She flushed, but did not turn away. As he sat gazing at her, a blush rose up his neck to his cheeks.

"Here it is, Daddy!" Harry ran back into the room, brandishing the checkbook.

"I have an idea," Abbie said as Howell bent to write out the check. "It's going to turn cloudy this afternoon. After I take Harry to the beach later on, why don't I come back and make some ca.s.seroles? I can make a mac and cheese for Harry and a lasagna for you, and they can last several nights."

"I'd like that," Howell told her.

Rain drizzled down the windowpanes and spattered against the house when the wind tossed it, and the sky had turned inky dark. Abbie turned on the lights in the Parkers' kitchen and she moved around with ease and confidence as she cooked. She loved the smell of sauteed onions and the rich swirl of tomato sauce. She hummed as she worked.

Harry lay on the floor, underneath the table, with his horses and some of the kitchen utensils. She'd suggested he make a pen with spoons and forks. Harry had been appalled at first--his mother didn't allow him to play with kitchenware. They'd get dirty. Abbie a.s.sured him everything could go into the dishwasher when the day was over.

Five o'clock came much sooner than she'd expected.

She returned to the living room. Howell was poring over a printout of numbers.

"Is it five o'clock already?" he asked.

"It is." She didn't want to leave. She wanted to be turned to stone, to stand there forever, staring at the man.

No. Not stone. Not just staring.

"Abbie," Howell said. "Don't go. Stay. Have a drink with me. Have dinner with us."

Behind her, Harry yelled, "Yay! Stay, Abbie, stay!"

"Well ..." She had another babysitting job tonight, in town, at eight o'clock. She could bike there in fifteen minutes. "And I could help Harry get ready for bed."

"I'd love it if you'd stay," Howell told her.

"All right," she decided. She knew she was blushing. "I'll just ... check something in the kitchen."

Because Harry was shadowing her, she took down the salad bowl and washed the lettuces and dried them in the spinner, but when he ran out of the room, she held her hands under running water, then splashed cold water on her face.

What do you think you're doing? she asked herself.

Just having dinner with an employer, she responded tartly.

Cooler, she returned to the living room. Harry was allowed to watch thirty minutes of a DVD before dinner because Sydney believed it calmed him down. He sat before the TV, completely engrossed. Abbie poured Howell a gla.s.s of red wine. When she brought it to him, Howell put his papers down and struggled up out of his slouch.

"Abbie, don't you want a gla.s.s of wine, too? And move that chair closer so we can talk without disturbing Harry."

She brought the chair near him and poured herself a gla.s.s of wine. For a moment they sat together, listening to the rain beat against the windows, watching Harry stare at the DVD.

Howell asked, "So, Abbie, were you born on the island?"

"I was. I'm a real true native. As we say, homegrown."

"Lucky you. And you've always taken care of children?"

"Yes, well ... My mother died when I was fifteen. My younger sister Emma was thirteen but my baby sister, Lily, was only seven. So I pretty much raised her."

"Oh, gosh, I'm sorry about your mother, Abbie. That's tough ..."

Abbie nodded and changed the subject. "I love being with Harry. He's a really special little boy."

Howell glanced over at his son. "He is. I often wish I had more time to spend with him."

"But you're here for him most of the time. And you're doing really important work."

"You know, I believe I am. Especially after nine-eleven. This paper I'm working on outlines new guidelines and suggestions for minimizing the volume and toxicity of hazardous wastes in the workplace. For example, we can install more efficient chemical-fume hoods in our laboratories, and more efficient lighting." Howell grew animated as he spoke. Cleary he was pa.s.sionate about his subject. "Wait. Am I boring you?"

"Not at all," Abbie answered truthfully. He could have been reciting the dictionary and she would have found him fascinating.

Obviously he was eager to talk about his work. He went on until Harry's DVD ended, and then he hobbled into the kitchen and chatted with his son as Abbie put dinner on the kitchen table. As they sat eating, he continued telling her about the proper disposal of hazardous materials and protecting the natural ecosystem. Abbie listened intently, trying to make sense of it all. If it mattered to him, she wanted to understand. She put out fresh fruit for dessert, but Harry was already yawning.

"I think it's time for his bath and bed," she said.

"Right. Right. G.o.d, I've done it again, blathered away and bored my child to sleep." Howell reached over to tousle his son's white curls. "Hey, guy, why don't you let Abbie give you your bath. I'll come up and read you a book when you're in bed."

Harry said obediently, "Okay, Daddy."

Abbie loved this time of the day. Loved the soothing tumble of the water into the bathtub and the restful scents of baby shampoo and soap. Loved wrapping Harry in a big, warm, soft towel, holding him on her lap as she rubbed his hair dry. Loved helping him into his pajamas--covered with running horses--and hearing his bare feet pad against the floor as he went into his bedroom. Harry knelt in front of his bookshelf to choose a book.

Abbie called down the stairs. "Harry's ready for his book."

She waited at the top of the stairs as Howell came hobbling up, one hand on the banister, the other holding on to his crutch. It seemed entirely natural for him, when he got to the top of the stairs, to put his arm around her shoulders for support. They went into Harry's room, Abbie aware of the living warmth of Howell all up and down, next to her side. He was taller than she was, and she was tall.

Harry was on the far side of the room, intently scanning books, his back to them. When they got to Harry's bed, Howell kept his arm around Abbie's shoulders. He looked down at her face. He didn't speak. He was close enough to kiss. The physical attraction between them was undeniable. She allowed the connection to last for a few moments, then pulled away.

She knelt next to the little boy. "Harry? Have you found your book yet?"

"This one." Harry held up a book with horses on the cover.

Howell said, "Abbie, stay for a while."

"I can't." She met his glance. "Really, I can't. I have another babysitting job."

"Then tomorrow night?"

"I don't know," she said. What was he asking her, really? She hugged the little boy and kissed his sweet-smelling head. "Good night, Harry! I'll see you tomorrow!"

Harry hugged her tight. "Good night, Abbie."

She fled down the stairs and out of the house.

23.

Emma Emma's days had developed a routine.

She spent her mornings taking dictation from a fragile woman who wanted to write her memoirs but was too afflicted with arthritis to type on a keyboard or hold a pen. Francine had been an administrative a.s.sistant for the chief financial officer of an international insurance company, and her memories were rife with tales of office politics, confrontations, and executive backstabbings that she recounted in a rambling, emotional rush of words. Emma couldn't imagine that this memoir would ever be published, but she could tell that the struggle to remember and to relate brought meaning to Francine's days.

After Francine, Emma had a free hour for an early lunch. She returned home, swooped hurriedly around the kitchen, putting together a meal in the Crock-Pot or concocting potato salad or rice salad or macaroni and cheese, something to be eaten with fresh fish if their father had some, or cold cuts. She and her sisters had made a list of the necessary ch.o.r.es to keep their house running smoothly. Because Abbie often worked late out at the Parkers', Emma took on the duty of organizing the family dinners. Abbie went to the grocery store twice a week, at six in the morning, before it got crowded, for in the summers it was always so crowded it was difficult to find a place to park. That left the general housework to Lily, who had agreed she'd vacuum, dust, clean the bathrooms, and mop the kitchen floor once a week, whenever she had some free time. Their plan seemed to be working, so far.

At one, Emma went to read to Millicent Bracebridge. She'd gotten into the habit of doubling the batch of homemade treats she made for her family and taking some with her to the Bracebridge house. Chocolate chip cookies. Lemon squares. Blueberry scones. She pretended they were for Millicent, and the old woman did enjoy them, but really they were for Spencer, who often stopped by for lunch.

Today a steady Noah's Ark rain drummed down. Emma stepped into the Bracebridge front hall, set her umbrella in the stand, and hung her raincoat on the antique coatrack.

"h.e.l.lo!" she called, hurrying into the living room.

"Who is it?" The older woman raised her head off her chest. Her voice was rusty.

"It's me, Mrs. Bracebridge. Emma Fox. Here to read to you. And I've brought some oatmeal cookies." She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. "It's cold in here today. Why don't I make a fire?"

"That would be very nice."

"Well, then, let me check to be sure the flue's open ..." Emma had gotten into the habit of enumerating her actions as she performed them, for Millicent's sake. She would want any relative stranger moving around her home while she was unable to see what exactly they were doing, to do the same for her. "All right, now. There's plenty of kindling in the box, but I think I'll need some old newspaper ..."

"There's a pile in the pantry for recycling," Millicent told her.

"Great. I'll go get it. And I'll put water on for tea."

As she walked down the long hall to the kitchen, Emma felt as if she were in an eccentric sort of museum on a Sunday evening. Outside the pouring rain droned down the windows, keeping all the rooms in a dim gray gloom. Portraits of long-deceased Bracebridge ancestors glowered down at Emma as she went, clearly disapproving of everything they saw. The dish towels hanging in the kitchen were old and thin and embroidered long ago by Millicent or her mother. The old Blue Willow dishes rested on an antique cupboard just as they had for decades, and even the teakettle Emma filled with water seemed ancient.

Returning to the living room, she screwed the papers up into long rolls and stuffed them under the grate, arranged the kindling in a pyramid, and lit a match. The fire flared up and caught, and Emma dropped some split logs on top.

"My, that's just what the doctor ordered," Millicent said. "Wheel me closer, would you, please?"

Emma obeyed. "You must be cold in that light dress. Let me get you a sweater or a shawl."

"I think that would be a good idea. Thank you."

Finally it was all organized, shawl, tea, fire, and cookies on a plate. Emma fetched the Agatha Christie from the bookcase.

"Spencer probably won't come today," Millicent said sadly. "Not in this rain."

"That's all right," Emma told her. "We're at a really good spot in the book, and what could be more perfect weather than this for reading Agatha Christie!"

She curled up on the sofa, opened the book to the marked page, and began to read.

"h.e.l.lo!"

The front door slammed and Spencer arrived, shaking water off his raincoat and stamping his feet.

"What a day!" He dropped his coat over the back of a chair and crossed the room to kiss his grandmother. Today he wore gray slacks, a white shirt, a blue blazer. "h.e.l.lo, Grams. You've got a fire. Clever girl. h.e.l.lo, Emma."

"Emma has brought you oatmeal cookies today," Millicent said.

Emma blushed. "They're for you, Mrs. Bracebridge."

The older woman snorted.

"Well, if they're not for you, then I'll just eat them all," Spencer said. Reaching over, he lifted the cookies off the thin china plate his grandmother was holding. "Yum. Good."

Mrs. Bracebridge touched the plate with her fingers. "Did you take my cookies?"

"No, I took my cookies." He threw himself into a chair. "Since Emma made them all for me."

"Impudent!" Mrs. Bracebridge scolded, but she smiled in spite of herself. Almost anything Spencer did pleased her.

"Is there enough tea for me, Emma?"

Emma poured him a cup. By now, she knew how he liked it, without milk or sugar. When she leaned forward to hand it to him, their fingers touched, and Spencer smiled at her. She felt herself blush again.

"Listen, Grams, I have a proposition for you. The NHA is organizing a show about sailor's valentines and other sh.e.l.lwork. You've got so many good pieces here. Would you consider loaning them to the museum for their exhibition?"

"I don't know." Mrs. Bracebridge shifted uncomfortably in her chair. "Some of them are very valuable, you know. Very old."

"That's why we want to exhibit them. It is the NHA, Grams."

"Would they be in cases?"

"Behind gla.s.s? Probably. I'll have to check with the curator of the exhibit." He sipped his tea and continued, "Really, Grams, you ought to think about giving some of this stuff to the historical a.s.sociation. Especially since you can't even see it."

"I think your mother expects me to bequeath it to her. She'll want to sell it."

"Is that what Gramps would want you to do? You know how much he loved Nantucket. And come on, Mom's got plenty of money."

Mrs. Bracebridge cleared her throat. "Perhaps we should discuss family matters later."

"Sure," Spencer agreed easily. "But think about loaning us the sh.e.l.l work, okay?"

"Dear child, I almost always do whatever you ask, don't I?"

"You do, I know. I just wish your treasures were available for the public to see."

"You have always been entirely too enchanted by the island," Mrs. Bracebridge told him with a sniff.

"I suppose that's true." He reached over and patted her hand. "But so have you. Tell me I'm not right." When his grandmother smiled, he said, "And by the way. I'm giving a lecture at the Whaling Museum next Tuesday. Why don't you have Emma bring you?"

"Oh," Emma said, blushing. "Won't your mother want to take Mrs. Bracebridge?"

Both Spencer and his grandmother laughed as if she'd said something witty.