The second cal didn’t go through at al , and Ted shook the cel phone in frustration. “There’s no reception out here, hon. Just relax. Everything is fine.”

You always say everything is fine, Vicki thought angrily. How am I supposed to relax when Porter is probably in the hospital on a respirator?

She was distracted from these thoughts by a shout from her other son. “Dad! Daddy!” It had only occurred to Vicki a hundred times since the day began that Blaine would fal overboard and be sucked under the boat by the power of the engines. When Vicki looked up, however, what she saw was Blaine holding on to the fishing pole for dear life. The line was taut, and Blaine was pul ing back in a professional way, bracing his bare feet against the side of the boat.

Ted said, “You’ve got a bite! Here, let me bring him in.”

Vicki thought Blaine might protest, but he handed the rod over to Ted right away, with relief. Vicki, too, was relieved. She didn’t want Blaine pul ed into the drink by the resistance of some monstrous fish, nor did she want to see Blaine lose the rod altogether, which was the more likely outcome. Vicki thought there might be a long, drawn-out Ahab versus Moby Dick–like struggle, but Ted landed the fish in a matter of seconds. Even in the overwhelming sunlight, Vicki could see the glint of silver scales. The fish was sleek but long, much longer than any of the bluefish Ted had caught.

“Striped bass?” Ted said uncertainly.

The captain whistled. “Better. You caught a bonito. She’s a beauty.” He pul ed out a tape measure and pressed the flopping fish to the deck with his shoe. “Thirty-seven inches. She’s a keeper.”

“What’s it cal ed?” Blaine asked.

“Bonito,” Ted said. “Bone-ee-to.”

“They’re good eating,” the captain said.

“Do you want to keep it?” Ted said. “Do you want to take it back to the docks so Grammie and Grandpa can see it?”

“We could gr——il it for dinner,” Vicki said.

Blaine sucked his lower lip as he studied the fish. In his sun visor with his hands on his hips and the look of deliberation on his face, he could have been fourteen. He could have been twenty-four.

“Nah,” Blaine said. “I want to throw her back. I want to let her live.”

They threw the bonito back, but to celebrate their day of fishing, Ted stopped at East Coast Seafood on the way home and bought salmon, swordfish, and tuna. It was their next-to-last night on the island, the evening of the last big dinner, and it would be real y big with the addition of Buzz and El en Lyndon and John Walsh.

When Ted pul ed the Yukon up in front of the house, Vicki blinked with disbelief. Josh’s Jeep was parked out front.

“Josh,” she said. His name came easily, al in one piece.

“Josh!” Blaine shouted.

“Good,” Ted said, unbuckling his seat belt. “I can give him his check.”

Vicki felt unaccountably happy when she walked inside. She expected a house ful of people, but the only person waiting for them was El en Lyndon, who was relaxing on the sofa, gimpy leg up.

“Hel o, al ,” El en said. “How was fishing?”

“We caught fish!” Blaine said. “Seven bluefish and one . . .” Here, Blaine looked to his father.

“Bonito,” Ted said.

“Bonito!” Blaine said. “But we let them go.”

“Josh?” Vicki said. Again, no stutter, no stumble.

“Josh?” El en Lyndon said.

“Is heeeee——here?” Vicki said.

“Yes,” El en Lyndon said. “Josh and Melanie took Porter for a walk.”

Josh and Melanie, Vicki thought.

“And Brenda and Walsh are at the beach,” El en said. “And I sent your father to the farm for corn, tomatoes, and blueberry pie.”

“We bought . . .” Vicki held up the fish to show her mother. She set the fil ets on the counter and immediately started thinking: eight adults for dinner if Josh would stay; she had to marinate the fish, chil wine, soften butter, set the table, and get a shower. Plus, food for the kids. Shuck the corn when her father got home, slice and dress the tomatoes. Would there be enough food? Should she run to the market for a baguette?

The lists were back. Vicki scribbled some things down on a tablet. But as she unwrapped the beautiful fish fil ets from the butcher paper, the terror returned. Terror! When Ted passed behind her, she turned and grabbed his wrist.

“What is it?” he said.

“We’re leeee——aving.”

“We have to go back sometime,” Ted said. “We just can’t stay here forever.”

Of course not, Vicki thought. However, back in Connecticut, reality awaited.

From her outpost on the sofa, El en Lyndon sang out, “Nantucket wil always be here, honey.”

Yes, Vicki thought. But will I?

Josh might have been more comfortable in the house with the women—Vicki, Melanie, Brenda, and Mrs. Lyndon—but he found himself, instead, out on the deck with “the men.” The men included Buzz Lyndon, Ted, and John Walsh, Brenda’s student, Brenda’s lover, who had (Josh learned from Melanie) shown up without warning a few days earlier. Initial y, Josh felt threatened by John Walsh, but it quickly became apparent that John Walsh was different from the likes of Peter Patchen, or even Ted. To begin with, John Walsh was Australian, and his accent alone made him seem cheerful and approachable, open, friendly, and egalitarian. When Ted introduced Josh, John Walsh stood up right away from the deck chair and gave Josh a hearty handshake.

“Hey, mate. Name’s Walsh. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Josh said.

“Beer?” Ted said.

“I’l get it,” Buzz Lyndon said. He handed Josh a Stel a.

“Thanks,” Josh said. He took a long, cold swal ow.

“Not your usual duds,” Ted noted.

“No,” Josh said. He was wearing the bare bones of his gray suit—the gray pants, the white dress shirt (unbuttoned at the neck, cuffs rol ed up), and his dress shoes with black socks. He had walked with Melanie and Porter to the beach in this unlikely outfit, and whereas he felt overdressed, the suit made him feel older, like an actual grown-up. “I had a funeral.”

“Who?” Ted said.

“Friend of mine from high school,” Josh said. “A girl. My ex-girlfriend, actual y. Didi, her name was. She worked at the hospital.”

Ted stared at him. “Blond girl?”

“Yeah.”

“I met her,” Ted said. “Briefly. When we were there for Vicki last week. That’s terrible. God, I’m sorry.”

John Walsh raised his beer bottle. “Sorry for your loss, mate.”

“Oh,” Josh said. “Thanks. She had . . . a lot of problems.”

“That’s too bad,” Buzz Lyndon said. “Young girl like that.”

“Was she sick?” Ted asked. “She didn’t look sick.”

“No, not sick. She overdosed. It was a combination of pil s and alcohol.” Already he had said more about Didi than he wanted to. He had hoped to leave behind the sadness of the funeral and the discomfort he felt around his high school friends, but that was proving to be impossible. Al summer, he’d tried to keep his job at Number Eleven Shel Street separate from his life at home, but he saw now it was pointless. The island was so smal that everyone intersected. Thinking back, Josh realized he wouldn’t even be working here if he hadn’t shown up at the hospital that day to lend Didi the two hundred dol ars. So in a way it was like Didi led him here. “It was an accident,” Josh added. “Her death was accidental.”

“When I think back on the stuff I tried as a kid . . . ,” John Walsh said. “It’s a bloody miracle I didn’t accidental y off myself.”

Ted swil ed his beer, nodding in agreement. Buzz Lyndon cleared his throat and settled in a deck chair. Everyone was quiet. The silence was similar to the silence Tom Flynn liked to immerse himself in; it was this silence that Josh had always found intimidating. But now, he savored it. Four men could drink beer on a deck and not say a word and not find it awkward. Women would talk, say whatever came next to their minds. Men could keep what was on their minds to themselves. And what was on Josh’s mind was . . . Melanie.

The anticipation of seeing her that afternoon had nearly strangled him; he felt like a half-crazed animal pul ing on its chain. As soon as Josh set eyes on her (a little rounder in the mid-section, a little tanner, a little more luminous), as soon as they were pushing Porter in the baby jogger down Shel Street, he fil ed with quiet elation. She asked about the suit, and he told her about Didi. Talking to Melanie was as therapeutic as crying. A sudden, unexpected death, the death of someone young, the death of someone Josh hadn’t always treated nicely, a death that caused him to fil with guilt and regret—Melanie got it; she understood. Josh and Melanie became so engrossed in talking about Didi that they managed, for a while, to forget about themselves. But then, when talk of Didi was exhausted, Josh felt he had to address the issue of their relationship.

“I hadn’t planned on coming back here,” he said.

“I didn’t expect to see you,” Melanie said. “I thought you were gone.”

“Wel ,” Josh said.

“Wel what?”

“I wanted to see you.”

Melanie smiled at the ground. They had made it al the way to the beach and were on their way back to Number Eleven. In the strol er, Porter was fast asleep. They could have turned right, back onto Shel Street, but Josh suggested they continue straight.

“Past the ’Sconset Chapel?” Melanie said.

“Yes.”

They walked for a while without speaking. Then Josh said, “You’re going back to Peter?”

Melanie pressed her lips together and nodded. “He’s my husband. That counts for something. The vows count for something.”

“Even though he broke them?” Josh said.

“Even though he broke them,” Melanie said. “I realize that must be hard for you to hear.”