’re best buddies—but it’s bad. Really bad. My mother was right.”

“She usually is,” Clen said.

“She always is,” Agnes said. “It’s weird.”

They sat in silence for a minute. Then Clen brought two glasses out of the cabinet.

“Bourbon?” he said.

“Please.”

“You haven’t told your mother you sent back the ring?”

“No,” Agnes said. “I don’t want her to know yet. I don’t want her to know about CJ, and I don’t want her to know about you.”

“I feel sorry for the guy,” Clen said. “Losing out on a future with you.”

“He’ll find someone else in two minutes,” Agnes said. She threw back the bourbon. “I kind of like this guy who works for Mom. His name is Riley, and he’s studying to be a dentist.”

“I’ve heard her talk about the dentist,” Clen said. “He surfs and plays the guitar. I thought maybe your mother kind of liked him.”

“She has too many men as it is.”

“Agreed,” Clen said.

As Agnes pulled out of Clendenin’s driveway that evening, a blond woman driving a Mercedes pulled in. They nearly collided, but the Prius was small and handled well, and Agnes scooted out of the way, giving the woman a little wave. The woman looked at Agnes with great interest, then finally offered half of an uncertain smile.

It wasn’t until Agnes was out on the Polpis Road that she wondered who the woman was. The owners of the big house didn’t arrive on island until August, Clen said. It might have been the cleaning lady, but what kind of cleaning lady drove a Mercedes?

A friend of Clen’s? A woman he was dating? Of all the surprising emotions Agnes had felt this summer, here was one more: Agnes felt jealous on her mother’s behalf.

Dabney

Box was relentless. He went with her everywhere now. She was never alone. They went to dinner together, they read together, they went to bed together. There were still no sexual overtures from him, which was a blessing.

During her walk, she called Clen.

He said, “Jesus, woman, when am I going to see you?”

She said, “I was free yesterday at five, but you had plans. What plans?”

He said, “That I can’t tell you.”

She said, “Elizabeth Jennings?”

He said, “I hate to tell you this, Cupe, but you sound jealous.”

“I am jealous,” she said. “What were the plans?”

“I can’t tell you,” he said. “But it wasn’t Elizabeth. She did, however, drop off a homemade blueberry pie on my porch with a little note.”

“Homemade pie? Elizabeth?” Dabney said. “Her chef probably made it.”

“Jealous and catty!” Clen said. He sounded delighted.

“I can come today at five, “ Dabney said. “Or do you have plans again?”

“No plans,” he said. “Except to devour you.”

Dabney went to see Clen at five, but she had to do so under the auspices of going to the salon to get her hair cut. She figured this bought her an hour and a half, which she and Clen desperately needed. She listened to his voice in her ear, she tasted his skin, she felt him squeeze her—it hurt! But squeeze harder!—and it was just like she had never been apart from him. He was hers, she was his, they were one.

But then the countdown began. They had fifteen minutes left, then ten, then five.

“Will you miss me?” she asked.