Margot was shocked at how well loved. She felt euphoric at the sight of the dusty brick of the kitchen floor, the old wooden countertops scarred by 140 years of knives coarsely chopping garden tomatoes, the sound of the screen door slamming as her children ran out back to the green lawn, the seventy-foot oak tree named Alfie-after Alfred Coates Hamilton, the original owner of the house-and the wooden swing that hung from Alfie’s lowest branch.

Margot had lived in the city all her adult life. She loved Manhattan-but not like this. Her adoration of Nantucket was matched only by her adoration of her children. She wanted to be buried here, in the shade of Alfie’s leaves, if possible. She would have to write that down somewhere.

No sooner had Margot entered the house and allowed herself those sixty seconds of appreciation than crisis struck. Jenna stood in front of Margot, holding open her Mielie bag, handmade by a woman in Cape Town, South Africa. Jenna was sobbing.

“What?” Margot said. She had certainly expected tears from Jenna this weekend. Jenna was an idealist, and the world was constantly falling short. But so soon? Ten minutes after their arrival? “What is it?”

“The Notebook!” Jenna said. “It’s gone!”

Margot peered into the depths of Jenna’s bag-there was her wallet made from hemp, the handkerchief Jenna used like a character from a Merchant Ivory film because, unlike Kleenex, handkerchiefs could be washed and reused, her Aveeno lip balm, the package of Dramamine, and her cell phone. There was no Notebook.

“Maybe you put it somewhere else,” Margot said.

“I keep it here,” Jenna said. “Right here in my bag. You know I keep it right here.”

Yes, Margot did know that; she had seen Jenna remove and return the Notebook from that bag a hundred times. Jenna was the kind of person who had a place for everything, and her place for the Notebook was in that bag.

Margot laid her hands on Jenna’s shoulders. “Calm down,” she said. “Let’s think. When was the last time you remember having it?”

Instead of this question focusing Jenna, it caused her to become more scattered. She cast around the kitchen, her eyes frantic. Jenna was the kindest, most nurturing soul Margot knew; the students and parents at the Little Minds school adored her. As the youngest by such a large span of years-there were eight plus years between Jenna and Nick-Jenna had been raised in the warm bath of their parents’ love. Her childhood and adolescence had involved little conflict. The downside to this was that Jenna wasn’t great with crises.

“Think,” Margot said. “Stop and think. Did you have it on the boat?”

“No,” Jenna said. “I haven’t seen it at all today. I had it last night at… Locanda Verde.” Her face dissolved.

“Whoa, whoa,” Margot said. “No big deal. We can call Locanda Verde.”

“Then Stuart and I got into a cab!” Jenna said. “What if I left it in a cab?”

Margot’s heart sank. What if Jenna had left it in a cab? Margot would go through the motions of calling the dispatcher’s office, but they wouldn’t have it. Once you left something in a New York City cab, it was gone forever. How many pairs of sunglasses lost each day? Margot wondered. How many cell phones? How many copies of Fifty Shades of Grey? A massive redistribution of personal belongings took place every day across the five boroughs because of what people left behind in cabs. The Notebook! Like Jenna, Margot had read the Notebook front to back and back to front, focusing most intently on the passages that mentioned her; she felt a piercing loss at the thought of never seeing it again.

Jenna was on her phone.

Margot said, “Who are you calling?”

“Stuart!” Jenna said.

Stuart, of course. Margot thought, with a glimmer of hope, that maybe Stuart had the Notebook. If he didn’t, he would fly out the door of his office and drive to godforsaken who-knows-where-Brooklyn-or-Queens to personally dig through the lost and found at the dispatcher’s office. Stuart would be able to offer Jenna comfort; he was the only one who mattered.

Margot didn’t have anyone like that. She could never call Edge about something like the Notebook. Instead she called her father. No answer. She called again and left a voice mail.

“Hey, Dad, it’s Margot. Jenna has misplaced the Notebook. She had it last night at dinner, she said? She thinks maybe she left it in the cab? Any thoughts? Call me back.”

Margot then sent her father a text: Jenna lost Notebook.

And another: Please call me.

Jenna, meanwhile, was still on the phone with Stuart. In the Notebook, their mother had referred to Jenna’s future husband, whoever he may be, as her Intelligent, Sensitive Groom-to-Be-and Stuart fit the bill. Jenna had already calmed down; she had stopped crying.

Margot marched upstairs. Jenna’s luggage was in the hallway, and Margot started to look through it, thinking, Please appear, please appear.

What appeared were a pair of shapely, tanned legs. Finn’s legs. Margot used to have legs like that, back in her surfing days, before she worked sixty-five hours a week trying to support three kids and an ex-husband.

Finn said, “Why are you going through Jenna’s things?”

Her voice was accusatory, but Margot didn’t even both looking up.

Finn said, “Oh, shit.”

“Exactly,” Margot said. A second later, her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. Involuntarily, she thought: Edge.

But it was her father.

“I have it,” he said.

Margot filled with giddy relief, and Jenna sobbed with tears of joy. One of the best feelings in the world was finding something you were sure you’d lost forever.

A little while later, a white van pulled into the driveway behind Margot’s LR3. She poked her head out the side door. The Sperry Tent Company. She hoped she didn’t have to sign anything or decide anything. She hoped the four guys who hopped out of the truck knew exactly what they were doing. She hoped that Roger, the wedding planner, had reminded the tent guys about her mother’s perennial bed.

Beth had been a fanatical gardener, and some of those perennials were over forty years old, which made them heirloom. Or maybe not. Margot knew nothing about gardening; every year, she killed one store-bought herb garden by placing it on her fire escape and forgetting to water it.

Out the back screen door, which faced the yard, Margot called to her children, “The gentlemen are here to set up the tent! Either make yourself useful or get out of the way!” Ellie was lying on her stomach on the swing, spinning in circles until the ropes were twisted to the top.

“Eleanor, come in, please!” Margot called.

“No!” Ellie said.

Margot sighed. Was it too early for wine?

Upstairs, Margot heard Jenna and her maidens milling around; she caught the occasional burst of laughter. The hysteria over the missing Notebook had subsided-THANK GOD-and shortly thereafter, Autumn Donahue had arrived in a cab from the airport. Autumn had been Jenna’s roommate at the College of William and Mary. She had beautiful copper-colored hair and freckles and brown eyes and was the visual antidote to Jenna’s and Finn’s uncompromising blondness. Autumn swore like a sailor, and she could turn any situation pornographic in seconds. At the bridal shower, which had been attended by Pauline, as well as Jenna’s future mother-in-law, Ann Graham, Autumn had seen fit to give Jenna a two-headed vibrator and a tube of lubricant.

“Just turn that thing on for Stuart,” Autumn had said. “He’ll love it.”

Autumn always dated three men at the same time; she called these men her “lov-ahs,” and she sometimes threw a random one-night stand into the mix. She had never been in love; she had no intention of ever falling in love.

Quite frankly, Margot admired this about Autumn.

Margot was waiting for a text from Edge. She had texted him the night before to tell him that Drum Sr. was getting married. What she’d written was: Drum Sr. is getting married to someone named Lily the Pilates instructor.

When, after thirty minutes, she hadn’t received a response, she had written: No, seriously, Drum Sr. is getting married.

Margot had fallen asleep with the phone in her hand, waiting for a response. But in the morning there was still nothing from Edge. Margot found this silence perplexing. He often let one or more of her texts go without a response, but a text about her ex-spouse remarrying? That was real news. It deserved something. Then Margot began to worry that Edge wasn’t responding because he thought Margot was fishing for a proposal herself. Ha! The mere idea of a proposal from Edge was ludicrous. He had allowed her to spend the night at his apartment only once-and then only because he’d had a favor to ask of her.

She wouldn’t let herself think about that night, Picholine for dinner first, then the unprecedented invitation to sleep over, then the ask, like a cold hand on her throat. Griffin Wheatley, Homecoming King. She couldn’t think about it.

Maybe Edge was just busy. He had been preparing for court all week; he was taking over something called the “shitshow Cranbrook case” for Margot’s father. Margot had asked what that meant, but he hadn’t told her; he couldn’t tell her about any of his cases-not only because it was privileged information, but because Edge didn’t want Margot to accidentally slip up in front of her father.

The result of this was that Margot knew next to nothing about Edge’s work life or how he spent his days. She almost preferred the way things had been with Drum Sr. Drum Sr. had done nothing for work, but at least that nothing had been reported to Margot in excruciating detail. Going for run in park. Back from run. ATM, $80. Warren Miller film-off the hook! Thinking about enchiladas for dinner-ok with u? Store. Sale on canned tomatoes, buying 3. Picking up Ellie now. Walking. What is name of Peyton’s mom? And what is wrong with her face? Margot used to sit in her office at Miller-Sawtooth, which was the most prestigious executive search firm in the world, and receive these texts and think, Don’t you understand that I am too busy for this piddly-shit?