There had been many, many nights of serious drinking at the restaurant. The c.o.c.ktails, the champagne, the wine, the port, the cordials-it was astounding, really, how much the customers drank, how much Marguerite herself had consumed on a nightly basis. Lots of times she had stumbled home, leaning on Porter, singing to the empty streets. Lots of times her judgment had been compromised-she had said things that were indiscreet, unwise, and possibly even cruel; she had done things she regretted (the episode in the pantry with Damian Vix came to mind), and yet she kept on drinking. She loved it to this day; she thought it was one of G.o.d's marvelous gifts to the world-the sense of possibility alcohol inspired. As her hand turned the doork.n.o.b, she conceded that she had been lucky; alcohol had never gotten the best of her the way it had, say, Walter Arcain. She had never tipped back whiskey at ten in the morning and then hit an unsuspecting jogger from behind while driving erratically over the speed limit on icy roads. The mere thought sobered Marguerite so that when she swung open the door, heedless of who it might be-h.e.l.l, it could be the mailman with his irregular hours-she was frowning.

"Aunt Daisy?"

Marguerite heard the words before she focused on the face. She came after all, Marguerite thought, and then checked to see if it was true. Renata Knox, her G.o.dchild, stood before her-red in the face, panting, sweating, with a plummy bruise to the left of her chin. Her white-blond hair was in a ponytail, she wore a white shirt and a pink skirt, and slicing through her small b.r.e.a.s.t.s was the strap of an unwieldy duffel bag. It looked like she had run in her sandals all the way from Hulbert Avenue; it looked like she was trying to escape the Devil himself-and yet she was utterly beautiful to Marguerite. She was Candace.

"Darling!" Marguerite said.

"Can I come in?" Renata asked. "I'm kind of on the lam."

"Yes," Marguerite said. "Yes, of course." She ushered Renata into her hallway, still not quite believing it. Was this really happening? She came anyway? Marguerite shut the door, and when Renata kept a steady, worried gaze on the door, Marguerite locked it.

"Thank you," Renata said.

"Thank you," Marguerite said.

Marguerite pulled the second champagne flute from the freezer and filled it to the top. Meanwhile, Renata dropped her heavy bag.

"Is it all right if I stay the night?" she asked.

"Of course!" Marguerite said. She was so happy for herself, and for whichever of the upstairs bedrooms that would finally be used, that it took her a moment to realize something must have gone terribly wrong at the house on Hulbert Avenue. Marguerite handed the champagne to Renata, who accepted it gratefully. "Go right ahead and drink. You look like you need it. We'll have a proper cheers in a minute." Marguerite had planned to serve the hors d'oeuvres in the sitting room, but it suddenly seemed too stuffy; the grandfather clock would watch over them like an armed guard. So, the kitchen table. Marguerite fetched the polka-dotted c.o.c.ktail napkins, the toothpicks, the mussels, the aioli. She decided to stay in her kimono. She didn't want to leave Renata for even a minute; she might disappear as quickly and unexpectedly as she had come.

"Sit, please, sit!"

Renata collapsed in a kitchen chair. Her face was still a bright alarm. Sunburn. She impaled a mussel on a toothpick and zigzagged it heavily through the aioli.

"Can you tell me what happened?" Marguerite said, settling in a chair herself. This was supposed to be an evening when Marguerite did the talking, and she had worried about how she would negotiate the requisite small-talk-to-start. Now there was no need.

Renata didn't seem keen on explaining right away. She was too busy feasting. She brought the mussels successfully to her mouth a third of the time-otherwise, dollops of aioli landed on the table, which she didn't notice, or on the front of her white shirt, which she did. She swabbed those drops with her c.o.c.ktail napkin, leaving behind pale smudges.

"Sorry," Renata said. "I'm starving."

"Eat!" Marguerite said. "Eat!"

"These are delicious," Renata said. "They're divine."

She finished her gla.s.s of champagne, burped quietly under her breath, and tried to relax. She was safe, for the time being, though her whereabouts wouldn't be a secret for long. Someone would come sniffing around shortly, but Renata wasn't leaving. They couldn't make her.

"Darling?" Marguerite said.

Renata had seen pictures of Aunt Daisy in her parents' wedding alb.u.m. In these pictures, she wore a purple dress; her hair was in an enormous braided bun that sat on top of her head like a hat. There were different pictures of Marguerite in the back of the alb.u.m, pictures taken during the reception. In one photograph, Marguerite's hair was down-it was long and wavy, kinked from the braiding-she had changed into a black turtleneck and black pants; she was holding a cigarette in one hand, a gla.s.s of red wine in the other. Renata's parents were also in the photograph, her uncle Porter, her uncle Chase, and one of the restaurant's waitresses. It looked like a photograph from a Parisian cafe-everyone was half-smiling and s.e.xy and smoky. Marguerite, though she wasn't pretty like Renata's mother, appeared very glamorous in these pictures, and that was the image Renata had clung to. Her G.o.dmother, a famous chef with sophisticated sensibilities, her mother's best friend.

The Marguerite sitting next to Renata now had a short, s.h.a.ggy haircut (truth be told, it looked like she'd cut it herself) and she seemed much older than she had in the pictures. She was wearing a pink silk kimono, an article of clothing that intrigued Renata; it was exactly the kind of thing Action would have picked out of a vintage shop and boldly made her own. The kimono looked like it had history, character; if Suzanne Driscoll owned such a kimono she would have stored it in the attic, pulling it out only for costume parties, Halloween. But here was Marguerite wearing it to dinner. Despite the haircut and the aging, Marguerite had style. And more important, most important, the thing Renata had counted on, was that she exuded generosity, tolerance, acceptance. Renata felt she could confide everything, just from the way Marguerite had said, Can you tell me what happened? Just from the way she said, Darling?

"Well," Renata said. "I ran away. Again."

Marguerite nodded, and gave a little smile. "So I see."

Renata wondered what kind of scene was enacting itself back at Vitamin Sea. Had her father arrived yet? Had anyone noticed she was missing? How long would it be until the phone rang? By leaving, Renata hoped she had made herself clear: She wasn't going to marry Cade. She wasn't going to conform to Cade's idea of her, or the Driscolls' idea, or her father's idea. She was going down another road entirely.

"I cheated on my fiance today," Renata said. "I had s.e.x with someone else."

Marguerite's eyebrows arched. The secret smile faded. Renata felt a wave of regret. Did Marguerite disapprove? Renata felt guilty about Miles, but mostly because she had been up in the dunes with him when Sallie had her accident. The act of s.e.x bothered her less-though there were Cade's feelings to consider, and now Nicole's. The s.e.x had seemed predestined, somehow, the inevitable result of the bizarre circ.u.mstances she found herself in today.

"If I tell you about it," Renata said, "you won't judge me, will you?"

"No," Marguerite said. "Heavens, no." She sipped her champagne, nibbled a mussel, and nodded her head. "Go ahead," she said. "I'm listening."

The clock ticked; it ding-donged out quarter till the hour, then the eight strokes of the hour. The number of mussels diminished as the number of used toothpicks piled up on the side of the platter. When the mussels were gone, Marguerite brought Renata a hunk of bread to wipe up the aioli. The girl remembered her manners from time to time, placing her hands daintily in her lap-then, as she got swept away by her own storytelling, she would forget them, downing her champagne in thirsty gulps, polishing the inside of the aioli bowl to a shine. Meanwhile, Marguerite tried to predict the girl's needs-more champagne, more bread, a fresh napkin-while trying to keep track of the tale she was spinning. Renata started with the engagement only a week earlier-a diamond ring in a gla.s.s of vintage Dom Perignon at Lespina.s.se. Impossible to say no to, Marguerite had to agree. Then Renata moved on to the house on Hulbert Avenue, and the boy's parents, Suzanne and Joe Driscoll. Did Marguerite remember them? Marguerite couldn't say that she did. Renata described the mother, Suzanne, very carefully: the red hair swept back and curled under the ears, the big blue eyes, the skinny forearms jangling with gold bracelets. Marguerite didn't remember anyone like this-or rather, she remembered too many people like this, so many years in the business, so many nights in the summer, it was impossible to keep track. Marguerite felt like she was letting Renata down by not recalling the couple who were to be her in-laws, but then Renata smiled wickedly and it became clear she was glad Marguerite didn't remember them.

"How about the Robinsons?" Renata said. "She's short with dark hair, weighs about eighty pounds. His first name is Kent; he wears half spectacles."

"No, darling. I'm sorry. If I saw them, maybe..."

Again, the look of someone who had just won a secret point.

Marguerite heard about Renata's jog to the Beach Club, the discovery of Suzanne's wedding list, the conversation in which Renata told her father of her engagement, followed by the decision to go with this boy, Miles, to Madequecham Beach.

"I can see how that would be hard to resist," Marguerite said.

"You don't even know," Renata said.

And then there was a change in Renata's tone. Her voice grew somber; the words came more slowly. Marguerite heard about a girl named Sallie, decorated like a Christmas tree with tattoos and piercings. Sallie had a surfboard in the car; it got loose and smacked Renata in the jaw, hence the bruise. Renata disliked Sallie. But then came the discovery of the cross Marguerite had fashioned so long ago (she could remember pounding it into the ground with a mallet meant for tenderizing meat, her bare hands freezing) and Sallie was there, next to Renata as Renata knelt before the cross and kissed it. Next Marguerite heard about heavy surf Sallie handing Renata her sungla.s.ses, Sallie kissing Renata on the jaw. Marguerite heard about the volleyball game, sandwiches smushed by beer bottles, Sallie and Miles sitting on either side of Renata, making her feel, somehow, like she had to choose sides. Marguerite heard the girl Sallie's words, Will you keep an eye on me? And, Don't go getting married while I'm gone.

"I said I'd keep an eye on her," Renata said. "But as soon as she was back in the water I disappeared into the dunes with Miles."

Marguerite nodded.

"And she went down. Hit her head on her board and went under and when they found her, when they brought her out, she wasn't breathing."

"Oh," Marguerite said.

"It was like I caused the accident," Renata said. "I said I would watch her and then I didn't, I was off doing this other horrible thing, and I feel...not only like I was negligent, but like it happened because of me."

"You feel responsible," Marguerite said. "Guilty."

"G.o.d, yes," Renata said.

Marguerite stood up to slide the asparagus into the oven. Guilt, responsibility-these were topics Marguerite knew intimately. She should be able to offer some words-things just happen; we don't have any control; we can't blame ourselves for the fate that befalls others-but Marguerite didn't believe these words to be true. Guilt lived in this house with her; it was as constant as the clock.

"I understand the way you must be feeling," Marguerite said. She cut two pieces of tart and set them down on the table.

Renata blinked her eyes; tears fell. Marguerite replenished their champagne and touched Renata's hand.

"Is the girl all right?" Marguerite said. "She went to the hospital?"

"She went to the hospital here," Renata said. "Then they flew her to Boston in a helicopter. I don't know if she's all right. I have no way of knowing."

Marguerite sniffed the air, as if she were a witch, or an intuitive person, capable of divining things.

"She's all right," Marguerite said. "I can feel it."

"Really?" Renata said.

For a second, Marguerite felt cruel. The conversation with Dan seemed like aeons ago, but she did recall his words: You're like Mata Hari to her, Margo. She's going to listen to what you say.

"Really," Marguerite said. "But if it makes you feel better, we can call someone. We can call the hospital in Boston and ask."

Renata searched Marguerite's face. More tears threatened to fall and Marguerite panicked. She wasn't prepared for any of this. But then Renata's features settled and she picked up her fork. She gazed at the tart. "This looks delicious," she said. She took a bite, then eyed the dark gla.s.s doors that led to Marguerite's garden, as though she expected the bogeyman to appear.

She started talking again-about Cade demanding that Renata stay for dinner, about the Robinsons, their daughter, Claire, the ex-girlfriend no one had mentioned to Renata, about the shared semester at the London School of Economics.

"The semester before he met me," Renata said. "And he never said a word."

Marguerite forked a bite of tart. The pastry was flaky, the cheese creamy, and although she registered no flavor at all, she could tell the tart was a success. Renata devoured hers, then pressed the pastry crumbs into the back of her fork. Marguerite cut her another piece, a small piece, because there was more food to come.

"Oh, thank you, Aunt Daisy," Renata said. "Thank you just for listening. It has been the weirdest day. Nothing was as I expected it to be."

"Indeed not," Marguerite said. She marveled at Renata's story. And Marguerite thought her day had been extraordinary-because she left the house, visited old friends, stopped by her former place of business, because she drove to the country side of the island and back, because she had telephone conversations, because she polished silver and drank tea, because she looked at old photographs, because she sacrificed her Alice Munro stories in favor of the old, useless stories of her own life, because she cooked a meal for the first time since Candace's death. Ha! That was nothing.

"I'm glad you escaped," Marguerite said, only a little ashamed at herself for lauding the girl for leaving a dinner party without any excuse, warning, or word of good-bye. Marguerite was being horribly selfish. "You're safe here."

"I haven't told you the real reason I left," Renata said.

"You haven't?"

"No."

"Okay," Marguerite said. The champagne had officially gone to her head. She had lost her wits, or was about to. Water, she thought. She fetched a tall gla.s.s of ice water for herself, and one for Renata, who simply stared at it. "What is the real reason you left?"

"My father is here."

Marguerite hiccupped, then covered her mouth and closed the top of her kimono with her other hand. "Here where?"

"On Nantucket. He flew in tonight. When I snuck out, Cade was leaving to pick him up at the airport."

Marguerite let her eyes flutter closed. She remembered Dan's promise to show up if he thought that was what it would take to save his daughter. But look, Dan, Marguerite thought as she gazed at Renata-bruised from the surfboard, sunburned, her two ringless hands pushing her corn silk hair back from her forehead-she saved herself.

"Daddy will call," Renata said. "Once he realizes I'm gone. He'll come here."

"Yes," Marguerite said. How it panicked her, knowing she didn't have much time, knowing she still had a story of her own to tell. "I'm afraid you're right."

8:11 P.M.

Claire Robinson was the first one to notice Renata's absence. She figured Renata was upstairs in her bedroom, pouting like a child, because no one, it seemed, had told her that Cade and Claire had been a couple for seven years. Either that or she was hiding, afraid Claire would tell Cade about her frolic with Miles in the dunes. Claire chuckled; this was just too good. She had battled her parents about coming tonight-haw could they possibly ask her to share a meal with Cade and his new fiancee? But when Claire saw Renata, a bell sounded. It took her a while to be sure-but sure she now was-Renata was the same girl that everyone playing volleyball at Madequecham that afternoon had watched Miles lure into the dunes. Eric Montrose had pointed it out. "There goes Miles with another Betty. Young one this time."

Claire tiptoed up the stairs, grinning with the stupid pleasure it gave her to be privy to this scandalous information.

To the left, Claire spied the dark doorway of Cade's room, a room she knew intimately. How many nights had she sneaked up and slept with Cade, both of them naked and salt-encrusted from a late-night swim, arms and legs and hair entwined until one of them woke up to the sound of the early ferry's horn or the cry of seagulls. Claire sighed. She had thought, for certain, that she and Cade would be married. Now she was headed to graduate school at Yale to study Emily d.i.c.kinson, and she should be grateful she hadn't married Cade Driscoll. h.e.l.l, if Miles had looked at her twice, she would have followed him into the dunes herself. She might even tell Renata this; they would conspire. Don't worry, I won't tell a soul.

Claire tapped on the guest room door. Light spilled out from the bottom of the door, but Claire heard no noise. Maybe Renata had fallen asleep; Claire noticed the way she had been pounding back the drinks. Claire knocked again. Nothing. She cracked the door. "Renata?" Claire hated to admit how much she loved the name; it was a poetic name, both harmonic and sensual. It meant "reborn."

Claire peeked into the room. It was empty. The bed was made, though a bit rumpled; there was a head-shaped indentation in the soft, white pillow. One of Suzanne Driscoll's canvas beach bags lay on its side on the floor among a scattering of sand. Inside the bag, Claire found a damp beach towel and a piece of folded-up paper. Did she dare? She checked the bathroom, empty, and the deck, deserted. Renata must have slipped downstairs.

Carefully Claire smoothed out the paper. It was a list, written out in Suzanne's hand. Wedding stuff. Claire sniffed. The list was silly-flowers, cake, party favors-and yet Claire felt a pang of...what? Regret? Jealousy? She reminded herself of her disastrous reunion with Cade in London: He admitted that he felt nothing for Claire anymore, nothing but a great fondness, a brotherly love. Claire was quick to agree. Of course. I feel the same way. This wasn't true, but at least she'd escaped with her pride.

Claire laid the list on top of the dresser. As she did so, she gasped. Sitting there all by itself like someone's forgotten child was Renata's engagement ring. The stone was huge, square, in a Tiffany setting; the stone must have been close to three karats. Claire turned the ring in the light. The diamond was clear, flawless. Claire's hands were trembling. Did she dare? Why not? It was obvious at that moment, though perhaps only to Claire, that Renata was gone for good.

Claire slipped the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.

The ride from the airport to Hulbert Avenue was a quarter hour of h.e.l.l for Daniel Knox, forced as he was to listen to Cade, a kid with a shirt and a watch and a car more expensive than Daniel's own, make a twenty-point case about why he should be allowed to marry Renata. Daniel said very little during this presentation, figuring silence was the best way to put Cade on edge. Daniel had given his "blessing" to Renata that morning, in a panic. Never in fourteen years of raising his daughter had he used reverse psychology, but for some reason the announcement of her engagement cried out for it. If Daniel said yes when she expected him to say no, it would frighten her. And it must have worked, because clearly Renata had said nothing to Cade about Daniel's cheerful response. Despite the tedium of listening to Cade describe how he would care for Renata, Daniel felt triumphant. He knew his daughter better than these people.

It was very dark, and Nantucket, out of town, had few streetlights, but Dan peered through the window nonetheless. It was a singular experience, returning to the place where your life had once been. He had lived here-alone at first, running the Beach Club, then he lived here with Candace, and then with Candace and Renata. He knew the streets, cobblestone, paved, dirt, and sand; he knew the smells of bayberry and of low tide on a still, hot day; he knew the sounds of the ferry horns and the clanging bell at the end of the jetty. This had once been his home, but now he was very much the visitor.

Cade hit the turn signal and pulled into a white sh.e.l.l driveway. The house loomed in front of them-it was huge, bedecked, terraced, landscaped, a castle of a place, and every light in the house was on; it was as bright as a Broadway stage. Dan couldn't help thinking that this looked suspiciously like new construction; they had probably bought the lot and then torn down the fine old summer cottage that stood here in order to build this monstrosity. VITAMIN SEA, the quarterboard said.

"So I hope, Mr. Knox, that Renata and I have your blessing," Cade said. "I know she's young, but we wouldn't be getting married until the spring."

"Spring?" Daniel said, to show he was listening.

"Yes, sir. After school is out."

Daniel Knox said nothing else, though he was dying to utilize his "one shouldn't get married until one's traveled on three continents" speech. He was cognizant of the fact that he had shown up without warning and would be relying on Cade's family and their good graces for a place to sleep tonight. And dinner-Daniel wasn't particularly hungry, but he'd gathered from something Cade said walking from the terminal to the parking lot that there was a dinner party in progress. Lobsters or some such, with family friends, and that was what had, miraculously, kept Renata from going to Marguerite.

A woman with red hair and the tight face of someone who'd had plastic surgery appeared in the door, waving a gla.s.s of wine.

"Welcome!" she called out. "Welcome, welcome!"

"My mother," Cade whispered.

Uh-huh. Dan felt a familiar disappointment. Why was it that women his own age went to so much trouble to beautify that they ended up erasing any natural beauty they might have possessed in the first place? It was one of the things that had kept Dan from dating again after Candace's death: the way women tried so hard. Cade's mother, for example. Clearly a pretty woman, if you could get past the fact that she was fifteen pounds underweight, had suffered a chemical peel, colored her hair, wore too much makeup and too much jewelry. Women like this made Daniel long for Candace, who had looked her most beautiful first thing in the morning when she woke up, or after she got home from a run-when she was sweaty, sticky, and the picture of all-natural glowing good health. Candace would never have done these things to herself. Her idea of glamour was a shower and a clean dress.

Daniel Knox ascended the stairs and shook hands with the woman, Cade's mother. She planted a wet kiss on his cheek, which seemed awfully familiar, though she was probably under the impression they were soon to be family-and what, really, was more familiar than showing up unannounced?

"I'm Daniel," he said. "It's nice to meet you."

"Suzanne," she said in an exaggerated way, as though she weren't trying to tell him her name so much as sling it at him. Sha-zaam! "I'm so glad you could come."

"I'm sorry it was last-minute," Daniel said. He had no good reason to offer these people for why he'd shown up out of the blue, and he was counting on them being too polite to ask.

"Come in; come in," Suzanne said. "Your timing is perfect. Nicole is just putting dinner on. And you must meet our dear friends the Robinsons. They've been so charmed by Renata that to meet you is just icing on the cake."

"Icing," Daniel repeated. He was ushered into the foyer, where there was a black-and-white parquet floor and a Robert Stark painting hanging on the wall-the lone sailboat with the flame red sail; every house on Nantucket must have that painting. There was a curving staircase to the left; down the stairs came a pale milkmaid of a girl with messy dark hair. She smiled at Daniel.

"h.e.l.lo!" she said.

"Claire, this is Daniel Knox, Renata's father. Daniel, this is Claire Robinson, a dear friend of the family. Claire and Cade went to Choate together."

"I see," Daniel said. He extended a hand to the girl, then began to wonder after the whereabouts of his own daughter. It didn't surprise him that she'd skipped the airport run; Cade had obviously seen that as an opportunity for a man-to-man chat. However, now that Daniel was in this enormous house with perfect strangers, he wanted to set eyes on his own flesh and blood. Renata was not going to be happy to see him; she would be decidedly unhappy, angry, mortified. That was the risk he had taken.