"Beth!" says Georgia. "I just finished it last night! This morning actually, you kept me up till two a.m. It was so good!"

"I finished it weeks ago. Read it in three sittings. I've been dying to talk about it," says Courtney.

"Really?" asks Beth, grinning, her face flushed.

Jill made them all promise not to speak a word about the book until this morning, to save any discussion for book club, when they could all talk about it together. Even though Beth found this request to be more than a little controlling, even for Jill, Beth agreed. They all did. But she found sticking to her promise almost unbearable, as if she were stewing neck deep in a puddle of her own anxiety, every day for the past month battling the almost irresistible urge to ask each of her friends, Have you read it yet? What did you think? Every time she talked to Petra, she wanted to pepper her with at least a dozen questions, especially about the ending. But she held her tongue. It's been an agonizingly long thirty days.

Petra walks in next, carrying a thick stack of white paper under her arm. Instead of paperbacks or library books or e-readers, they've all come to book club today with 186 pages of printer paper. Beth's ma.n.u.script.

Petra plunks her stack of pages down on the table and smiles.

"It's beautiful."

"Who knew you had this in you? How did you come up with this? Do you know a boy with autism?" asks Georgia.

"No," says Beth. "Not really."

"I just heard a question," says Jill, coming in from the kitchen with a bottle of champagne in each hand. "No questions until we're all here."

"Well, it's inspired, it really is. To get inside his head the way you did. I really understood him. I loved him," says Georgia.

Beth looks around the room. Jill, Petra, Courtney, and Georgia. It's usually just the five of them, but today, there's an extra place setting and one seat still empty.

As if on cue, the doorbell rings. Jill smiles at Beth and heads toward the front door.

"You look great," says Georgia.

"Thanks."

A book club held in her honor, discussing the book she wrote, her first novel, called for a new outfit. She made a special shopping trip to the Hyannis mall. Sophie came with her. Beth's wearing a red-and-orange, floral wrap dress, a new pair of cream-colored, open-toed wedges, a pair of dangly earrings that Sophie picked out, and even a little makeup.

"And I love your necklace," says Courtney. "Is it new?"

Beth places her hand just above her heart and rubs the shimmering bluish-white moonstone between her thumb and forefinger.

"It is," says Beth, smiling.

Jill returns to the dining room followed by Olivia. She's holding 186 pages in her hands. Beth gets up and walks over to her-her photographer, her neighbor, her editor, her friend-and hugs her.

"Thanks for coming."

With a hand on Olivia's shoulder, Jill guides her to the chair next to Beth's and introduces her to everyone.

"Ready? Let's raise our gla.s.ses," Jill says, waiting for everyone to lift her flute. "To Beth and her beautiful book!"

"Cheers!"

They all clink gla.s.ses and drink champagne.

"That's my only big problem with your book," says Courtney.

Beth swallows and waits, her stomach clenched.

"It doesn't have a t.i.tle."

"I know," says Beth, relieved. "I can't decide."

"She was awful at naming her kids, too, remember?" says Jill.

She's right. Poor Gracie was still Baby Girl Ellis when they left the hospital. She was almost a week old before she had a name.

"How did you pick the name Anthony?" asks Georgia.

Beth glances over at Petra and then Olivia and smiles, like she's sharing a secret.

"I don't know. I just liked the name."

She doesn't know why she never considered any other names for her main character. And she doesn't know anyone named Anthony.

"I'm still crying over that ending," says Georgia.

"I cried, too," says Jill. "It gave me goose b.u.mps."

Beth looks over at Petra with raised eyebrows, waiting, holding her breath.

"It's the perfect ending," says Petra.

Beth exhales, and she swears she can feel her heart smile.

"Thank you so much. I love the ending, too," she says, locking eyes with Olivia. "It's my favorite part of the whole book."

When Beth began writing this story, she remembers thinking how alien this character was to her, this boy with autism who didn't speak, who didn't like to be touched, who didn't make eye contact, who loved Barney and the number three and lining up rocks. But as she kept writing, as his autism became more familiar to her, she began to see more and more the ways in which they are similar-she chews her fingernails as a form of self-soothing, she feels calm when her house is clean and all the picture frames are level and centered, she can't stand the thought of someone else sitting in her seat at the library, she feels agitated when there's too much noise around her, and sometimes, she just needs to be alone.

But their real similarities have nothing to do with autism. As she continued to write, she began to realize that this story was more about Anthony the boy than Anthony the boy with autism. Autism became almost irrelevant, and eventually she was simply writing about Anthony, a boy worthy of happiness and safety, of feeling wanted and loved. Just like her. The more she wrote about Anthony, the more she realized that she was actually writing about herself.

She loves the whole book, but the last chapter, the one she almost didn't write, is without question her favorite. And the most essential. It was the lesson her heart needed, the advice her true self wanted to hear.

Now, her book is done. She rubs the smooth, cool moonstone on her necklace between her forefinger and thumb and presses it against her heart.

Thank you, Anthony.

"I think we should talk about the ending after we talk about the beginning," says Jill. "I've made a discussion guide for us on the bookmarks. Food is there. There's plenty more champagne, and coffee and orange juice, but please don't use the Moet for mimosas. Use the Korbel. Okay, let's eat and discuss the book!"

CHAPTER 40.

It's early in the day, and the sun feels soothing on Olivia's back as she walks along the water's edge on Fat Ladies Beach. It's a clear morning, no fog, and only a gentle wind. The sky is a pure, soft blue, and the air smells clean. Yesterday, when the sky was crowded with heavy, gray clouds, and the wind was fierce, kite surfers in black wet suits were all over this beach, riding parallel to the sh.o.r.e, playing on the choppy waves. Today, the thrill-seeking kite surfers have stayed home, replaced by the dog walkers. Olivia has already nodded h.e.l.lo and good-morning to at least a dozen people and their pets. So much activity on Fat Ladies Beach is unusual for April. But this weekend, it's to be expected. This weekend is Daffodil Festival weekend.

She feels done walking, but she won't leave until she finds one more. With her jeans rolled up to her calves and her shoes hanging from her peace fingers, she strolls barefoot on the smooth, packed sand, wet and cold from a recent high tide, a trail of her own sunken footprints following her. She walks with her head down, her eyes focused on the golden grains of sand in front of her. The beach is washed clean. It's mostly fine sand, only a few broken clamsh.e.l.ls scattered here and there. She persists.

As she knew she would, she finds one, only partially exposed above the sand, white and glistening in the sunlight. She picks it up, then squats by the lip of the ocean, waiting for it to come and lick her rock clean. She beholds it in the palm of her hand. White and round and smooth. Anthony would love it. She smiles. She's ready to go now.

Back in her neighborhood, she walks in the middle of the road, taking notice of all the daffodils, bright, unexpected explosions of jubilant color, like three million yellow phoenixes rising above the ashen gray. Life returns. It's been unseasonably warm this year, and the daffodils bloomed two weeks early. They're everywhere. They're beautiful.

There are cars in many of the driveways now, windows open in many of the houses. As she walks, she hears a lawn mower nearby and someone hammering in the distance. She smells mulch and paint. Spring is here.

She stops in front of Beth's house. The driveway is empty. They're probably already out in 'Sconset. She said they'd be tailgating today. Two Adirondack chairs sit side by side on the front lawn, bright and slick white, freshly painted. Olivia smiles. She checks her watch. She won't have time to say goodbye to Beth before leaving, but she'll see her again soon.

Before turning to go home, she walks to check her mailbox one last time. She opens the door. No mail. Good.

She makes her way back to her cottage, a home that she and David bought for their future. It was a lovely and romantic plan, but it wasn't meant to be. For someone else maybe. She stands in the street before her house, its gray cedar shingles and white trim, the farmer's porch, the stone walkway. The FOR SALE sign staked in the front lawn by the edge of the road shines brightly, reflecting the sunlight. She sighs. For someone else.

She's already packed. She shipped most everything yesterday, and the rest is in the Jeep. Her load is actually lighter today than it was just over a year ago. There's no need to go back inside.

Before getting into her Jeep, she sits on the gra.s.s in the sun, already much higher in the sky than it was on the beach, and admires her daffodils. She planted a dozen more this year, so now there are eighteen. Eighteen happy yellow and white flowers, dancing in the gentle breeze, celebrating Daffodil Day.

The promise of a new beginning.

And they celebrate the day today above a bed of white stones, spread evenly over the earth around them. A rock garden and eighteen daffodils. The perfect home for Anthony's rocks.

She thinks about tossing the rock she found this morning, still in her hand, onto the pile but changes her mind. Instead, she chooses two more from the ground and holds all three in her hand. There. Three rocks. That's all she needs.

She picks a single daffodil, inhales its b.u.t.tery-sweet fragrance, and tucks it into her hair over her right ear. Then she gets into her Jeep, takes one last look at her cottage, her daffodils, and Anthony's rocks, and drives away.

THE HIGH-SPEED FERRY to Hyannis isn't crowded, and she has her pick of window seats. People aren't leaving Nantucket today. They're here to see the daffodils. Olivia has seen enough. The ferry engine rumbles, and they begin to move.

She leaves her bag at her seat and walks up the stairs and outside to the back of the ferry. As the ferry approaches Brant Point Lighthouse, she pulls a penny from her pocket and tosses it into the ocean, a tradition symbolizing a promise to return to the island. She'll be back. She'll be back to visit Beth and Jimmy.

She's standing at the railing, facing backward, as more and more ocean separates her from this tiny island. She watches the boats in the harbor, the two church steeples, the buildings in Town, and the gray houses dotting the sh.o.r.eline shrink smaller and smaller. And soon, Nantucket is gone.

The ferry picks up speed. Olivia returns to her seat inside, facing forward. She's going back to work, back to Taylor Krepps, but as a fiction editor this time. She's ready and excited. Her first book will be the one she brought to Louise herself, the debut novel by Elizabeth Ellis. She can't wait for its publication, to see it in the bookstores, to hold it in her hands, to feel the cover and the weight of it.

She opens her bag and pulls out a thick stack of paper. Beth's ma.n.u.script. She holds it in her lap. This is why she came to Nantucket. For this. Her answer. Her peace.

As the ferry takes her back to the mainland, she flips to the last few pages and smiles as she rereads her favorite part, savoring each word, listening with her spirit to the beautiful sound of Anthony's voice.

CHAPTER 41.

EPILOGUE.

Dear Mom, You already possess the answers to your questions. You already hold them in your heart. But your mind still resists. I understand that sometimes we need rea.s.surance, to hear the words. A two-way conversation.

I wasn't here to do the things you dreamed and even feared I'd do before I was born. I wasn't here to play Little League, go to the prom, go to college, go to war, become a doctor or a lawyer or a mathematician (I would've been great at that one). I wasn't here to grow to be an old man, to be married, to have children and grandchildren. All that has been done or will be done.

And I wasn't here to help others understand immunology, gastroenterology, genetics, or neuroscience. I wasn't here to solve the riddle of autism. Those answers are for another time.

I came here to simply be, and autism was the vehicle of my being. Although my short life was difficult at times, I found great joy in being Anthony. Autism made it difficult to connect with you and Dad and other people through things like eye contact and conversation and your activities. But I wasn't interested in connecting in those ways, so I felt no deprivation in this. I connected in other ways, through the song of your voices, the energy of your emotions, the comfort in being near you, and sometimes, in moments I treasured, through sharing the experience of something I loved-the blue sky, my rocks, the Three Pigs story.

And you, Mom. I loved you. You've asked if I felt and understood that you loved me. Of course I did. And you know this. I loved your love because it kept me safe and happy and wanted, and it existed beyond words and hugs and eyes.

This brings me to the other reason I was here. I was here for you, Mom. I was here to teach you about love.

Most people love with a guarded heart, only if certain things happen or don't happen, only to a point. If the person we love hurts us, betrays us, abandons us, disappoints us, if the person becomes hard to love, we often stop loving. We protect our delicate hearts. We close off, retreat, withhold, disconnect, and withdraw. We might even hate.

Most people love conditionally. Most people are never asked to love with a whole and open heart. They only love partway. They get by.

Autism was my gift to you. My autism didn't let me hug and kiss you, it didn't allow me to look into your eyes, it didn't let me say aloud the words you so desperately wanted to hear with your ears. But you loved me anyway.

You're thinking, Of course I did. Anyone would have. This isn't true. Loving me with a full and accepting heart, loving all of me, required you to grow. Despite your heartache and disappointment, your fears and frustration and sorrow, despite all I couldn't show you in return, you loved me.

You loved me unconditionally.

You haven't experienced this kind of love with Dad or your parents or your sister or anyone else before. But now, you know what unconditional love is. I know my death has hurt you, and you've needed time alone to heal. You're ready now. You'll still miss me. I miss you, too. But you're ready.

Take what you've learned and love someone again. Find someone to love and love without condition.

This is why we're all here.

Love, Anthony.

AUTHOR'S NOTE.

As of the writing of this story, the neuroanatomical, neurochemical, and neurophysiological underpinnings of autism are poorly understood. While I look forward to the day, hopefully in the near future, when scientists have identified the causes, elucidating the neuroscience of autism wasn't the goal or within the scope of this novel.

About a third of children with autism also have epilepsy. For most of these children, seizures can be well managed with medication. However, managing the proper dosing and effectiveness of any medication with children who are nonverbal is particularly challenging.

Boy with autism or autistic boy? The specific use of language can powerfully influence how we perceive and treat people. I have read and understand the arguments for both choices here.