“Okay,” Hope said.

“Have you read the Cheever stories?” Benton asked.

“I loved the Cheever stories,” Grace said. She gazed up at Benton. “How do you know so much about books?”

“I was a literature major,” Benton said.

“So was I,” Grace said. “French literature.”

Benton turned his attention back to Hope. “Have you read any Hemingway? The Sun Also Rises? Andre Dubus the father? God, now that man was a genius. Have you read any Updike?”

“No,” said Hope.

Benton rubbed his hands together. “I’m being a typical white male and forgetting the women. Have you read Edith Wharton? The Age of Innocence? The House of Mirth?”

“No.”

“I’m actually jealous of you!” Benton said. “I wish I was sixteen again and had the first reading of all those books ahead of me. Have you read John O’Hara’s An Appointment in Samarra? That’s another one of my favorites.”

Hope shook her head. Grace couldn’t believe how amazing it was to listen to Benton talk about books. Eddie had street smarts, but his reading material started and ended with purchase-and-sales agreements and the Nantucket Standard on Thursdays.

“Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s? Richard Russo? Peter Taylor, The Old Forest? Carson McCullers? What about any of the Russians? Tolstoy? Chekhov? Kafka? Isaac Babel?”

“You have to stop,” Hope said. “I’m one of the smartest kids in my grade, and you’re making me feel totally illiterate.”

Benton laughed. “Listen, I’m going to make you a list of a hundred books. You can probably make it halfway through the list in a year.”

“I would like that,” Hope said. “Really.”

“It’s a deal,” Benton said. He reached down and toggled Hope’s foot in her sneaker. “I’ve got to shove off. Good to see you, Hope.”

“And you,” Hope said.

“I’ll walk you out,” Grace said to Benton.

In the driveway, they stood at the driver’s side of Benton’s truck.

“Bullet dodged,” Grace said. “She didn’t see.”

“Yeah, I know,” Benton said. “But still… that was too close for comfort for me.”

“And me,” Grace said. “We’ll have to be more careful next time.”

“Grace,” Benton said.

She didn’t like the tone of his voice. “What?”

He took a breath. “She’s such a great kid. And I’m sure Allegra is just as wonderful. You have a family, Grace. It doesn’t make me feel good about what we’re doing, and I’m sure it doesn’t make you feel too terrific either.”

“The girls have their own lives,” Grace said. “And Eddie…”

“I think it would be best if I stopped coming for a while,” Benton said.

“What?” Grace said.

“The yard is in good shape,” Benton said. “If you have any questions, you can call me. My phone is always on.”

“Benton?” she said. She swallowed. He was right. What, what, what would Grace have done if Hope had seen them? That would have been a completely different level of awful. “Okay, but you’ll come back, right? I mean, you’re not leaving me forever, are you?”

“No, Grace,” he said. “I’m not leaving you forever.” He touched her cheek, and then he climbed into his truck and drove off.

When Grace went back into the kitchen, Hope was at the counter, making a list on the notepad that Grace used for groceries. Hope said, “What was the book called that Benton said was his favorite?”

Grace looked at Hope. “I don’t know?” she said, and she headed up to her study. She needed to talk to Madeline.

Benton didn’t come the next morning, nor the next. I think it would be best if I stopped coming for a while. How long was a while? A week? Two weeks? A month? If he stayed away for a month, she would perish.

A vicious migraine descended on Wednesday afternoon, only it was a migraine of the heart, not the head. It was the worst emotional pain Grace had sustained since she couldn’t remember when. Nothing mattered. She didn’t care that it was a mild, sunny day filled with possibility. Grace could tend to the hens, collect eggs, spend a couple of good hours in the garden. Cooking usually made her feel better. She could make something complicated for dinner—an asparagus soufflé, a strawberry-rhubarb pie.

Instead, she went overboard with her Fioricet. She took two at four o’clock, when it became clear to her that Benton wasn’t going to stop by that day, and then a third and fourth at six o’clock, when she should have been making dinner. Grace locked herself in her study. Eddie and the girls would have to fend for themselves, if anyone was even home. No one had come up to check on her.

You have a family, Grace.

She couldn’t fault Benton, and she certainly couldn’t hate him. He was right! He had pulled the plug right before they crossed a line. Grace should be grateful. She had stood on the altar at the First Church in Salem and had vowed to love Edward Pancik, forsaking all others—but from the moment Benton Coe had brought her the Moroccan mint tea and shared that first pistachio macaron, Grace had been gobsmacked. And, truthfully, she had fallen for Benton before that. She had fallen for him the first time she ever saw him, the previous spring. He had been standing on the highest mud hill in her then-undeveloped yard. She had, she remembered, turned the enormous diamond of her wedding ring inward, so that it chewed at her palm. She had wished she were single.