“Look at this!” Benton said. “Jean, you outdid yourself.”

Jean beamed. “I learned everything I know from this breathtaking creature right here,” she said, squeezing Grace’s biceps. “I swear, Grace, when you walked in, I thought you were one of your daughters. You are positively glowing. You’re not pregnant, are you?”

At this, Grace hooted as if she’d been goosed. “God no!” she said.

The other women at the soiree were all dressed in flowered sundresses and linen shifts; there was an abundance of Jack Rogers sandals and Lilly Pulitzer prints. They looked like extras in a Merchant Ivory film, but that was the point. Of all the cocktail parties on Nantucket all summer, this was the most elegant and genteel.

“Let’s get a drink,” Grace said.

“I’ll get you one,” Benton said. “What would you like?”

“I’ll have a sauvignon blanc,” Grace said. “A Sancerre, if they have it.”

Benton headed off to the bar, and women descended on Grace like buzzards on roadkill—Jody Rouisse, Susan Prendergast, Monica Delray.

Monica said, “You lucky duck! You brought Benton!”

“He’s dreamy,” Jody said.

“And he sure cleans up well,” Susan said.

“What happened to Madeline?” Monica asked. “Did the two of you have a falling out?”

“Falling out?” Grace said. She honestly couldn’t remember the last time she and Madeline had even been cross with each other. “She’s been really busy writing.”

“Oh yes,” Jody said. “We’ve heard.”

“So I decided to bring Benton,” Grace said. “He’s been consulting with me on my garden since last summer.”

“We know,” Jody said. “We are dying to see your yard.”

“We thought you might host the soiree this year,” Susan said.

“It’s not quite soiree worthy,” Grace said, though of course it was, and then some. Jean had actually asked Grace, back in November, if she would be willing to host. But even then, Grace had been thinking of a gardening feature, and she hadn’t wanted a hundred people walking across her grass and terrorizing the chickens.

“Oh, stop,” Jody said. “You enjoy keeping it for yourself. Grace’s secret garden.”

Benton appeared by Grace’s side and handed her a flute of champagne. “They only had chardonnay,” he said. “So I thought you’d prefer this.”

Grace accepted the flute and smiled at him. “I would, thank you.”

“Ladies,” Benton said. “Thank you for allowing a boor like me into your party. I can see my gender is greatly outnumbered, but I like it that way.”

The assembled ladies giggled.

Jody said, “Grace was just telling us that you’ve been consulting with her.”

“I’m there every day,” Benton said. “It’s my pet project.”

“It’s Benton’s design, his brainchild,” Grace said. “I take no credit. I am merely a worker bee.”

“Have you told them the news?” Benton asked.

“What news?” Monica said.

“Are the two of you running away together?” Susan said. She put her hand on Benton’s arm. “Don’t take her, take me.”

Benton laughed. He said, “It’s Grace’s news to tell.”

Grace blinked. The conversation was getting away from her. When Benton had said her yard was his pet project, what did the other women think? Had they thought…? And what was that comment about Benton and Grace running away together?

Madeline had been right. These women were vipers.

“Your news, Grace?” Jody prompted.

She almost didn’t want to tell them. Let them be surprised on July 26 when they opened the newspaper.

But Grace couldn’t help herself. She said, “My garden is going to be featured in the Boston Globe. It’ll be in the Sunday home-and-garden section.”

There were some gasps and nods, a jealous eye roll from Jody Rouisse—no surprise there. She was the one who had called Benton dreamy, and she was going through a divorce. She would probably like nothing better than to sink her teeth into Benton’s strong shoulder.

“That’s great!” Susan Prendergast said. “You must be thrilled.”

“I heard Eddie hired a publicist,” Jody said. “Is that how this came about?”

“It is,” Grace admitted. “Hester Phan. She sent out photographs and a full description in a press release, and the Boston Globe was the first to bite.” The way she said this made it sound like there might have been more than one publication that wanted to shine its spotlight on Grace’s garden.

“I was hoping for Classic Garden,” Benton said. “I did a project in Savannah years ago that was featured in that magazine. They do a spectacular job.”

“I do love Classic Garden,” Susan said.

Grace wondered if she should have waited for Classic Garden to say yes before she agreed to the Boston Globe; that way, Benton would have had his first choice.

She sipped her champagne. The other women were looking at her with envy, yes, but also with a certain amount of disdain, or so she suspected. Her husband had hired a publicist, and now Grace’s yard would be featured in the Boston Globe.

What was it, really, but a colossal display of vanity?