“This will be more like breakfast,” Laurel said. “Is that okay?”

Buck wanted to say he would eat his Gucci loafers as long as he could do it across the table from Laurel, but he didn’t want to sound like a stooge.

Buck and Laurel were seated at the two-top in the big plate glass window, where they could watch the day unfolding out on the street. Laurel ordered a latte, the veggie scramble with pesto, the Yucatán chicken sausage, and the Santa Fe hash browns with extra sour cream.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m starving.”

Buck felt abstemious by comparison: black coffee and the corned-beef hash with two poached eggs and rye toast.

“Can you throw a ladle of hollandaise on top of that?” he asked the waitress.

“Now you’re talking,” Laurel said, rubbing her hands together. “You are definitely giving me a bite of that.”

Buck couldn’t believe he had just added seven hundred calories to his breakfast solely to impress a woman. But then again, it wasn’t just any woman.

Buck relaxed in his chair and inhaled the scent of bacon and coffee. Black-Eyed Susan’s was a homey place, a sort of farm-to-table diner where everything was prepared by line cooks on a griddle that ran the length of the bar. There was music playing, a mellow country band. How long had it been since Buck had noticed music? He and Deacon had gone to see the Rolling Stones on a reunion tour, but that was before Ellery was born. Buck wished he knew the words to this song; he was so happy to be with Laurel, he felt like singing.

A mother and daughter in matching toile sundresses sat on the bench outside; an older gentleman in bright-yellow Bermuda shorts walked a French bulldog. A young couple-in high school, maybe? college? Buck could no longer gauge anyone’s age-stopped right in front of the window and started to kiss as though peace had just been declared after a decades-long war. Buck watched for a second before looking away. He wanted to kiss Laurel like that.

“Do you think people assume we’re a couple?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter, because we’re not,” Laurel said. “I’m here for the hash browns.”

“You know, I’ve tried everything in my power to save the house,” Buck said. “If I had the money myself, I would hand it over to you, and you would never have to pay me back, I swear.”

“I know, Buck, it’s okay.” She frowned. “I thought Deacon was doing well financially. He lived like a rock star-that apartment on Hudson Street, the fancy school for Ellery-and I know he’s been helping Hayes out.”

“He ran through his income. I mean, don’t get me wrong-as of last December, he had a million dollars in the bank. But once that was gone, he started to sink. The TV royalties made him money, but after my commission and losing forty percent in taxes… I mean, it’s a cooking show; it’s not like he was hosting American Idol. I found a canceled check for a hundred grand made out to something called Skinny4Life. Ever heard of it?”

“No.”

“It sounds like one of Scarlett’s schemes,” Buck said. “But unless there’s something I don’t know, it hasn’t paid off yet. One of the reasons she came to Nantucket was because she ran out of money-credit cards denied, checks bounced.”

“Oh jeez,” Laurel said. “What about Scarlett’s parents?”

“Brace declared bankruptcy last year,” Buck said. “Deacon paid for his lawyer.”

“Who else do we know who has money?” Laurel asked. She caught Buck’s gaze. “I refuse to ask Belinda.”

“She has the money.”

“I don’t care,” Laurel said. She took a sip of her coffee, then wrapped both hands around the mug. “I caught her standing outside Hayes’s room.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking guilty.”

“Even Belinda isn’t that warped,” Buck said.

“I put nothing past her,” Laurel said. “And I’m not taking her money.”

“Okay then,” Buck said. “Pray for a miracle.”

“Have you told Scarlett yet?” Laurel asked.

“No,” he said.

“Oh boy,” Laurel said. “She won’t be happy.”

“Put mildly.”

Their food arrived. Buck dug into his hollandaise-drenched corned-beef hash. It was Deacon worthy: the kind of bite that made Buck’s eyes roll back in his head. He took another greedy bite, then he glanced out the window at the gentleman walking the bulldog. Yellow shorts. Could he do yellow shorts?

“I think I need some new clothes,” Buck said.


Thirty minutes later, Buck and Laurel wandered into a store called Murray’s Toggery, which was an old-fashioned clothier, so preppy it would have made Lisa Birnbach pop a wheelie (Lisa had nearly been a client, once upon a time). The men’s section of Murray’s was a profusion of madras and bold-colored prints. There were spinning racks of whimsical ties-yellow with pink anchors, navy with lavender dolphins-piles of cable-knit sweaters, and a whole wall stacked with dusty-pink pants. Home of the Nantucket Red, a sign said. Whatever that meant.

“I have always loved this store, but I couldn’t get Deacon within a hundred yards of it,” Laurel said. “He didn’t like shirts with collars. Do you mind if I start picking out things for you?”

“Go crazy,” Buck said.

In the dressing room, Buck tried on polo shirts-light blue, navy blue, Kelly green, and pink-and khaki shorts in three different shades. He modeled each outfit for Laurel, who was sitting in what he thought of as the judging chair, giving him the thumbs-up or thumbs-down.

“You look fantastic!” she gushed. “You look twenty years younger! You look like a completely different person.”

Their salesman, named Wyatt, was extremely enthusiastic about Buck acquiring something called the “on-island look.” He brought Buck a pair of madras shorts and a pair of navy shorts embroidered with white whales.

Buck scoffed at the whale shorts, but he agreed to try them on with-Why the hell not?-the pink polo shirt. He spoke to Deacon in his mind. It would serve you right if I wore this getup to spread your ashes.

Then Buck thought, Why not? He would buy the whale shorts and the pink polo.

Buck poked his head out from the dressing-room curtain. “I’m buying this combo,” he told Laurel. “I’ll wear it tomorrow when I say good-bye to our old friend.”


Intermezzo: Deacon and Scarlett, Part I

The age of the celebrity chef is upon them. Mario Batali and Bobby Flay, Daniel Boulud and Anthony Bourdain, and the biggest gun of them all-Thomas Keller-are household names. No sooner does Deacon quit Raindance, and no sooner do he and Belinda officially separate-both developments land Deacon on the front page of the tabloids-than the Food Network calls to offer Deacon a new half-hour show called Pitchfork. The producers want to capitalize on Deacon’s bad-boy image while it’s still fresh in everyone’s minds. The show will spotlight his diabolical recipes-the caramelized foie gras pudding, the striped bass cooked in cigar smoke, the lobster momos with the creamy sriracha dipping sauce.

Buck is over the moon. Deacon’s shameful behavior has turned out to be his salvation-once again.


Only two weeks after his divorce from Belinda is final, Deacon resumes his old ways. He tapes the show every afternoon, and then he goes out drinking. His haunts include McCoy’s, McSorley’s, the Cupping Room, Spring Lounge, Mother’s Ruin, Fish, the White Horse Tavern, and El Teddy’s. Sometimes he meets Buck at Ryan’s Daughter because Buck doesn’t like to go below Fourteenth Street, and especially not since 9/11.

Having Angie helps keep Deacon in check. He’s home by seven or seven thirty to make her dinner and see that she’s at least pretending to do her homework. One weekend per month, however, Belinda comes into town, and Angie is required to stay with her. Belinda has given Deacon the apartment in the Waldorf Towers, and now she stays at the Standard, in the Meatpacking District.

The first time Belinda fulfills her maternal duties, Deacon is at loose ends. Angie keeps him honest, but now she’s with her mother, and the way Deacon feels about Belinda, a city of nine million people isn’t big enough.

He goes on a bona fide bender: Spring Lounge, Gatsby’s, White Horse, Jekyll & Hyde, the Ear Inn, the Four-Faced Liar. At the Four-Faced Liar, he bumps into a bachelor party for two gentlemen getting married, one of whom used to be a sommelier at Raindance, a guy named Morgan. Morgan lassoes Deacon into their group, and down they go to Soho, to places that are so exclusive, they don’t even have names-private lounges, supper clubs, speakeasies. They are dimly lit and filled with beautiful people. Deacon is underdressed and unprepared, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Everyone knows him. Free drinks appear wherever they go-or maybe the drinks aren’t free, maybe Morgan’s future husband is paying; Becker is the in-house counsel for Merrill Lynch. Deacon is confused, disoriented, drunk, and growing more depressed by the minute. The downtown partying life is empty and hollow; it’s filled with poseurs, pretenders, charlatans, and actors like him. He’s a chef, but something about cooking in makeup makes him feel like a fake. He longs to be back in a real kitchen, but not at Raindance. Raindance was too corporate. He longs for his days at Solo, back when things were immediate and real. Back when he was with Laurel.

It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning. Should he call Laurel? When they got home from St. John, she returned to her life saving souls in the Bronx-and he went back to his. He hasn’t spoken to her since their return, and he’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to receive a drunken, late-night phone call.

He has lost the bachelor party, which is a blessing and a curse. Morgan, at the very least, would have seen him into a cab. Deacon doesn’t know the name of the place where he presently finds himself, so even if he calls Laurel or Buck, he wouldn’t know where to tell them to come. He locates a banquette upholstered in what appears to be black mink. There’s a glass of ice water on the table. Deacon drinks it gratefully down and thinks he’ll probably just sleep here, and when he wakes up, he’ll stumble home.