“It’s hard for me to think of you getting hurt again,” Josh said.

“He won’t . . . wel , he said he wouldn’t . . .”

“If he does,” Josh said, “I’l kil him.”

Melanie leaned her head against Josh’s shoulder. The church was in front of them; there were white ribbons fluttering on the handrails of the three stone steps that led to the front door. The vestiges of someone’s wedding. “Finding you was the best thing that could have happened to me,” she said.

It was another line that rendered Josh speechless. As he stood now on the back deck drinking his beer, he thought: Yes. It had been the best thing for both of them, as unlikely as that might seem to outside eyes.

Josh was startled when the back door opened and Vicki poked her head out to say, “Josh? D——inner? You’l . . .” She nodded at the picnic table.

“Sure,” he said. “I’d love to.”

At dinner, Josh sat between Melanie and Vicki. Melanie kept a hand on Josh’s leg while Vicki loaded his plate with food. Talk was light: Josh heard al about the fishing trip, the bluefish, the bonito. Then Buzz Lyndon told some fishing stories from his youth, then John Walsh told fishing stories from Australia, which quickly turned into stories about sharks and saltwater crocodiles and deadly box jel yfish. Josh had consumed no smal amount of wine—Ted, at the head of the table, kept leaning forward and fil ing Josh’s glass—and the wine, along with the candlelight and the pure lawlessness of Melanie’s hand on his leg, gave the evening a surreal glow. Over the course of the summer he had made a place for himself at this table—but how? He thought back to the first afternoon he set eyes on them: Three women step off of a plane.

Brenda sat in the crook of Walsh’s arm with a contented smile on her face. Scowling Sister. Except now she seemed happy and at peace. Vicki

—Heavy-breathing Sister—seemed melancholy and very quiet, though now Josh understood why. The summer had left Vicki physical y transformed (her blond hair was gone, and she was leaner by at least twenty pounds), but she stil retained what Josh thought of as her “mom-ness,” that quality that brought everybody together and made sure every detail of the day was tended to. She was the glue that held everyone here together. If they lost her, they would break apart, splinter off. Fal to pieces. That was the cause of her melancholy, perhaps: She understood how important she was to other people and she couldn’t stand to let them down.

Final y, next to him, touching him, was Straw Hat. Melanie. He liked to think he had saved Melanie, but it was probably the other way around.

Melanie had taught Josh things he never even knew he wanted to learn. She would go back to Peter—that fact was as real and hard and smooth as a marble that rol ed around in Josh’s mind—and Josh would be heartbroken. He was on his way to heartbreak now, sitting here on this last night, but that heartbreak—along with everything else that had happened today—made him feel older and more seasoned. He had his story; nobody could take that away. Chas Gorda would be proud.

After dinner, there was pie, ice cream, the last of the wine, and smal er glasses of port passed around for the men. Buzz Lyndon produced cigars.

Ted accepted one, though Josh declined and so did Walsh. Brenda said, “Daddy, cigars stink.”

“Keeps the bugs away,” Buzz Lyndon said.

Vicki stood up. “I have to . . .” She touched the top of Blaine’s head. “Josh? Wil you r——ead?”

Blaine, who was almost asleep on his grandmother’s lap, revived enough to say, “Stories! Please, Josh?”

Melanie squeezed his knee. Josh stood up. “Ohhhh-kay,” he said.

He lay down with Blaine on the mattress on the floor of Ted and Vicki’s bedroom. Porter was already fast asleep, sucking away on his pacifier.

Vicki sat on the bed. She handed Josh Sylvester and the Magic Pebble.

“It’s sad,” she said.

“Mom cries whenever she reads it,” Blaine said.

“Does she, now?” Josh said. He winked at Vicki, then cleared his throat and started to read.

The story was about a donkey named Sylvester who finds a shiny red pebble that turns out to have magic powers. When Sylvester wishes for rain, it rains; when Sylvester wishes for the rain to stop, it stops. One day, when Sylvester is out, he sees a hungry lion approaching, and in a moment of panic, he wishes he were a rock. Sylvester turns into a rock and he is saved from the lion—but because Sylvester drops the magic pebble, he has no way to turn himself back into a donkey. He is stuck being a rock, no matter how hard he wishes otherwise. When Sylvester does not return home, his parents grow sick with worry. After weeks of searching, they come to the conclusion that Sylvester is dead. They are nearly destroyed by the loss of their only child.

In the springtime, however, Sylvester’s parents venture out for a picnic and they come across the rock that is Sylvester, and they use him as a table. Then Sylvester’s father spies the magic pebble in the grass—and, knowing it is an object his son would have loved, he picks it up and places it on the rock.

Sylvester can sense his parents’ presence; he can hear them talking. No sooner does he think, “I wish I were myself again, I wish I were my real self again,” than this becomes true—he turns back into a donkey, right before his parents’ eyes. And—oh!—what happiness!

In the end, Sylvester and his parents return home and put the marble in an iron safe.

“‘Some day they might want to use it,’” Josh read, “‘but real y, for now, what more could they wish for? They had al that they wanted.’”

“They had al that they wanted,” Blaine repeated. “Because they’re together again.”

Vicki nodded. Her mouth was a line.

Josh closed the book. He found it difficult to speak. It would be impossible to say good-bye to the boys right now, and so he kissed first Porter, and then Blaine, on the top of the head.

“Yes,” he said.

When Josh and Vicki emerged from the bedroom, the dinner party was breaking up. El en Lyndon was finishing the dishes, Brenda and Walsh had left for a walk up to the lighthouse, Ted and Buzz Lyndon were standing on the back deck, blowing smoke into the night air. Josh had wondered al through dinner if he would have the guts to stay here with Melanie tonight, and now he saw the answer was no. There was an unspoken understanding about him and Melanie, but it had to remain unspoken; there was no point lifting the veil now, on the final day. Josh said his good-byes to the elder Lyndons and gave Ted his best interview handshake.

Ted said, “Oh, wait, I have something for you,” and pul ed a check out of his wal et.

“Thanks,” Josh said. He was embarrassed by the money; he stuffed the check into the pocket of his suit pants, though he couldn’t help noticing, in a quick glance, that the check had one more zero on it than usual.

By the time Ted and Josh made it inside, the elder Lyndons had left for the Wade Cottages, down the street, where they were staying. So it was just Ted, Vicki, Josh and—pouring herself a glass of water at the kitchen sink—Melanie.

Ted said, “I’m going to bed. Good night, al .”

Vicki said, “Me, too. Tired.” She looked at Josh, and her eyes fil ed with tears. “I can’t say good——bye to you.”

There was a lump in his throat and it ached. “Oh, Boss,” he said.

She hugged him tight. “Josh,” she said. “Th——ank you.”

“Stop it. You don’t have to thank me.”

“I’m grateful.”

“I’m grateful, too,” he said. He paused, thinking of his father’s words: It crossed my mind . . . that you’re out there in ’Sconset trying to find your mother. Wel , it wasn’t impossible.

Vicki wiped her eyes. They separated.

“Get better,” Josh said.

“Okay,” she said.

“I mean it, Boss.”

“I know,” she said. “I know you do.”

Vicki disappeared into the bedroom, and Josh turned around. Melanie was standing there, sniffling.

“That was beautiful,” she said. “But you know me these days, reading the phone book makes me cry.”

Josh unrol ed the sleeve of his white dress shirt and used it to wipe the tears from Melanie’s face. It had been a very, very long day, perhaps the longest day of his life, but even so, he wasn’t ready for it to end.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said. “You can drive.”

For weeks, Brenda had dreaded the day they were to leave Nantucket—but now, with Walsh at her side, it didn’t seem so bad. They would return to Manhattan together, Brenda would assess the damage and make some decisions. As Brenda was packing up, El en Lyndon teetered into Brenda’s room and handed her a jel y jar fil ed with sand.

“For your shoes,” El en Lyndon said. “I just gave your sister some.”

Brenda shook her head. “You’re insane, Mother.”

“You’re welcome,” El en Lyndon said.

Brenda considered the jar. She didn’t real y have room for it in either of her bags. She would just leave it on the dresser. But first, just in case El en Lyndon actual y was the owner of divine intuition, Brenda sprinkled some of the sand into her Prada loafers, shoes she had not worn since arriving on the island. And then, in the end, she stuffed the jel y jar into her duffel bag. She needed al the help she could get.

Brenda’s parents left first on the fast ferry; they would pick up their car in Hyannis and drive back to Philadelphia. Melanie was the next to go.

Josh appeared in his Jeep to deliver her to the airport so she could make her flight to LaGuardia. Ted, Vicki, and the boys were taking the noon boat and driving back to Connecticut in the jam-packed Yukon. So that left Brenda and Walsh to close up the house. Brenda was amazed that her parents and Vicki had entrusted her with such a massive responsibility, and she wanted to do a thorough job. The fridge was empty and shut off, the gas line disengaged from the gril , the beds stripped. Brenda returned Aunt Liv’s enamel boxes, silver tea set, and lace doilies to their rightful place on the coffee table; she tucked the key under a shingle for the caretaker, who would come the next morning. Right before Brenda closed the door to the cottage for good, she noticed the paper cup of pebbles sitting on a high windowsil . Should she leave it there or throw it away?