Grace, never one to show up at a party empty handed, gave Jean a carton of pale blue eggs. “These are from Hillary and the other Araucanas,” she said. “My best producers.”

“I’m partial to Ladybird’s speckled eggs,” Benton said.

Jean accepted the carton and said, “I’ll treat them like gold.” Then she dramatically swept a hand, presenting her yard-manicured in its every aspect-and the mandolin player and the caterers passing hors d’oeuvres and also, Grace supposed, the sun, which was dutifully casting a golden, syrupy glow over the party. Immediately, Grace noticed la grande table, half of which served as a bar and half of which was a groaning board of cheeses, grapes, strawberries, apricots, nuts, salami, marinated vegetables, crackers, baguette slices, quince paste, olives, and dips. Grace had invented la grande table three years earlier-it was just a ploughman’s lunch on a bigger scale-and Jean had continued the tradition.

“Look at this!” Benton said. “Jean, you outdid yourself.”

Jean beamed. “I learned everything I know from this breathtaking creature right here,” she said, squeezing Grace’s biceps. “I swear, Grace, when you walked in, I thought you were one of your daughters. You are positively glowing. You’re not pregnant, are you?”

At this, Grace hooted as if she’d been goosed. “God no!” she said.

The other women at the soiree were all dressed in flowered sundresses and linen shifts; there was an abundance of Jack Rogers sandals and Lilly Pulitzer prints. They looked like extras in a Merchant Ivory film, but that was the point. Of all the cocktail parties on Nantucket all summer, this was the most elegant and genteel.

“Let’s get a drink,” Grace said.

“I’ll get you one,” Benton said. “What would you like?”

“I’ll have a sauvignon blanc,” Grace said. “A Sancerre, if they have it.”

Benton headed off to the bar, and women descended on Grace like buzzards on roadkill-Jody Rouisse, Susan Prendergast, Monica Delray.

Monica said, “You lucky duck! You brought Benton!”

“He’s dreamy,” Jody said.

“And he sure cleans up well,” Susan said.

“What happened to Madeline?” Monica asked. “Did the two of you have a falling out?”

“Falling out?” Grace said. She honestly couldn’t remember the last time she and Madeline had even been cross with each other. “She’s been really busy writing.”

“Oh yes,” Jody said. “We’ve heard.”

“So I decided to bring Benton,” Grace said. “He’s been consulting with me on my garden since last summer.”

“We know,” Jody said. “We are dying to see your yard.”

“We thought you might host the soiree this year,” Susan said.

“It’s not quite soiree worthy,” Grace said, though of course it was, and then some. Jean had actually asked Grace, back in November, if she would be willing to host. But even then, Grace had been thinking of a gardening feature, and she hadn’t wanted a hundred people walking across her grass and terrorizing the chickens.

“Oh, stop,” Jody said. “You enjoy keeping it for yourself. Grace’s secret garden.”

Benton appeared by Grace’s side and handed her a flute of champagne. “They only had chardonnay,” he said. “So I thought you’d prefer this.”

Grace accepted the flute and smiled at him. “I would, thank you.”

“Ladies,” Benton said. “Thank you for allowing a boor like me into your party. I can see my gender is greatly outnumbered, but I like it that way.”

The assembled ladies giggled.

Jody said, “Grace was just telling us that you’ve been consulting with her.”

“I’m there every day,” Benton said. “It’s my pet project.”

“It’s Benton’s design, his brainchild,” Grace said. “I take no credit. I am merely a worker bee.”

“Have you told them the news?” Benton asked.

“What news?” Monica said.

“Are the two of you running away together?” Susan said. She put her hand on Benton’s arm. “Don’t take her, take me.”

Benton laughed. He said, “It’s Grace’s news to tell.”

Grace blinked. The conversation was getting away from her. When Benton had said her yard was his pet project, what did the other women think? Had they thought…? And what was that comment about Benton and Grace running away together?

Madeline had been right. These women were vipers.

“Your news, Grace?” Jody prompted.

She almost didn’t want to tell them. Let them be surprised on July 26 when they opened the newspaper.

But Grace couldn’t help herself. She said, “My garden is going to be featured in the Boston Globe. It’ll be in the Sunday home-and-garden section.”

There were some gasps and nods, a jealous eye roll from Jody Rouisse-no surprise there. She was the one who had called Benton dreamy, and she was going through a divorce. She would probably like nothing better than to sink her teeth into Benton’s strong shoulder.

“That’s great!” Susan Prendergast said. “You must be thrilled.”

“I heard Eddie hired a publicist,” Jody said. “Is that how this came about?”

“It is,” Grace admitted. “Hester Phan. She sent out photographs and a full description in a press release, and the Boston Globe was the first to bite.” The way she said this made it sound like there might have been more than one publication that wanted to shine its spotlight on Grace’s garden.

“I was hoping for Classic Garden,” Benton said. “I did a project in Savannah years ago that was featured in that magazine. They do a spectacular job.”

“I do love Classic Garden,” Susan said.

Grace wondered if she should have waited for Classic Garden to say yes before she agreed to the Boston Globe; that way, Benton would have had his first choice.

She sipped her champagne. The other women were looking at her with envy, yes, but also with a certain amount of disdain, or so she suspected. Her husband had hired a publicist, and now Grace’s yard would be featured in the Boston Globe.

What was it, really, but a colossal display of vanity?

Before Grace could gauge how egregious getting a publicist for her garden might seem to these women, her thoughts were interrupted.

“Grace, hi!” a loud female voice said. “Hi, hi, hi, hi! I can’t believe you two are here.”

Grace turned to see Sharon Rhodes, otherwise known as Blond Sharon. Sharon Rhodes was nearly six feet tall, and she had aggressively dyed blond hair. She had a wide mouth with crowded teeth and a big, hearty, infectious laugh, which was her best feature. She was the loudest person in any room and was therefore always the center of attention. Tonight she stood out, as usual, in a poppy-red strapless blouse, tight white pants, and five-inch stiletto heels that were going to decimate Jean Burton’s gorgeous lawn.

Flats, Grace thought. One wore flats to the Sunset Soiree for this very reason.

“Hi, Sharon,” Grace said. She leaned in for an air kiss. “It’s nice to see you.”

Blond Sharon regarded Benton with undisguised interest. “I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced,” she said, offering her hand. “I’m Sharon Rhodes.”

“Nice to meet you, Sharon Rhodes,” Benton said, taking her hand.

“I’ve heard about your work, of course,” Blond Sharon said. “And didn’t you used to live with Katharine McGovern?”

“McGuvvy,” Benton said. “Yes. Great girl. We’ve parted ways, but I hear she’s very happy…”

“In San Diego!” Blond Sharon said. “She taught my children sailing at the yacht club last summer.” Blond Sharon winked at Benton. “I think she was hoping you two would get married.”

“It didn’t work out that way, unfortunately,” Benton said. “Wasn’t in the cards.”

Blond Sharon nodded, then looked between Grace and Benton as if trying to make sense of what she was seeing.

“Benton is consulting with me on my garden,” Grace said. “He’s got the magic touch. You should see my roses.”

“I would like to see your roses,” Blond Sharon said, “but you never invite me.”

Grace smiled. She felt like she was the only person left on earth who cared about manners. God bless her grandmother Sabine and the Sundays Grace spent learning how to properly butter her bread. “You’re invited any time,” she told Blond Sharon.

Blond Sharon laughed as if this were the funniest thing she’d ever heard. It was pretty funny. If Blond Sharon showed up at Grace’s house unannounced to take a gander at Grace’s roses, Grace would pretend to be down with a migraine. She would be grateful for the massive oak door separating her from Blond Sharon’s curiosity. Her home was a fortress, and Blond Sharon wasn’t welcome. Grace didn’t think Blond Sharon was a bad person. She was just too obvious for Grace. Her clothes were too flashy, her heels too high; her laugh was too loud. Madeline felt the same way. If Madeline were here, they would talk about Blond Sharon the instant she stepped away.

As if reading her mind, Blond Sharon said, “So, Grace, have you heard about Madeline’s new book? I guess Rachel McMann got to read some of it the other day.”

“I know she’s been hard at work,” Grace said. She smiled at Benton. “Shall we repair to the garden?”

“Yes,” Benton said in his Surrey accent. “Let’s repair.”

“You should ask Madeline about it!” Blond Sharon sang out.

“I’ll do that,” Grace agreed. She linked her arm through Benton’s. “Good to see you.”


Grace and Benton strolled along, admiring Jean Burton’s beds, all of which were bordered with impatiens.

“Oh, impatiens,” Benton whispered.

Grace squeezed his arm. She and Benton held the same opinion about impatiens. Tired and overdone.

They walked over to the first koi pond and watched the orange fish swim in lazy circles. Grace felt the same way about koi in ponds as she felt about tigers and lions in cages at the zoo.