Vicki had a wig in one of the suitcases she’d brought from home, though Brenda couldn’t bring herself to suggest Vicki wear it.

One morning, a Tuesday, a chemo morning, Brenda found Vicki in her room, rocking back and forth on the bed with both of the kids in her lap, crying.

“I don’t want to go,” she said. “Please don’t make me go. They’re trying to kil me.”

“They’re trying to help you, Vick,” Brenda said.

“Mom’s not going to the hospital today,” Blaine said.

“Come on,” Brenda said. “You’re scaring the kids.”

“I’m not going,” Vicki said.

“Josh wil be here any second,” Brenda said. “You haven’t made him anything for breakfast.”

“I can’t cook anymore,” Vicki said. “Just looking at food makes me sick. If Josh is hungry, Melanie wil make him something.” This had happened two or three times now: With Vicki too sick to cook, Melanie had attempted to step in and cook for Josh. There had been a platter of scrambled eggs, somehow both watery and burned, and some limp, greasy bacon—after which Josh said he would be happy with just a bowl of Cheerios.

“You can’t skip chemo, Vick. It’s like any medicine. It’s like antibiotics. If you stop taking it, even for one day, you’l go back to being sick.”

“I’m not going,” Vicki said.

“She’s not going!” Blaine shouted. “She’s staying home!”

Vicki made no move to shush Blaine or reprimand him for yel ing at his aunt who was, it should be pointed out, just trying to do the right thing!

The family was going to hel in a handbasket.

“I’l give you a few minutes,” Brenda said. “But we are leaving at eight-thirty.”

Brenda left the room, dreading her mother’s inevitable phone cal . How is she? El en Lyndon would ask. And what could Brenda possibly say?

She’s scared. She’s angry. She hurts. It wasn’t possible to give their mother a dose of that kind of unadulterated truth. She’s fine, Brenda would say. The kids are fine.

As Brenda was feeling guilty for lies she hadn’t even told yet, she heard the predictable crunch of tires on shel s. Josh. Somehow, Brenda thought, Josh would keep them afloat. Now that Brenda was a regular communicator with God, she believed Josh had been sent to them for a reason. Brenda tiptoed down the flagstone path and met Josh by the gate. She was stil in her nightgown and it was a misty, chil y morning. She crossed her arms over her chest.

He furrowed his brow. “You’re not throwing rocks today?” he said. “Is something wrong?”

“Kind of,” Brenda said. “I need your help.”

“Okay,” Josh said. Brenda saw his eyes brighten. In this, he was like Walsh. Being typical y Australian, Walsh loved to help. “Anything.”

“I need you to talk to Vicki.”

Another person might have said, Anything but that, but Josh had no problem with Vicki. He liked her; he wasn’t afraid of her cancer. He cal ed her “Boss,” and each day he teased her about her “non-list list.”

“Okay,” Josh said. “Sure. What about?”

“Just talk to her,” Brenda said. “She needs a friend. She’s sick of me.”

“No problem,” Josh said. “I’m here for you.”

Brenda was about to lead him into the house, into Vicki’s bedroom, but those words, I’m here for you, even though they were said in a casual, lighthearted way, nearly made Brenda weep with gratitude. She suspected that Josh wasn’t a col ege student at al , but rather, an angel. Brenda placed her hands on his shoulders, stood on her tiptoes, and kissed him. He tasted young, like a piece of unripe fruit; his lips were soft. She felt him move toward her, he took hold of her waist.

Immediately, Brenda realized she’d made a mistake. What was wrong with her? Gently, she pushed Josh away. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was unfair of me.”

“You are so beautiful,” Josh said. “You know I think so.”

Yes, Brenda knew it. She had seen how he looked at her in her nightgown and her bikini, but she had done nothing to encourage him. When they spoke, she was friendly but never more than friendly. If anything, she had worked to keep Josh at arm’s length. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to think . . . But, as ever, her good judgment fled her for one instant. She had kissed him—and it was a real kiss—so now, suddenly, on top of everything else, she was a tease. She had so much on her mind, so many heavy, difficult things, that the idea that there was someone wil ing to help, even a little bit, overwhelmed her good sense. She had made a mess of nearly everything in her life, but she didn’t want to make a mess with Josh.

“It was unfair of me because I’m in love with someone else,” Brenda said. “Someone back in New York.” She thought of the damn napkin tucked into her book; the ink was smeared now. Call John Walsh!

“Oh,” Josh said. He looked pissed off. He had every reason to be; he had every reason to leave Number Eleven Shel Street and never come back, but Brenda hoped he wouldn’t. She hoped he was here for reasons a lot more powerful than any crush he might have on her.

“You’l stil talk to Vicki, won’t you?” Brenda asked. “Please?”

He shrugged. His eyes were fil ed with hurt and boyish disappointment. “Sure,” he said.

The bedroom was dim, with the muted morning light peeking in around the edges of the pul ed shades. Vicki rocked on the bed, holding both kids, but Brenda lifted Porter out of Vicki’s arms and said to Blaine, “Come on out now. We have pebbles to throw.”

“I want to stay with Mommy,” Blaine said.

“Outside,” Brenda said. “Now.”

“I need to talk to your mom anyway,” Josh said. “I’l be out in a couple of minutes.”

This was so unusual that neither Blaine nor Vicki protested. Blaine left quietly, shutting the door behind him, and Vicki fel back on the bed. She was wearing gray athletic shorts and a navy Duke T-shirt that hiked up her midsection. She was a lot thinner than she’d been when Josh first saw her at the airport. She was wearing a bandanna over her head like a rap star; her hair was nearly gone.

“Brenda told you I don’t want to take my medicine?”

“Actual y, she told me nothing,” Josh said. “Except that she’s in love with someone else, not me.”

At this, Vicki made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a hiccup. Josh was astounded at his own candor. But there was something about Vicki that put him at ease. She was too young to be his mother, though there had been times in the past few weeks when he’d felt like she was his mother, and he had relished it. She was sort of like an older sister might have been, or a very cool older girl best friend, the kind he’d never been lucky enough to have. He cal ed her “Boss” as a joke, though why this was a joke he wasn’t sure; she was his boss. And yet she didn’t come across as his boss, despite the fact that she was always tel ing him what she wanted him to do and she was always asking for a ful report of his and the kids’ activities—their every word and deed and fart—when he got home at one o’clock. Stil , she gave the impression that he was the boss, that he was ultimately in charge—and that was, he supposed, why Brenda had asked him to come in and talk. Vicki would listen to him.

“She’s in love with someone named John Walsh,” Vicki said. She sat up, plucked a tissue off the nightstand, and blew her nose. “One of her students, back in New York. I can’t believe she told you.”

“I can’t believe I told you she told me,” Josh said. “I thought I was sent in here to talk about something else.”

“You were,” Vicki said. She sighed. “I’m not going to chemo.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve had enough,” Vicki said. “It’s not helping. I can feel it not helping. It’s hurting. It’s kil ing me. You know what chemotherapy is, right? It’s control ed poisoning. They try to poison the cancer cel s, but most of the time they poison healthy cel s, too. So the way I feel is that I used to have healthy cel s and now al I have are poisoned cel s. I am a vessel fil ed with vile green poison.”

“You look the same to me,” Josh said, though this was a lie.

“I can’t eat,” Vicki said. “I’ve lost twelve pounds, and I’m bald. I can’t cook, I can’t stay awake through a Scooby-Doo, I can’t concentrate long enough to play Chutes and Ladders, I can’t land a single pebble in the damn paper cup. I can’t do anything. What was the point in coming to Nantucket if I only go outside to get to the hospital? I want to go to the beach, I want to swim, I want to drink my Chardonnay on the back deck, I want to feel better. I’m done with chemo. There was never a guarantee it was going to shrink my tumor anyway. It’s just a gamble the doctors take, a gamble with my body. But I’m putting an end to it today. I’m al done.”

“I’l point out the obvious,” Josh said. “If you don’t go to chemo, your cancer might get worse.”

“It might,” Vicki said. “Or it might stay the same.”

“But if they think the chemo wil help, you should take it. You have the kids to think about.”

“You sound like my husband,” Vicki said. “Which is too bad. One thing I real y appreciate about you is that you’re nothing like my husband.”

Josh felt himself redden. He had yet to meet Vicki’s husband, Ted Stowe, though he had heard about him in detail from the kids. Ted Stowe came every weekend, he was some kind of financial wizard in New York, and Blaine had let it slip that Ted didn’t like Josh.

But I don’t even know your dad, Josh said. We’ve never met.

Trust me, Blaine said. He doesn’t like you.

If Ted Stowe didn’t like Josh, then Josh was determined not to like Ted Stowe. Josh understood, however, that whereas he fil ed a certain role, there were other men—Ted Stowe, Melanie’s husband, Peter, and now this guy Brenda was in love with—who fil ed another role, a more important, more substantial role, in their real lives, away from Nantucket.