And at that moment, it all crashed down on Ann. The champagne party, the port party, Jim coming home at three in the morning, the absurdly long bike rides. He rode to Helen’s loft, Ann knew it, and they fucked away the afternoon.

Ann came very close to jumping out of the basket. She would die colliding with North Carolina; her body would leave an Ann-sized-and-shaped divot, like in a Wile E. Coyote cartoon.

Instead she turned. The fire was hot enough to scorch her. She called out, “Hey, Cutter!”

Jim and Helen both looked over at her. Guilty, she thought. They were guilty.

Once back on the ground, Ann drank the exceptional wine Shell had selected, but ate nothing. She tried to keep up with the conversation swirling around her, but she kept drifting away. Jim-and Helen Oppenheimer. Of course, it was so obvious. Ann had been so stupid.

She shanghaied Olivia, pulling her away from the picnic blankets to the edge of the woods. She said, “I think my husband is having an affair with Helen.”

Olivia gave her a look of sympathy. Olivia knew. Possibly everyone knew.

After the picnic was eaten and every bottle of wine consumed, they all piled into a van that drove them back to where their cars were parked. When they arrived, it was ten o’clock. The other couples were all making the short drive to the bed-and-breakfast for the night. Ann and Jim had booked a room at the B &B as well, but there was no way Ann was going to spend the night under the same roof as Helen Oppenheimer. She was certain Jim and Helen had made plans to meet in Helen’s room in the middle of the night to fuck.

When Jim and Ann got into the car, Ann said, “Jim.” His name sounded unfamiliar on her tongue; she had been calling him “Cutter” for weeks.

“Yes, darling?” Jim said. The wine had significantly lightened his mood, or seeing Helen had. Ann wanted to slap him.

Ann said, “You’re sleeping with Helen Oppenheimer.”

Jim froze with his hand on the key in the ignition. The other couples were pulling away. Helen, in the lipstick-red Miata she had bought herself upon leaving Nathaniel, was pulling away.

Jim said, “Annie…”

“Confirm or deny,” Ann said. “And tell me the truth, please.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Are you in love with her?” Ann asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I think I am.”

Ann nearly swallowed her tongue. Her head swam with wine and the fumes from the balloon.

“Drive home,” Ann said.

“Annie…”

“Home!” Ann said.

“She’s pregnant,” Jim said. “She’s pregnant with my child.”

Ann had started to weep, although the news didn’t come as a surprise. Ann had known just from looking at Helen that she was pregnant. The glow.

Jim drove the four hours home; they arrived in Durham at two in the morning. Ann took the babysitter home, and by the time she returned, Jim had a bag packed. The very next day he moved into Brightleaf Square with Helen, and when Chance was born, he bought a house in Cary. Ann was certain he did this so that he and Helen would no longer be Ann’s constituents.

It had not been Ann’s intention to relive all of this on the weekend of her son’s wedding. But since she’d made the ill-advised decision to invite Helen, it now seemed inevitable that this would be exactly what she was thinking about.

Ann knocked on the last door on the left, which was the room where Stuart was staying. “Sweetie?” she said. “It’s Mom.”

No response. She pressed her ear against the door, then tried the knob. It was unlocked, but she couldn’t bring herself to open the door. One of the things she had learned when the boys were teenagers was that she should never enter their rooms uninvited.

“Stuart, honey?” she said. “I made breakfast. There’s still some left, but you’d better hurry or H.W. will finish it.”

No response.

“Stuart?” Ann said.

The door opened, and there stood Stuart in wrinkled madras shorts and a white undershirt. His hair was sticking up; his eyes were puffy. It had been years since Ann had seen Stuart look anything but pressed and professional. Right now, he seemed far younger than he was. Ann was again reminded of visiting Stuart at the Sig Ep house at Vanderbilt.

“Darling,” she said. “Are you okay?”

He shrugged. “Jenna’s upset.”

Ann nodded. “I heard something about that.”

“She found out about Crissy,” he said.

“What about Crissy?” Ann said. Had Stuart seen She Who Shall Not Be Named? Had he suffered a Crissy relapse? Oh, God. Ann had prayed nightly that infidelity wasn’t a behavior Jim had passed on to the boys. “What about Crissy, Stuart?”

“Just that we were… you know… engaged…” He swallowed. “And, um, that she has Grand-mère’s ring.”

“Oh, dear,” Ann said. “You never told her that?”

Stuart shook his head. “I didn’t see the point. I can’t stand talking about it.”

Well, yes, Ann thought; the entire family shared this sentiment.

“So she knew nothing about it?” Ann said. “Nothing at all?”

“She knew Crissy was my girlfriend. She didn’t know about the engaged part. Or the ring part.”

As a state senator, Ann had had plenty of lessons in damage control. She tried to assess how bad this was. Why oh why hadn’t Stuart just told Jenna about Crissy on their first few dates, during the information-gathering period? The engagement had been brief, a matter of weeks. Ill conceived from the start! Ann had never uttered an “I told you so,” but she had been very reluctant to hand over her grandmother’s ring, even though she had always planned on giving it to the first son ready to propose. She hadn’t thought Crissy Pine worthy of the ring; Ann had been certain the marriage wouldn’t last. Crissy was a complainer (she sent back food in restaurants, she criticized Stuart’s taste in clothing, and she mimicked his accent), and she was a spendthrift (she had a weakness for anything French-champagne, soap, perfume, antiques). Ann vividly remembered the day that Stuart broke off the engagement. He came home smiling for the first time in months, and the eczema that had been plaguing him for just as long stopped itching, he said, the instant Crissy drove away. The only problem was the ring. Stuart felt too guilty for breaking off the engagement to ask for it back.

Ann had said, Well, it’s a family heirloom, a two-and-a-half-carat diamond in a platinum Tiffany setting. It’s valuable, Stuart. We sure as hell better get it back.

But the ring had never been returned. Jim had made a gentleman’s phone call to Thaddeus Pine, Crissy’s father. Thaddeus had listened considerately and then called Stuart an “Indian giver.” Next, Ann and Jim had contacted an attorney. They had spent nearly a third of the ring’s value trying to force Crissy to return the ring, but their legal recourse was limited, and Ann’s high-profile career made her hesitant to pursue the lawsuit.

Now, Ann shuddered every time she thought of Crissy Pine. Who would want to keep a diamond ring after the engagement had been broken? No one! For a while, Ann checked on eBay, hoping the ring would turn up, but it never did, leaving Ann with the disturbing vision of her grandmother’s ring on Crissy’s finger.

“Oh, dear,” Ann said. “How upset is she?”

“Really upset,” Stuart said. “Like, really.”

“As in…” Ann said. Suddenly she imagined the wedding weekend going up in flames as dramatic as the ones that had swallowed Atlanta in 1864. Jenna would call the wedding off; Ann would watch her marriage to Jim fail again, she would lose him to Helen again. It was too hideous to contemplate; Ann felt light-headed. Quaalude! she thought. Please!

The spot between her toes throbbed with pain. She hated these shoes.

“Is Dad here?” Stuart asked hopefully. “I think I need to talk to him.”

“Not here,” Ann said. “I don’t know where he is. I threw him out of the room last night.”

“You did?” Stuart said.

Ann nodded slowly and whispered, “I did.”

She and Stuart were quiet for a moment. Ryan would have demanded every detail, but Stuart wouldn’t ask a thing.

“You don’t really need Dad,” Ann said. “Maybe I could talk to Jenna.” Ann was certain this was the solution. She would convince Jenna that Stuart’s not disclosing the full story about a very brief engagement was a minor infraction. Minor! Ann would say, And believe me, sweetie, I know what I’m talking about.

“No,” Stuart said. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

At that moment, Ann heard new voices in the living room. Helen’s voice. Most definitely Helen’s voice. Ann said to Stuart, “Helen’s here. I’m going downstairs.”

Stuart said, “I can’t deal with Helen right now. I don’t care if H.W. eats my breakfast.” He shut the door, then opened it a crack. “Thanks, though, Mom.”

“Oh, honey,” she said. “I love you so.”

Ann descended to the living room. Helen had just walked in the door with a man who towered over her, which was no small feat. The man was a giant; he must have been six-nine or six-ten. He was good looking, early fifties, graying hair, wearing a pair of white Bermuda shorts embroidered with navy whales, which would have gotten him egged on any street corner south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Helen said, “Hey, y’all! Is Chancey here? I’ve come to take him out for breakfast.”

Chance emerged from the kitchen, still wearing only his boxers. He said, “Mama?”

“Honey, your clothes.”

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I just got up a little while ago.”

“Chance,” Helen said. “This is Skip Lafferty, a friend of mine from Roanoke, way back in the day. Skip has a house here on Nantucket. He’s going to come with us to breakfast, then show us around the island.”

Skip Lafferty offered his hand. “Nice to meet you, Chance.” Then he waved at the rest of the room. “Nice to meet y’all.”