Dabney Kimball Beech lived one block over, on Charter. I used to see her out walking every morning, and I have to tell you, she didn’t seem like anyone I would want to be friends with. It was the headband that put me off, I think, and the pearls. Who wore pearls at seven o’clock in the morning to go power walking? I quickly learned that Dabney was the director of the Chamber of Commerce and that she was quite beloved around the island. When I interviewed for an associate-broker position at Congdon & Coleman Real Estate and I mentioned I lived on School Street, the man interviewing me said, “Oh, you’re neighbors with Dabney Kimball.”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “If Nantucket elected a president, she would win by a landslide.”

I decided it would be wise, as a Realtor brand-new to town, to meet Dabney Kimball, so I strategized to be out watering my front flower bed at seven in the morning when she walked past.

I thought she might ignore me, but she stopped and literally beamed at me. And that was my introduction to the magic of Dabney Kimball Beech.

She said, “Hey there! You just moved in a few weeks ago! I’ve been dying to meet you. I’m Dabney.”

I said, “I’m Tammy Block.” We shook hands.

She said, “You’re the newest Realtor at Congdon & Coleman.”

I had only had the job for twelve hours. How could she have known?

I said, “Yes, that’s right.”

She said, “And I’ve seen your boys waiting at the bus stop. They’re so handsome.”

I smiled proudly because who can resist compliments about one’s children? But then I grew wary. This was probably just lip service.

Dabney said, “Today is Tuesday. I’m alone tonight. Come over for some wine, will you?”

I did go for “some wine.” We finished two bottles, along with a dish of smoked almonds and some really good French cheese and savory crackers and quince paste, which I had never tasted or even heard of before, but which was delicious. Things were like that at Dabney’s house-refined and lovely and eclectic, but not fussy. She made me feel completely at ease, even after I learned that her husband was some kind of famous economist who taught at Harvard, and Dabney herself had gone to Harvard. Usually when I was in the presence of educated people, I felt embarrassed about my pathetic three semesters at Fairly Ridiculous, but I did not feel that way around Dabney.

She asked me if I was married. I said, Long divorced.

She got a twinkle in her eye and told me she was something of a matchmaker. Forty-two couples to her credit, all of them still together.

I laughed and said, “Oh dear God, don’t even try. I don’t need a husband, or even a boyfriend. What I need is a plumber to fix the toilet in the boys’ bathroom. It runs incessantly.”

The very next day, Flynn Sheehan was standing at the top of my friendship stairs. I caught my breath. He had the most arresting blue eyes I had ever seen.

He said, “Dabney Kimball sent me?”

I thought, She has sent me a husband. And boy, was she spot-on. Just looking at Flynn Sheehan gave me butterflies.

He said, “Something about needing a toilet fixed?”

I laughed, then introduced myself and welcomed Flynn Sheehan inside. I was glad I had just come from work and was still wearing a dress, heels, and makeup. I led Flynn Sheehan up the stairs.

He said, “How long have you been renting the Reillys’ house?”

I said, “Three weeks.”

He said, “I basically grew up in this house. Kevin Reilly was my best friend. He was killed in Iraq in ninety-one.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s why I came on such short notice. Kevin’s parents aren’t exactly known for their upkeep of this place…”

“Oh,” I said. “The place is fine. It’s charming. I love everything about it, except the running toilet.”

Flynn stopped at the top of the stairs. He was looking at marks made on the doorjamb, pencil marks and initials I hadn’t even noticed.

He pointed to a mark near his waist. “This is Kevin, age five, and me age five. Kev at ten, at twelve, me at thirteen, Kev at fifteen.”

I studied the marks: FS 2/10/77. KR 8/29/83.

Flynn pointed to the highest mark, at about his present height. “This was the last time we did it, right before he left. He had me by half an inch.”

I looked where Flynn pointed. FS 3/30/91. KR 3/30/91.

Flynn blinked. “He was like a brother to me.”

I didn’t know what to say but I felt my heart doing funny things, things it hadn’t done in a long time.

Then I noticed his wedding ring, and I thought: Story of my life.

Flynn fixed the toilet in thirty seconds, and when I tried to pay him, he waved me away. He was the most attractive man I’d seen in years and he had shown me the softest part of his heart within three minutes of meeting me. But he was married.

At the door, he handed me his card. FLYNN SHEEHAN PLUMBING. The address was a P.O. box. I found myself wanting to know where he lived. I would drive by his house and try to catch a glimpse of his pretty wife.

He said, “If you need anything, and I mean anything, even if it’s not plumbing, I want you to call me.”

I felt myself redden. I wondered what he meant by that.

Then he said, “The Reillys are my people. If anything goes wrong with the house, they would want me to take care of it.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

Flynn descended the friendship stairs and strode out to his truck, whistling.

“Goodbye!” I called after him. “Thank you!”

A day later, when I saw Dabney, she said, “So, you met Flynn?”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you for sending him.”

Dabney gazed at me. She had dark brown eyes, but they seemed to send out gold sparks at times. “So what did you think?”

“He fixed the toilet in half a minute. I probably could have done it myself if I’d bothered to give it a try.”

“No,” she said. “I mean, what did you think about Flynn?”

“Nice guy,” I said.

“You’re rosy,” she said. She jumped up and down like a little kid, then she snapped her fingers. “I knew it! I knew it! You’re rosy!”

“Rosy?” I said.

“You liked him.”

“Dabney,” I said. “He’s married.”

Dabney’s face fell and I felt like I had just toppled her ice-cream cone.

“Yeah,” she said. “I know.”


I learned something quickly about Nantucket. Although it was a small island, you could go months without seeing someone. I went six months without seeing Flynn Sheehan. Indeed, I went for days and weeks without thinking about him. And then he would pop into my mind-most often when I walked up the stairs and saw the hash marks on the doorjamb-and I would hope and pray that the kitchen faucet would leak, or the light would go out in the refrigerator.

Then one night I happened into American Seasons for a celebratory drink. I had just sold my first house, a fixer-upper on Pilgrim Road, listed at $1.2 million. The listing broker had to get home to his family, but my boys were at football practice until seven, so I had a couple of free hours. I didn’t think anyone would be at the bar at American Seasons at five o’clock-but I was wrong. When I walked in, Flynn Sheehan was sitting there alone, with a tall beer in front of him.

I said, “Flynn, hi! Tammy Block, I’m the one who rents the…”

“Reilly house,” he said. He gave me a sort of half smile, and I thought my heart would stop. “Like I could ever forget you.”

I have gone on long enough, and the story from here takes a bad turn. Some people had neat and orderly lives, and some people’s lives were messy and morally ambiguous. I have lived the latter. Did Flynn and I have an affair? Yes. It pains and embarrasses me to confess that. Did Amy Sheehan-who was, in anyone’s objective opinion, a miserable woman-discover the affair by looking at Flynn’s cell phone records and spread the news of my slutty debauchery all over the island? Yes. Was I ready to pack up my belongings, uproot the kids, and move off the island? Yes.

There were only two reasons I didn’t do this. One was: I loved Flynn Sheehan with every fiber of my being. After Amy smeared our names like blood all over every street in town, he had a difficult choice to make. He could try to repair his marriage and salvage his family, or he could leave. He called me up at eleven o’clock on the night the news broke and said, “I left her, Tammy. I love you.”

The other reason I didn’t leave Nantucket was because of Dabney Kimball Beech. As soon as she heard the news, she knocked on my front door. I ignored her. I didn’t want to hear her lecture. Surely anyone with a life as perfect as Dabney’s would never understand adultery-even though, technically, she was the one who had set me up with Flynn.

When I didn’t answer the front door, she knocked on the back door. When I didn’t answer the back door, she started tapping on my windows. I had to hide in my powder room, where she couldn’t see me. But she was relentless, and finally I gave up. I let her in the back door and waited for the beatings to begin.

She hugged me. Then she sat down at my kitchen table. She said, “I am going to hold your hand until you stop crying.”

I cried for quite a while. I cried and cried. When I finally stopped to blow my nose, I said, “Why did you send him to me when you knew he was married?”

“Because,” Dabney said, “you two are a perfect match. You’re meant to be together.”

Dabney was right. Flynn divorced Amy and married me on the beach in Madaket with only our children and Dabney and John Boxmiller Beech in attendance. There are still people on this island who won’t speak to me, who won’t meet my eye in the supermarket, who wouldn’t give me a referral for a sale if I were the last Realtor left on Nantucket. But I have Dabney-and she is not the person she appears to be.