On large white sheets of cardboard, written in enormous red letters, were the categories: Fiction, Nonfiction, Cookbooks, Gardening, Mysteries, Children, and Nantucket.

"Take that corner," Sheila suggested, pointing to a tower of brown boxes.

Marina set to work. The closest table was already piled with books, so she shoved them aside to make room for a few piles of her own. Soon she was moving around the room, placing the books in their categories. The other volunteers were all older than Marina, but they were pleasant and funny, and it felt good, to be part of this productive, literate group. Before she knew it, it was noon.

"Lunchtime, everyone," Sheila announced. "Thank you all for coming. See you tomorrow morning."

Marina lingered by the "Nantucket" table. "I wonder, could I buy a few of these now?"

"If you want, just borrow them," Sheila told her. "Bring them back when you return--you are coming back, aren't you?"

"Absolutely," Marina told her. She gathered five books up in her arms. As she walked out of the library, she took a moment to stand on the wide front steps and consider the day. On either side of her, in the shade of the overhang, people sat talking into their cell phones. In the Atheneum garden, people lolled on benches, reading books, eating ice-cream cones, and watching their children swing from the st.u.r.dy crabapple trees. At the corner of the street, three women in bright sundresses stood chatting.

Crossing the street from the post office came a woman with hair in a French braid, like Dara wore hers. She was pushing a stroller with a fat baby in it.

Marina clutched her books to her chest, but the arrow of envy had already struck her heart. She knew she could recover from the divorce, and even from the loss of her best friend, but it would take her a long time to resign herself to childlessness.

A light touch on her shoulder broke her away from her thoughts. She turned to see Sheila Lester there.

"Want to have lunch?" the other woman asked.

"Oh. Sure!"

"I've only got an hour," Sheila said. "Let's go over to the Fog."

At the restaurant, they settled into a booth, leaned toward each other over the table, and began to chat. Marina gave Sheila a very condensed account of her past, but rather than get mired in the mud of Dara, Gerry, and the divorce, she turned the conversation back to Sheila. Over salads with walnuts and cranberries, Sheila told her about her own work.

"I make lightship baskets. Do you know about lightships?"

"Not a thing," Marina admitted. "Tell me."

"Lightships were floating lighthouses in the nineteenth century, stationed at certain places around the island to warn pa.s.sing ships of dangerous shoals so they didn't get lost in the fog and run aground. Crews stayed out in the lightships for six months at a time. Needless to say they didn't have television, so they did craft work. Some made sailor's valentines, intricate little combinations of sh.e.l.ls put together to form a pretty picture. Some made lightship baskets, which involved lots of patient weaving of canes." She held up her own basket, which she carried as a purse.

"It must take patience to make one," Marina said.

"It does," Sheila agreed. "You might want to give it a try. I teach cla.s.ses and give individual lessons, too."

"I'll think about it," Marina told her. "Patience isn't really my strong suit."

After lunch, they went their separate ways. Marina gave herself a gold star for making a friend and not whining and moaning about her pathetic past year. There was a kind of tranquillity about the other woman that Marina felt terribly appealing. It was rather like the calm that Jim Fox radiated. Both people paid attention to her when they talked. They weren't looking over her shoulder for something better.

Back in her cottage, Marina spread the books out on the coffee table, loving the way the covers brightened the room. The one on decoupage had such a gorgeous cover of blue hydrangea that she propped it on the table like a painting.

She checked her calendar. Determined not to spend her life hiding away weeping, she had gone through the arts and entertainment section of the newspaper and scheduled events in throughout the week. She would absolutely go to them, every single one. And now that Sheila had reminded her of all the museums on the island, she would add those to the mix.

And of course, she reminded herself, there was the island itself. She hadn't been swimming yet. She studied her calendar. It read: Book sale. Swimming. Theater.

The closest beach was Jetties, which would be a long walk from her cottage. She decided to rent a bike. She changed into her bathing suit, slipped a tee shirt over it and slid her feet into flip-flops, and filled a bag with a bottle of water, a towel, a paperback novel, and sunblock. As she sauntered down the sidewalk back toward town and the bike shops, she realized she was relaxed in a way she hadn't been for years. She kept thinking of that turquoise bead Sheila wore. She wanted one just like that.

She rented a bike at Young's Bicycle Shop, hopped on, and headed toward the beach. She hadn't been on a bike in years, but after a few wobbly moments, she found herself pedaling with ease, and feeling surprisingly graceful and pleased with herself.

At the Jetties, she locked her bike in the parking lot and carried her beach bag along as she clomped down the boardwalk to the sand. The afternoon was brilliant, the sun dazzling on the water, the beach crowded with swimmers and sun lovers. She spread out her towel, anch.o.r.ed it with her beach bag, and strolled toward the water.

During her college days she and Christie had swam here, and Marina remembered now how the beach at the Jetties was broad and shallow. She waded far out and swam, stiffly at first, and then surrendering to the slow-rocking waves. She'd forgotten how impossible it was to think while swimming--the ocean engaged all her senses. She floated for a long time, kicking her feet, loving the warm sun on her face.

Wading back up to the beach, she felt luxuriously tired and relaxed. She gathered up her things and biked back to the cottage. She showered and dressed, pleased to see that she'd gotten a little tan, a nice little glow. This was a good day! She'd done some volunteer work, made a friend, learned about the island, and had a refreshing swim.

She tucked her paperback into her purse, and set off walking into town. She would find a bench in the library garden and read until six or so, when she'd have a drink and dinner on the patio at the Boarding House, and then she'd stroll around town until the play began.

She was happy, she realized. She was here, and alive, and happy. And that was a lot to be grateful for.

13.

Lily Thursday night, Lily sat in the back row of the theater, scribbling as fast as she could, listing the names of all the people she'd just seen at the gallery opening on Old South Wharf. She'd clicked quite a few photos with her digital camera, and she thought most of them would be usable. The problem was, some of the people she knew from seeing them at other parties or openings, and they a.s.sumed Lily knew their names, so she hadn't double-checked for fear of insulting them. Now she jotted down reminders of who they might be and where in the past six weeks she might have seen them.

People were filing into the little makeshift auditorium here in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the Methodist church. The seats were banked, and she always sat in the corner in the back, where she could see everyone. She disliked being solo at any event, although she did enjoy the looks people shot her as she sat engrossed with her tablet and pen. Maybe they imagined she was from a city newspaper.

Something caught her eye. She saw that woman, the renter, walk in. She was slender, delicate, and terribly chic in a long-sleeved black tee, pencil-legged black pants, and high black heels. Her straight blond hair was held with a simple clip at the back of her neck. That was a great look, sophisticated without fuss, easily elegant. Surely the woman was too stylish, too severe, for her father. He was a margarita at a clambake. This woman looked like a martini at the opera.

And what am I? Lily wondered, sneering down at her flowered peach sundress with its ruffled skirt. I'm a hopeless Shirley Temple, she decided, a too-sweet drink garnished with sucky little pieces of fruit. She'd worn this dress in high school, for heaven's sake. But she knew it would be hot in the theater, and her wardrobe was so limited, she had to recycle everything. Plus, she'd be bored in simple clothes. Deep in her heart she longed to wear flashy, fabulous, look-at-me clothing and jewelry. Perhaps, with both her sisters back, Lily could keep a little more of her paycheck for clothing and give a bit less of it to her father for food and utilities. She'd never really sat down with her father to talk about it. She'd always just offered money, and he'd taken it. But of course, if she didn't live at home, she'd have to pay rent and buy her own groceries; she knew that. She didn't really know whether she was helping her father or costing him money. He paid the insurance on the Old Clunker ...

The houselights dimmed. The stage lights came up. Lily turned her attention to the play.

Friday morning, Lily took a gla.s.s of iced tea and headed up the steep stairs at the back of the house to the attic.

"Hey, kid!" Abbie stuck her head up into the attic heat. "What are you doing up here?"

"Oh, I'm kind of messing around with some old clothes," Lily told her. "I need more things to wear to all my events, and I think there are some of Mom's clothes up here."

Abbie came up the stairs and stood in the middle of the attic with her hands on her hips. "Good G.o.d. There's tons of everything up here. What a mess." Her eye fell on a batik cotton bedspread in swirls of turquoise and blue. "Oh, my gosh. Mom threw that over the old chaise in their bedroom to hide all the rips and stains from poor old Rover. This can definitely go to Take It or Leave It."

"Don't be so hasty," Lily advised absentmindedly. She was pawing through hanging wardrobes.

"Well, do you want it? I can't see it ever fitting in with your decor."

"I don't want it," Lily answered. "I'm changing my style. No more yellow b.u.t.terflies and daisy sundresses. I want something black."

"That sounds very Goth. I thought that was a teenage phase."

"Not Goth, silly. Sophisticated." Narrowing her eyes at her sister, she snapped, "Stop smirking! I can be sophisticated!"

"Of course you can," Abbie replied without a touch of condescension in her voice.

Lily unzipped a quilted wardrobe and reached in. "Ugh. Grandmom's old fur coat. Why are we saving it?"

"Because," Abbie replied, her words m.u.f.fled as she bent over a box, "this family is psychotically a.n.a.l. We can't seem to throw away anything. For example! Our old Scrabble game."

"Great. Bring it downstairs. We can play it some rainy night."

"No, we can't, because don't you remember? Some of the letters are missing. We just stuck it up here because what, we thought it would magically reproduce the letters? G.o.d, we're a strange family."

"No, Abbie, we thought we'd use those letters for some kind of game, scavenger hunts or spy games or something."

"Well, it's going to the dump!" Abbie added it to the pile of discards.

Lily knelt down next to a chest full of stuffed animals. "I suppose some of these should go, too. I mean, we can save some for our children--I want to save my dolls for my children--but some of these are just mangy and gross." She held up an elongated rabbit with a ripped ear and a missing eye. "I don't even remember this guy, do you?"

Abbie glanced over. "Nope. Dump it."

It was really nice, having Abbie's company up here in the gloomy attic. Lily loved her father, but she'd been lonely for the companionship her sisters provided. She wouldn't admit it aloud, but she'd been especially lonely for Abbie. Of course it was because when Lily was seven and their mother died, it had been Abbie who stepped into the maternal role. Lily understood that. She'd talked to counselors and therapists, she'd read books. But she wasn't dependent on Abbie. Abbie had been gone for almost two years, after all. And Lily was making her own way in life. It was just that with Abbie around, Lily felt ... well, less lonely.

"Abbie?" Emma's voice came from the bottom of the stairs. "Abbie, we've had a couple of phone calls."

"Come up here!" Abbie yelled, her head down inside a trunk.

Emma slowly ascended the steps. She sat down at the top with her feet on the last step. "What are you guys doing in the attic? It's a steam bath."

Abbie said, "Cleaning it out. Check out the mess." She waved her arms. "It's ridiculous."

"Why are you cleaning out the attic now?" Emma asked.

Abbie shrugged. "I don't know, actually. I came up here because the door was open and Lily was up here."

"And I came up here to search for some clothes," Lily said. "I'm sick of my wardrobe. I need more sophisticated clothing. And you know I can't afford anything from the island stores, especially not in the summer."

To Lily's surprise, Emma nodded. "I might have some things you could use. We'd have to hem them, you're such a little hummingbird."

Pleasure rushed through Lily like a river. "Oh, Emma, that would be cool."

"What are the phone calls?" Abbie asked, dumping a pile of old bed linen on the floor.

"One woman phoned about a nanny slash housekeeper. Sounded snippy and hurried. The other call was from Sandra Bracebridge. Her mother-in-law is Millicent Bracebridge, remember her? An old lady, used to be involved in all the local organizations. Well, she's in her late eighties now, and her eyesight's going and Sandra wants someone to read to the old bat."

"Did she actually call her mother-in-law an old bat?" Abbie asked.

"Well, no, but don't you remember? Millicent Bracebridge was always pretty mean."

"What are you two even talking about?" Lily asked, looking from one sister to the other.

"Oh, didn't we tell you?" Abbie sat down on a pile of discarded clothing. "Emma and I are starting a new business. Nantucket Mermaids. We'll do any kind of odd job someone wants us to do. The ad just came out in yesterday's papers."

"Oh." Lily bit her lip. Here they were again, her two sisters, partners, a pair. She sucked up her courage and asked, "Why didn't you tell me about it?"

"Lily, honey," Abbie said, "because you already have a job, and from what you said, it keeps you busy."

Lily felt a bit better. "You're right, it does. I mean, that's why I'm up here. I need more clothes to wear to all the events I've got to go to." Still, she thought, it would have been nice if they had at least included her in the conversation. She would always be the baby of the family, but couldn't they see she wasn't a baby anymore?

"I hope you find something," Abbie said. "I'll help you take all this other stuff to the Take It or Leave It later. Right now I've got to cool off."

"I'll be down in awhile," Lily told her.

As her two older sisters went down the attic steps, Emma and Abbie talked about how to schedule interviews and who could give them references and how to divide up the jobs. They went down the hall together, their voices twining like vines. Lily stood alone, holding an old slip in her hands.

14.

Abbie From the outside, the house resembled any other, with gray shingles, white trim, and a picket fence. As she walked up the slate path, Abbie decided the blue hydrangea, climbing pale pink roses, and pots of multicolor petunias were so perfectly placed, groomed, and tended that the yard must be professionally landscaped.

The blue front door stood open. Abbie hesitated, then knocked. As she waited, she studied the decor. The house had been renovated and decorated to a glossy perfection in Nantucket style, everything blue and white and simple. Simply expensive. In the front hall alone, she saw two Claire Murray hand-hooked rugs, an antique table holding the white pitcher of blue hydrangea, and a Pamela Pindell oil painting above the hall table. Sailor's valentines lined the stairway wall and several lightship baskets were set decoratively by the doors leading to the living room and to the back of the house.

The good news, Abbie reminded herself, was that these people could afford to pay her well.

She called, "h.e.l.lo?"

She heard voices raised in argument coming from the back of the house. She waited until a moment of silence fell, then called again.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Howell, go see who's at the door. Harry, this is your last chance. Mommy is leaving!"

From the back of the house came one of the most handsome men Abbie had ever set eyes on. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sandy hair that fell over his forehead, and startling blue eyes, he was somewhere in his thirties. That he appeared embarra.s.sed and hesitant made him even more attractive.

"Oh, h.e.l.lo, sorry, we're in the middle of ... of course you can tell that, can't you?" He had a pencil stuck over his ear. He wore shorts and a blue-and-white-striped shirt with the b.u.t.tons done up wrong.

"I'm Abbie Fox." She smiled at him, keeping her posture straight and her head high. She wanted to appear confidant, capable. "I'm here about the nanny/housekeeper job."

"Well, thank G.o.d! Come in, come in." He hesitated, seeming baffled. "Um, come meet Harry."

Abbie followed the man down the hall and into the kitchen. It was large, gleaming with its state-of-the-art stainless steel refrigerator, stove, and ovens. The slate countertops held every conceivable new appliance.

In the middle of the kitchen stood a woman wearing a navy-and-white pin-striped suit and navy high heels. Her dark hair was blunt-cut at chin level and moved all in a piece, like black satin.

"All right, Harry. The sitter's here. Mommy's leaving. I won't be back for four nights. If you don't let me kiss you now, you won't get a Mommy kiss for a long, long time."

Abbie followed the woman's gaze. Under the table sat a little boy with s.h.a.ggy white-blond hair. He wore a swimming suit and cowboy boots and he was holding a large plastic horse. He didn't respond to his mother but glared furiously at the floor.

"Fine." The woman turned and performed a rapid-fire up-and-down inspection of Abbie. "You're Abbie? I checked the references you emailed. You'll do. I've made lists for you and Howell can tell you the routine."