"Renata?" Daniel said. "She's asleep?"

"She's gone," Nicole said.

Cade whipped around in his chair. "What?"

"The guest room was empty," Nicole said. "Her things are gone."

The Robinsons were quiet, except for Claire, who coughed into her napkin, in order to keep from laughing. She wasn't sure why but she found this very funny. All except for Cade, who looked like he was fourteen years old again, dropped off for his first day of boarding school, abandoned by his parents, separated from his friends. He had been so forlorn that first day, whereas Claire had felt free at last.

Suzanne laughed, too, but shrilly. "That's ridiculous," she said. "Where did she go?"

Nicole felt like Suzanne was daring her to come right out and say it: She left with Miles. But Nicole couldn't stand to think the words, much less speak them out loud to a tableful of people, and furthermore, she hated being the center of attention. Don't shoot the messenger, she wanted to say, though she knew they would anyway. That was why she'd left the ring right where it was, on top of the dresser. There was no use bringing down all the bad news at once; they could find the ring themselves when they went upstairs to investigate.

"You're sure her stuff is gone?" Cade said.

"I'm sure."

"I know where she is," Daniel said.

"Where?" Cade said.

"Where?" Nicole asked, forgetting herself. Then she thought, You don't know where she is. You're only her father.

"She's with her G.o.dmother," Daniel said. "Marguerite Beale."

"No," Cade said. "She called Marguerite to cancel."

"That's where she is," Daniel said. "Trust me." Faces around the table seemed unconvinced, or uncaring, but what these people didn't understand was the allure Marguerite held. Daniel had kept Renata away from her for fourteen years. He didn't want Renata to have to hear Marguerite's side of the story, her teary admissions, her apologies. But Renata had sought it out on her own. In a way, Daniel felt proud of her. She hadn't been taken in by these people; she hadn't been hypnotized by their wealth; she had kept her eye on what was important to her-seeing Marguerite, and learning about her mother.

Suzanne exhaled loudly and cradled her pink cheeks in her hands. She looked completely deflated. Daniel thought he might feel gratified by this, but instead he was ashamed. He very calmly sat back down. The poor woman had put a lot of work into tonight's dinner party and Renata had poked a hole in it. Despite Daniel's overwhelming desire to see his daughter, he wasn't willing to shred the evening further; he would salvage what he could. Renata wasn't going anywhere; she was safe. Daniel b.u.t.tered a Parker House roll and took a bite.

Cade glared at him. "I'm going over there to get her."

Daniel swallowed the bite of roll and sipped his scotch. "Leave her be, son."

"What do you know about leaving her be?" Cade said. "She left because you showed up. I'm sure that's why she left."

"I'm sure you're right," Daniel said.

And because she doesn't want to marry Cade, Claire thought.

And because she had s.e.x with Miles, Nicole thought. She was swept along by his beautiful promises. Just the way Nicole had been last winter when she was working as a breakfast waitress on the harbor front in Capetown. Miles had suckered her in with promises of love and money. Nicole was encouraged, however, by the confidence of the father's words. Maybe Renata did go to whatshername Beale's house. Hadn't she been talking about it with Suzanne that morning in the kitchen? Nicole sensed a filament of hope. Maybe Renata didn't go with Miles after all. For the first time all day, Nicole felt relieved. She felt almost happy.

"Let's just eat," Joe Driscoll said in a voice that would not be argued with. He held the end of an ear of corn with one hand and his b.u.t.ter knife with the other. Neither hand was shaking.

Cade noticed this, but he was too agitated to let it register. He threw his napkin onto his plate. "I'm going up to see for myself," he said.

"Cade," Suzanne said. "Listen to your father, please. Eat your dinner."

The Robinsons returned to their dinner plates; Kathy Robinson murmured something complimentary about the salad dressing. Joe Driscoll b.u.t.tered his corn. Claire Robinson sipped her tea, which had grown cold. She knew, as did Nicole, who slipped into the kitchen, as did Daniel Knox, as did the others deep down in their hearts, what Cade was going to find.

9:42 P.M.

Nine thirty was Lights-Out at Camp Stoneface and had been all summer. The twelve girls in Action Colpeter's cabin were doing their nighttime-whisper thing, which sometimes lasted until midnight if Action didn't lay down the law. However, tonight, for some reason, Action was antsy, eager to wash her hands of Camp Stoneface and the million and one rules she hand to enforce. What she wanted more than anything was to be alone, so she could think.

"I'm going to be right outside on the stoop," Action announced to her campers. "So do not attempt any funny business." Such as drawing with indelible marker on the girl who fell asleep first, such as telling stories, real or made up, about doing drugs or having abortions.

Action took her flashlight and her pen and notebook and sat on the top step right outside the cabin door. If they thought they were escaping tonight to raid the mess hall for stale potato chips or to make mooning noises through the screens of the boys' cabin, they were mistaken. Action started a letter to Renata. Hola, b.i.t.c.h-ola! But this sounded too cavalier. The truth was, Action was worried about Renata. Action had been born with nearly perfect instincts, and her instincts about Renata this second rang out: Doomsday.

Action heard a noise coming from the gra.s.s nearby. Even after eight weeks in the thick woods of all-but-forgotten West Virginia, Action was still freaked out by the wildlife-the bullfrogs, the owls, the bats, the mosquitoes. Action had grown up on Bleecker Street; her experience with wildlife had been limited to the freaks she'd seen on Christopher Street and in Alphabet City. The noise in the gra.s.s sounded suspiciously like a bullfrog. It made a buzzing, thrumming sound at regular intervals. Action shined her flashlight in the frog's direction; if she kept her eye on it, it wouldn't land on her-plop!-wet and slimy. She was wearing jeans and running shoes. She could step on it or nudge it away. The noise persisted. Action climbed down off the steps and hunted through the gra.s.s for the frog.

Her flashlight caught a glint of something silver. What was this? Action bent down, peering at the thing that was making the noise as if it were as unlikely as a moonstone. Ha! She snapped it up, triumphant. It was a cell phone, the ringer set to vibrate.

Eight weeks ago, discovering a cell phone in the gra.s.s would have made Action livid. Cell phones-and all other treasures from the world of IT-were strictly verboten at Camp Stoneface. Action and her fellow counselors took great joy in stripping campers of their cell phones, Game Boys, iPods, and laptops. But now, in the third week of August, discovering a cell phone in the gra.s.s, at night, while she was alone, was like a sign from the Virgin Mary herself. Action was supposed to call somebody.

She flipped the phone open. It was a Nokia, sleek and cool in her palm. And-would wonders never cease?-she got a signal.

Action felt a flash of guilt. Hypocrite! she screamed at herself in her mind. She hadn't even let twelve-year-old Tanya, who was the youngest and best-behaved child at the camp, call her mother on her mother's fortieth birthday. However, Action's presiding sentiment was that enough was enough and she had had enough of West Virginia unplugged. If she had to sing "Take Me Home, Country Roads," one more time, she would have a Tourette's-like outburst. "Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River." No, sorry.

One call, she thought. I'll only make one call. The call should rightly go to her brother, Major. Action received a letter from him every single day, written out in Miss Engel's neat block script. He wrote about how he went to Strawberry Fields, ate ice cream, watched some kid fly a kite that looked like a parrot. It was hot, he wanted to go on vacation to the ocean the way they did when Action was at home, but Mom had work and Dad had work. I miss you, Action. I love you miss you love you. He always signed his own name, and this was what hurt Action the worst. His name in wobbly capitals, a smiley face drawn into the O. Action had never gone eight weeks without seeing him, and what she missed the most was him needing her. Of course, she had twelve needy cases evading sleep inside the cabin, but it wasn't the same.

Action should have called Major-woken him up if he was asleep-but she didn't. She'd had a Doomsday instinct about Renata all day long in the front of her mind. Action was worried that something terrible had happened-she'd gotten hurt, or she died. The girl never looked both ways before she crossed the street; she was constantly getting her foot stuck in the gap between the subway car and the station platform; in nearly every way, Renata Knox acted like a person who didn't have a mother. However, that was one of many things that Action loved about her. Renata was her best friend, the sister she never had; she was special. Their friendship couldn't be explained any easier than one could explain peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly. Why? Just because.

Action dialed Renata's cell phone number, praying she wasn't sleeping over at Watch Boy's new apartment on Seventy-third Street. The phone rang. Action stepped away from her cabin and closer to the bordering woods, despite the hoots of owls. She didn't want her girls to hear. The phone rang four, five, six times; then Renata's voice mail picked up. Hi! You've reached the voice mail of Renata Knox. Action grinned stupidly. Voice mail was still the old girl's voice, which Action hadn't heard in eight weeks. I can't answer my phone right now- Because I'm being held up at gunpoint, Action thought. But suddenly that didn't feel right. Because I'm cuddling up with Watch Boy. Yep, that was probably more like it.

Action cleared her throat; then after the beep, she whispered, "Hi, it's me." Action had never had a friend whom she could say those three words to. Before she met Renata, Action had never imagined having a Hi, it's me, friend; she never realized how important it was-to be recognized by another person, known instinctively, whether she was calling from down the street or the Tibetan Himalayas, whether she was calling from the woods of West Virginia or the D train. Action hoped that for the rest of their lives they would be each other's Hi, it's me. "I found a cell phone in the gra.s.s and I decided to break the first commandment of Camp Stoneface and call. I've been thinking of you all day. I hope you're all right. I have a funny vibe, like something is happening. Maybe you joined the circus today, maybe you found religion, but something is happening; I can feel it. Don't call me back. I'm about to turn this phone over to the authorities where it rightly belongs. So...write me a letter. Tell me you're all right. I'll be wait-" Action was cut off by the second beep. Renata always accused her of leaving the world's longest messages. Action thought to call back, to finish, but she had promised herself only one phone call.

I love you, she thought. Love you like rocks.

10:10 P.M.

In Room 477 of the Trauma Unit of Ma.s.sachusetts General Hospital, Sallie Myers opened her eyes.

Ohhhkay, she thought. Very strange.

She registered hospital, herself pinned to a bed, stuck in both arms and attached to machines that blinked and beeped; she noted a white curtain to her right, shielding her from someone else, or someone else from her. She tried not to panic, though she had no idea why she might be in a hospital. Think back, she told herself. Slowly. Carefully. But there was nothing.

She was afraid to move; she was afraid she would try and find herself unable. So she remained still, except for her eyes, which roamed the room, and thus it was that she discovered a figure huddled in a chair off to the left, at the edge of her field of vision. She turned her head. Her neck was stiff, but it worked. It was... Miles in the chair. He was asleep, snoring.

Ohhhhhkay, she thought. What did she do to deserve waking up in a hospital room with Miles? Miles, Miles. She was still drawing a blank.

A minute pa.s.sed, or maybe not a full minute but fifty or sixty beeps of the machine, which might have been counting the beats of her heart. Her heart was beating. Sallie figured she might as well try her arms. She turned her wrist. The right one moved just fine, but her left side felt fuzzy and not quite attached, like it was a prosthetic arm. Sallie gazed down. It was her arm. She touched it with her right hand. She could feel her own touch but she couldn't make the arm move.

At that second, some people walked in. There was a gasp from one of the people-a woman, Sallie's mother. Sallie's father followed right behind, and then a dark person, who towered over Sallie's parents like they were little children. Pierre. Pierre was here? Sallie couldn't recall ever seeing Pierre anywhere but at the bar.

Sallie's mother rushed to the side of the bed and took hold of Sallie's leaden arm. "You're awake!" she said. "The nurses told us it sounded like you were awake. They can tell from the way they monitor the machines out there."

Sallie's father clapped his hands in a rallying way. He was the head football coach at the University of Rhode Island. "I knew you'd snap out of it."

Pierre approached next, timidly. He was out of his element, away from the noise and the beer and the grime of the bar, away from his back office with the black leather couches and his computer where he played Tetris while the kids out front got smashed and slam-danced. "h.e.l.lo, gorgeous," he said.

Sallie turned her attention back to her mother, her beautiful mother, who taught cla.s.sical music at Moses Brown, who wore bifocals when she read a grocery list, who had fretted and worried so much over Sallie's three older brothers that she had been content to just let Sallie be. Bartending? Fine. Surfing? Good for you. A pontoon boat down the Amazon River? You only live once. Sallie's eyes filled with tears. She'd had a dream that her mother had died. In the dream, Sallie was driving down a dusty road and she spotted a white cross in the brush. She stopped, checked it out. The cross was for her mother. Sallie had screamed when she saw the cross, Wait! Mom, wait! I'm getting married!

"Honey?" Sallie's mother said. "How do you feel?"

"Confused," Sallie said. The cross hadn't been a dream. It was real. But how? Sallie's mother stood right in front of her. "What am I doing here?"

"You had a surfing accident on Nantucket," her father said. "You hit your head. They say you were underwater for a while."

"Just a little while," her mother said.

"And where am I now?"

"At Ma.s.s General. In Boston," her mother said. "Pierre called us. And your friend..." She nodded at the chair where Miles slept. "...was here when we arrived."

"Miles," Sallie said. It all came back to her like something that fell from the sky and landed in her lap. Miles picking her up at the house with the girl, Renata, who was the cutest, sweetest thing Sallie had ever seen. So innocent, so young, so clean. It was her mother the cross was for. She had knelt before it. Kissed it.

"The doctors say they expect you to be fine," Sallie's mother said. "You may feel stiff and numb for a while, but there's been no brain damage."

"Thank G.o.d for that!" Sallie's father said.

"You're going to be fine, doll," Pierre said.

"Did Renata come?" Sallie asked. "Did she come to the hospital with Miles?"

"Who?" Sallie's mother asked.

Sallie watched Miles snoring in the chair. Wake him up! she wanted to say. Ask him if Renata came! But Sallie knew the answer was no. After all, why would she?

10:25 P.M.

Ethan Arcain couldn't sleep. His wife, Emily, was dozing heavily beside him, her breathing deep and regular. His boys were asleep in their respective rooms; the house Ethan had built himself was solid and quiet. Out their open bedroom window Ethan could hear the occasional bleat of one of the goats. He and Emily had eaten grilled steaks for dinner with a fresh corn salsa and heirloom tomatoes drizzled with pesto. Such were the feasts when one lived on a vegetable farm. Ethan had drunk too much-he and Emily split a bottle of Shiraz from the Barossa Valley-and then he'd opened a second bottle to drink alone, despite Emily's warning eyebrows.

He hadn't been able to tell Emily about Marguerite coming to the farm that afternoon, despite Brandon announcing, "Dad introduced me to an old friend of his today."

Emily had been pulsing basil and garlic and pine nuts in the Cuisinart. "Oh yeah, who was it?"

Brandon conveniently chose that moment to leave the kitchen. "n.o.body," Ethan said. "Someone who used to come to the farm back in Dolores's day, when I was just a kid."

"Someone you had a crush on?" Emily said.

"Oh G.o.d, no," Ethan said. "Nothing like that."

He hadn't been able to tell Emily, and then he drank too much and now both things weighed on his mind. He had lived on Nantucket his whole life; lots of people knew his history: his parents' brutal split, his father's drinking. And yet no one brought home the guilt and the shame of being Walter Arcain's son like Marguerite.

You never had to carry his load. Marguerite said. But he did. Despite the fact that he had worked hard to create a decent, peaceful, productive life, he did.

It had happened during the first week of February. Ethan had graduated the year before from Penn State with a degree in agriculture; he had confessed to his mother that he was in love with her new husband's oldest daughter, Emily; he was working as a waiter at the Jared Coffin House to make money. He had a deal all worked out with Dolores Kimball; he was going to buy the farm from her when she retired. Everything was moving forward-not quickly, maybe, but in the right direction. And then, just before service for the weekly Rotary luncheon, Ethan's mother came into the dining room to say that Walter had killed someone and not just someone but Candace Harris Knox. She was jogging out in Madequecham; Walter was driving the company truck, drunk out of his mind.

To a young man who had helped put vegetables and flowers on the table at Les Parapluies since he was ten years old, Candace Harris Knox was a living legend. She was much older than Ethan but captivating nonetheless. The blond hair, the way she could run for miles without ever looking tired, the successful husband, the adorable young daughter. Candace was royalty on the island; she was a G.o.ddess among women, Ethan knew it just from the way she carried herself, just from the genuine ring of her laugh. And Walter Arcain, Ethan's father, had run her down like she was a frightened rabbit.

Ethan pulled the quilt up under his chin. He was freezing, and a headache was starting from the wine. When he rolled over, he checked the red numbers of the digital clock. Ten thirty. He figured Marguerite's dinner with Renata must be nearly over.

10:41 P.M.

Cade Driscoll was nothing if not disciplined. He was nothing if not obedient. And so, in the end, he suffered through the world's longest dinner-through lobster cracking, corn munching, and people talking just to cover up the obvious awkwardness of Renata's desertion. Then he endured dessert-blueberry pie with ice cream, coffee, and port. He sent mental pleas to his mother: Let the Robinsons go home! Set them free! But his mother seemed to feel that the longer the Robinsons stayed, the less likely it was that they would remember the night as a disaster. Finally, finally, at nearly eleven o'clock, Kent Robinson stood up and offered to get his wife's wrap. Good-byes were said. Claire kissed Cade on the mouth and said, "She wasn't good enough for you, anyway." As if she knew something Cade didn't.

As soon as the Robinsons' car pulled out of the driveway, Joe Driscoll excused himself for bed. When he shook Daniel Knox's hand he said, "Any chance you'll be up for sailing tomorrow?"

"Let's see how things go."

"Yes, yes," Joe said. "Let's." He grabbed Cade's elbow before going up, but he said nothing. Suzanne, in a moment of mercy, set her winegla.s.s on the lowboy and said, "I'll worry about cleaning up in the morning. Good night, all." And she followed Joe up the stairs.

Once his parents were gone, Cade turned to Daniel Knox. "How about you?"

"I'm a night owl," Daniel said. "I may sit on the deck for a while."

"Okay," Cade said. "Good night, then." He marched up the stairs, as if dutifully going to bed.

He had sneaked out of dinner, just for a minute, pretending to use the bathroom, and he'd called Marguerite's house, but he got no answer-the phone rang and rang. Then he called Renata's cell phone. Voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message. He wanted to believe Renata's disappearance had nothing to do with him per se. It was just a nineteen-year-old girl doing as she wished without thinking her actions through. She was upset with Cade for making her cancel dinner, and the whole thought of her father showing up freaked her out. So she bolted.

Cade pushed open the door to the guest room, thinking maybe she had left him a note. He turned on the light. He was looking for a piece of paper-and that was what drew his eyes to the list. He snapped it up, but seeing that it was just something in his mother's handwriting, he balled it up and threw it on the floor. He looked out on the deck, the deck where only the night before he and Renata had made love while his parents entertained friends below them. But the deck was deserted. Ditto the bathroom. It wasn't until Cade was ready to leave the guest room-and, quite possibly, make a surrept.i.tious run over to Quince Street-that he noticed the ring. It was right on top of the dresser, as obvious as the nose on his face, so maybe he had seen it a minute ago and just not admitted it to himself.

He picked up the ring, squeezed it in his palm, and sat on the bed. Renata. He thought he might cry for the first time since who knew when. People had said he was crazy to propose to a nineteen-year-old girl. She's too young-his own parents had warned him of that-she hasn't had time to get started, much less be finished. And then there was Claire's parting shot: She wasn't good enough for you, anyway. Claire was jealous-either that or she suspected Renata had been indiscreet with Miles, which was, Cade had to admit to himself, entirely possible. Even so, Cade loved Renata fiercely. Yes, she was young, but she was going to grow into an amazing woman, and he wanted to be there for that.

He rocked back and forth on the bed. She didn't want him. Cade had the urge to knock on his parents' bedroom door and, like a three-year-old, crawl into their bed, have his mother smooth his hair, have his father chuck him under the chin. But his parents weren't like that; they weren't nurturing. They had given him every possible advantage and they expected him, now, to make his own way. He would have better luck seeking comfort from Daniel Knox. Yes, Cade thought, he would go down, pour himself a scotch, and confide in the man who might have been his father-in-law. Daniel knew Renata better than anyone. Maybe he could tell Cade something that would make him understand.

Cade walked down the hall, past the west guest room, in case Daniel had come upstairs. But the door to the west guest room was open; the room was dark and empty. Cade stumbled down the back stairs into the kitchen-it had been cleaned by somebody, Nicole probably-and into the living room. Empty. Cade walked out onto the deck. The table had been cleared, the tiki torches extinguished. The deck was deserted. Cade gazed out at the small front lawn, and down farther to the beach.

"Daniel?" Cade whispered into the darkness.

But he was gone.

11:00 P.M.

At eleven o'clock, with the old clock's grand recital of the hour, its eleven ominous bongs, Marguerite brought out dessert. Two pots de creme, topped with freshly whipped cream and garnished with raspberries. Renata was fading; Marguerite could see it in the way her pretty shoulders were sagging now, her eyes staring blankly at her own reflection in the dark window. Marguerite set the ramekins down with a flourish. This was it. There was no more champagne to pour. Nothing left to do but tell her. Marguerite's heart hammered away. For years she had imagined this moment, the great confession. Many times Marguerite had considered going to a priest. She would sit in the little booth, face-to-face with the padre, and confess her sins-then allow the priest to touch her head and grant her absolution. But it would have made no difference. Marguerite knew that G.o.d forgave her; his forgiveness didn't matter. Forgiveness from the girl in front of her, Candace's child, that did matter.

Marguerite had imagined this moment, yes, but she still couldn't believe it was about to happen. Her chest felt tight, like someone was squeezing her windpipe. Heart, lungs-her body was trying to stop her.

"I'd like to talk to you about your mother's death," she said.

"You don't have to tell me," Renata said. "You don't have to say anything else."

"I'd like to anyway. Okay?"

"Okay."

"A couple of years after you were born, your parents bought the house in Dobbs Ferry. They wanted a place to spend the winter. Your father thought maybe Colorado, but your mother wanted to be close to the city. She loved New York, and Porter was there. She wanted to put you in a good school; she wanted to be able to take you to the museums and the zoo. It made sense."