No. He raised his head and said, “I needed money, and last year I had a client who had asked about the girls—could they come over and hang out with the guys?—and last year, I said no way.”

“But then…?”

“Then, this year, I got in such deep water, Grace. I can’t tell you how bad things got, moneywise, and I needed cash, and the guys who rent this house, baby, they are just loaded, so loaded that they pay ten grand per night.”

Grace gasped.

“A ton of jack, right? And I needed it, but I wouldn’t have forced the girls. I asked them, just asked what if? And they were all excited. It’s a lot of money for them.”

“They’re immigrant girls that you can exploit,” Grace said. “What did you expect them to say? I think I’m going to be sick.”

“The girls never complained,” Eddie said. “I think they saw themselves as Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. They loved the money. The money was ridiculous—for me and for Barbie, too.

“So Barbie is in on this?” Grace said.

“No.”

“Eddie.”

“Yes,” Eddie said. “Yes, she’s in on it. But the authorities don’t know that, and they’re not going to know it. I need Barbie to keep the business afloat while I’m…”

“In jail,” Grace said. The words were incomprehensible, but she had to accept that they might be true. Eddie might be going to jail. Ben Winford had said, Oh, probably. Grace swallowed. Something else was nagging at her. “Did you… I mean, Eddie, did you… sleep with any of the girls?”

“No!” Eddie said. “God, no! I have never been unfaithful to you.”

Grace nodded. She believed him.

“You’re the unfaithful one! You were having an affair with Benton Coe under my nose, in my own house.”

Grace was quiet. “Well, he’s gone. It’s over.”

“You sound sad about that,” Eddie said. “Are you sad? Do you love him, Grace?”

She wanted to scream, Yes, I love him! I love him more than I love breathing!

But instead she said, “I can’t even think about that right now, Eddie! We have bigger problems! We have criminal charges!”

“What do we tell the girls?” Eddie asked.

“We tell them nothing,” Grace said. “They’re children, Eddie. They do not need to know about the nefarious affairs of their parents.”

“They’re bound to find out,” Eddie said, “the way this island talks.”

“We’ll shelter them as long as we can,” Grace said. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Eddie said.

When they got home, the girls were reading side by side in chaises by the pool, the two of them lithe and lovely in their bikinis, Allegra’s red, Hope’s black—no, wait, it was the other way around. Grace shook her head; it was the first time since they were infants, practically, that she’d gotten them mixed up. They were both wearing their hair down. Hope had fixed her hair to look like Allegra’s, and it was really fetching. Here was a snapshot of the family life Grace had always wanted but had never quite been able to achieve—because of Allegra’s tempestuous moods, because of Grace’s wild and straying heart, because Eddie had always, always, always been working.

Grace called out, “Are you girls hungry for lunch?”

“Starved,” Allegra said. “Where have you two been?”

“Out,” Grace said.

“Out where?” Hope asked.

“Just out,” Grace said.

“Wow,” Allegra said. “You sound like me.”

Grace made chicken-salad sandwiches, and she brought out a bunch of cold grapes from the fridge. She sliced some hothouse tomatoes, spread them with fresh pesto, then dotted them with tiny balls of mozzarella. She and the girls sat down at the outdoor table in the sun, but Eddie excused himself, saying he needed to sleep. He went up to the bedroom.

Hope said, “Is Dad okay?”

“Not really,” Grace said. She cleared the girls’ plates and stood up, not wanting to say anything else. Eddie was right: the girls needed to learn what was going on from Eddie and Grace before they heard it elsewhere—but she would let them have today.

MADELINE

Madeline read the completed first draft of B/G three times. It was good; it was addictive. The power and the urgency of the affair and the forbiddeness of it made it irresistible, but the genuine love between B and G made it luminous.

She wasn’t going to publish it.

Oh, how she dreaded calling Angie. And yet, call Angie she must.

Angie’s assistant, Marlo, answered. “She’s at lunch.”

“She is?” Madeline said. It was ten fifteen. No one ate lunch at ten fifteen, not even Angie Turner. Maybe “lunch” meant she was meeting her tile guy at a suite at the Warwick Hotel. Madeline decided to just tell Marlo, and Marlo could break the bad news to Angie. “Listen, Marlo, I’m not going to publish B/G. I have to pull it off the list.”

“Please hold,” Marlo said. “I’m putting you through to Angie.”

“I thought she was at lunch.”

“She just walked in,” Marlo said.

“How’s my favorite author?” Angie said when she came on the line. “How’s the Next Big Thing? I’m just going to start calling you Number One, because that’s where you’re headed, Madeline. Straight to the top spot. The New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, USA Today.”