He didn’t bother with the voice mails. He called her back. “Talk to me, Goose.”

Normally, this set a lighthearted tone, but when Margaret answered, she was all business. “Scarlett called,” Margaret said. “She’s been trying to reach you.”

“I have no reception out here,” Buck said.

“Surprise, surprise, she’s run out of money,” Margaret said. “Visa declined, AmEx declined, six overdraft notices from the bank. She wants to know what the… expletive… is going on.”

“Did you tell her the money is gone?” Buck said.

“I thought I would leave that up to you,” Margaret said. “I’m just the secretary here.”

Buck wished Margaret were the type of secretary who would do his dirty work for him-tell Scarlett that Deacon had wired a million dollars to save his restaurant after her uncle had pulled his funding, and tell her that she had better give up her projects and her get-rich-quick schemes and find the best job that a degree from University College could get her.

“I’ll take care of it,” Buck said. “Have we heard from either Harv or the accountant’s office?” This was the last hope: that the Board Room was sitting on a gold mine and Buck might be able to claim some of Deacon’s investment back.

“Not yet,” Margaret said.

“Okay,” Buck said, though it was not okay. Someday he was going to write a memoir entitled Don’t Shoot the Messenger. “Thank you, Margaret.”

“You’re welcome,” Margaret said. “Enjoy your weekend.”

Enjoy his weekend. Fat chance of that!

Buck walked over the dune in his bare feet until he saw the water sparkling before him. It was so much more beautiful than the East River, or even the Hudson. The ocean was a wild, living thing. The beach was deserted except for gulls.

As Buck approached the water’s edge, he thought about Scarlett. She had been justified in leaving; if Buck were she, he might have done the same thing. Deacon had gone on benders before, of course, but the one a couple of weeks before he died had been the worst ever-for many reasons. Scarlett had been away on a seven-night “silent retreat” at the Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, New York. It was one of her new things: yoga, mindfulness, a break from technology, finding balance, finding her center, cutting out all white noise and conflict. That was Scarlett’s way of dealing with stress, while Deacon’s way had been drinking and drugs.

It was a Tuesday, so the restaurant was closed. A phone call came to Buck’s phone at five thirty. It was the headmistress of Ellery’s school, Madame Giroux. Ellery hadn’t been picked up, and the office had had no luck reaching either parent. It was understood that Madame Oliver was on a spiritual retreat and could not be reached, but all ten calls to Monsieur had gone straight to voice mail, and there had been no answer at his place of work. Madame Giroux then let a stream of very angry French fly, the gist of which, Buck gathered, was that she found the situation unacceptable. Mr. Buckley was listed as the emergency contact. Would he please come get the child? She had been quite traumatized.

Buck hopped in a cab to the school. Traffic was a trial at that time of day, so he didn’t collect Ellery until nearly six fifteen, and she was, in fact, weepy and shivering, as though they’d kept her in a meat locker. Buck made his extreme apologies to Madame Giroux, with her chignon, her pencil skirt, her expression of French superiority, and then he whisked Ellery into his waiting cab. He called Deacon-voice mail. He called Angie, who answered and said that yes, she would meet Buck and Ellery at Deacon’s apartment so that Buck could go on a manhunt.

Buck didn’t know where to start, so he started with the obvious-McCoy’s-but Sarah hadn’t seen Deacon in weeks, she said. Buck considered checking downtown at Five Points and then stopping at every bar on the Bowery, but his good judgment told him to go back to his apartment and wait. The call would come, eventually, and meanwhile, Ellery was safe.

A little after ten, Buck received a call from an unfamiliar 646 number.

“Mr. Buckley?” a female voice said.

Oh dear, Buck thought. “Yes?”

“My name is Taryn Ross,” the voice said. “I’m a dancer? At Skirtz Gentlemen’s Club? Your friend Deacon passed out in my car, and I can’t get him to wake up.”


Buck had met Taryn Ross on the third level of a parking garage on Twelfth Avenue. She was dressed in cherry-red hot pants, high-heeled Mary Jane pumps, and a gray New York Giants hoodie that Buck recognized as belonging to Deacon. Deacon was slumped behind the wheel of a 1994 Saab convertible; Buck’s first wife, Jess, had driven one exactly like it when he first met her. There was an open bottle of Billecart-Salmon champagne in the console.

“Whose car is this?” Buck asked.

“Mine,” Taryn said.

“You were going to let him drive?” Buck asked.

“No,” Taryn said. She jingled the car keys. “He said he was okay, he said he wanted to take me up to Nantucket so I could see it, but he was really, really drunk, and the two of us did a lot of coke.”

“A lot, like how much?” Buck asked.

“Enough to make him think he could drive,” Taryn said. “But then he just sort of fell over. At first I thought he was dead, but I checked, and he’s breathing.”

“Great,” Buck said.

“I’m sorry,” Taryn said. “When he came in, I was so surprised. I grew up watching his show. I made the clams casino dip once for my in-laws.”

“You’re married?” Buck asked.

Taryn nodded and stuffed her hands in the front pocket of the sweatshirt. Deacon had probably lent it to her because she was topless.

“Well, so is he,” Buck said. “He has a wife and child at home.”

“Nothing happened,” Taryn said, shrugging. “He just wanted to show me Nantucket. He said we were going to take a ferry boat.”

“I’m getting him out of here,” Buck said. He eyed Taryn Ross, wondering if he needed to pay her to keep her from posting this on Facebook. He decided the answer was yes and handed her two hundred-dollar bills. “Thank you for calling me.”

“Can I tell you one other thing?” Taryn said. “He seemed sad. Just really, really sad.”


At two o’clock the next afternoon, when Deacon finally woke up, Buck filled him in on what had happened because he most certainly would not remember.

“First off, Ellery is okay. You forgot her at school, but I went to pick her up.”

Deacon’s expression collapsed into one of predictable despair. “No.”

“Yes,” Buck said. “You drank too much, you wandered into Skirtz, on Thirty-Second between Eleventh and Twelfth, you met a dancer there named Taryn. Blond. Any of this ring a bell?”

Deacon shook his head, but even that looked as though it hurt.

“Apparently, you and Taryn hoovered up most of an eight ball; then you told her you wanted to show her Nantucket, so you got in her car. With a nice bottle of bubbly.”

Deacon closed his eyes. “Did I drive?”

“No,” Buck said. “The girl was smart. She held the keys.”

“Good,” Deacon said. “Is Ellery okay? Does Scarlett know?”

“Ellery is fine. Angie took care of her. Scarlett is at the ashram or whatever, and so she may know, or this surprise may be in her future.”

“Okay,” Deacon said with a big exhale that smelled strongly of whiskey. “I’m sorry, Buck. Things are tough right now.”

“It’s like you have a death wish,” Buck said.

“I don’t,” Deacon said. “I’m going to stop drinking.”

Buck stared at him.

“I’m serious,” Deacon said. “And no more drugs. I have to learn to live with myself.”


When Scarlett got home, Deacon told her the PG-13 version of the story: McCoy’s, lost track of time, completely spaced on picking up Ellery. He was beyond sorry, and he realized he had a problem. He was going to stop drinking.

I don’t believe you, Scarlett said. She pulled Ellery out of school, she packed two suitcases, she flew to Savannah.

Now, Deacon was dead, and Scarlett was out of money. Initially, upon reading Deacon’s will, Buck had been uneasy about informing Scarlett that she was only inheriting a third of the Nantucket house and that the other two-thirds were going to Laurel and Belinda. But now, that was a moot point. One third of nothing was nothing.

Buck trudged through the sand to the water’s edge and let the waves lap at his feet. Then he shed his shirt and set it and his phone out of the ocean’s reach. He charged into the water. This is okay, he thought as he paddled out, letting the waves swell up and over him. This was what he needed to clear his head and prepare for what lay ahead.

ANGIE

JP delivered Angie up to the house but declined to come inside. “I just wanted to drop off the strawberries,” he said. “I’m getting your family a boat on Monday so you can spread the ashes. I’ll meet everyone else then.”

Angie said, “Do you know who Dad’s caretaker is these days? Nailor retired, but did someone else take his place? There’s a rotten floorboard in the porch that has tried to kill me twice.”

“Your dad hired my friend Tommy A.,” JP said. “But he’s flat out this time of year, and besides, I don’t want him to see you, or there go my chances.”

Angie smiled into her lap. The guys in the kitchen teased Angie all the time, but it had been a while since anyone had flirted with her. Well, except Joel.

JP said, “I can come fix the board myself tomorrow morning…”

Angie said, “You don’t have to…”

“Angie,” JP said. “I want to.” He ran a hand over his beard. “It’s hard not knowing what to do to help. It would be an honor if you let me fix the board.”

“Okay,” she said. “Thank you.” She jumped out of the Jeep and headed up the front steps to the porch, stepping carefully around the board. She waved at JP as he backed out of the driveway.