Did you hear? Madeline King and Eddie Pancik.

And she’s writing a novel about it!

Madeline was so disgusted, so humiliated and embarrassed and horrified, and so ashamed—because she knew she had opened herself up to this—that she picked up the box of delicate bird eggs and brought it down over her bent knee so that the glass shattered and the eggs cracked and debris scattered all over the floor.

There, she thought. She had ruined the only authentic and interesting thing in this apartment.

In the morning, Madeline awoke to a text from Rachel McMann. It said: Hey, there. Brick told Calgary that you’ve moved out for a while? Imagine you could use a friend? How about drinks on Wednesday night?

Madeline stared at the screen. Brick told Calgary! And now Rachel McMann knew that Madeline was staying at the apartment for a few days—which was, Madeline would have liked to point out, a whole lot different from “moving out”—and Rachel was also the one who had told the world about Madeline’s new novel. She was the only one—other than Redd and Angie and the staff at Final Word, all of whom lived in Manhattan, which was basically another galaxy—who had read it!

Madeline wanted to text back: Fuck you, Rachel.

But instead, she deleted the text and got to work.

JULY

GRACE

The second they walked through Jean Burton’s trellised arbor, Grace felt the eyes of fifty jealous women upon her.

She was on Benton’s arm.

Jean, ever the gracious hostess, approached as soon as Grace and Benton entered the yard.

“Grace!” Jean said. “I am so happy to see you. And, Benton…” She moved in to give him a juicy smooch on the cheek. It would go this way all evening, Grace knew. The upstanding ladies of the Nantucket Garden Club would all fall over themselves for Benton’s attention. Some of the women might even out-and-out proposition him.

But he belonged to Grace.

In years past, Grace had donned what Eddie called a “Mary, Mary, quite contrary” outfit for this event—a white blouse and long skirt, as well as her Peter Beaton straw hat. But tonight, she was wearing a brand-new black halter dress, a pearl choker, and a pair of black thong sandals that she had taken from Allegra’s closet. She had decided to wear her hair down and loose, because that was how Benton liked it best.

Even Eddie did a double take when he saw her. “Wow,” he said. “You look great. Where are you going again?”

“The Sunset Soiree,” Grace said, trying not to show her frustration. The man didn’t remember a thing she told him. “Nantucket Garden Club.”

“Oh, right,” Eddie said.

Grace nearly reminded him that she was attending with Benton and that Eddie had given his okay. But then she thought, Why stir the pot? She kissed Eddie and Hope good-bye. Allegra was out.

Grace had picked Benton up at his complex off Old South Road, out by the airport. Benton rented two large barnlike buildings that housed his fleet of work trucks and all of the trailers, mowers, and backhoes. He lived in an apartment on the top floor of one of the two buildings with his manager, Donovan, and Donovan’s girlfriend, Leslie, who ran one of Benton’s landscaping crews. When Benton socialized, he did so with Leslie and Donovan. They went to beach barbecues and art openings and listened to live music at the Lobster Trap. This was the extent of what Grace knew about Benton’s life apart from her on Nantucket.

But now, she was seeing his space. It was dusty and industrial. There wasn’t a blade of grass in sight. The driveway was gravel; the “yard” asphalt.

The cobbler’s son has no shoes, Grace thought. Still, she liked seeing all of the small pickups lined up with the four-leaf clovers painted on the sides. This was Benton Coe’s headquarters, his mission control, his domain.

She honked the horn, a practice her grandmother Sabine would have frowned upon. An extramarital affair was one thing—certainly they had been prevalent in the 1940s and ’50s, when Sabine was Grace’s age—but honking the car horn instead of walking to the front door was nigh unforgivable. But Grace didn’t want this to seem like a “date.” She didn’t want to meet Donovan or Leslie, and she didn’t want any of Benton’s workers—some of whom lived in an apartment on the top floor of the other building—to see a woman in a black dress knocking on their boss’s door.

But when Benton had come strolling out of the house in stone-white pants, a turquoise-blue button-down shirt, a navy blazer, and loafers, Grace swooned. She had to put her Range Rover in park and take a few metered breaths. The man was… so gorgeous. She had never seen him in anything other than jeans, a T-shirt, and his hooded sweatshirt.

He had climbed into the car and said, “Damn, Grace. You are so beautiful it blows my mind.”

Smile and say thank you, she thought. But his words had left her tongue-tied. The tops of her ears buzzed.

Grace, never one to show up at a party empty handed, gave Jean a carton of pale blue eggs. “These are from Hillary and the other Araucanas,” she said. “My best producers.”

“I’m partial to Ladybird’s speckled eggs,” Benton said.

Jean accepted the carton and said, “I’ll treat them like gold.” Then she dramatically swept a hand, presenting her yard—manicured in its every aspect—and the mandolin player and the caterers passing hors d’oeuvres and also, Grace supposed, the sun, which was dutifully casting a golden, syrupy glow over the party. Immediately, Grace noticed la grande table, half of which served as a bar and half of which was a groaning board of cheeses, grapes, strawberries, apricots, nuts, salami, marinated vegetables, crackers, baguette slices, quince paste, olives, and dips. Grace had invented la grande table three years earlier—it was just a ploughman’s lunch on a bigger scale—and Jean had continued the tradition.