Quite a blow? Was he talking about Marguerite, Renata, the dinner? This dinner should have taken place years ago; it would have, Marguerite was sure, if it weren't for Dan. The girl wants to find out the truth about her mother. And can we blame her? Dan had kept Renata away from Marguerite-from Nantucket altogether-for fourteen years. Marguerite couldn't scorn his parenting skills because anyone with one good eye could see he'd done a brilliant job just by the way Renata had turned out, all her accomplishments, and Dan had done it single-handedly. But Marguerite suspected-in fact she was certain-that on the subject of Marguerite, Porter, and Les Parapluies, Daniel Knox had been all but mute. Curt, dismissive, disparaging. It's nothing a girl your age needs to know. Except now the girl was becoming a woman and it was difficult to complete that journey without a clear image of one's own mother. There were photographs, of course. And Dan's memories, which would have been idealized for the sake of his daughter. Candace had been presented to Renata as angel food cake-sweet, bland, insubstantial, without any deviling or spice or zing.

"Renata's coming to me tonight," Marguerite said. "Is that what you mean?"

"No," he said. "No, not that. I knew she'd come to you. I knew it the second she said she was off to Nantucket."

"You didn't forbid her?" Marguerite said.

"I advised her against it," Dan said. "I didn't want her to bother you."

"Ha!" Marguerite said, and just like a clean slice through the tip of her finger with a sharp knife, she felt anger. Daniel Knox was a coward. He was too much of a coward to tell his own daughter the truth. "You hate me."

"I do not hate you, Margo."

"You do so. You're just not man enough to admit it."

"I do not hate you."

"You do so."

"I do not. And listen to us. We sound like children."

"You resent me," Marguerite said. It felt marvelous to be speaking aloud like this. For years Marguerite had dreamed of confronting Daniel Knox; for years his words had festered, hot and liquid, inside of her. All you got in the end was her pity. She pitied you, Margo. With time, however, Marguerite's convictions desiccated like the inside of a gourd; they rattled like old seeds. But now! "You've always resented me. And you're afraid of me. You want Renata to be afraid of me. You told her I was a witch. As a child, to scare her. You told her I was insane."

"I did no such thing."

"Oh, Daniel."

"Oh, Margo," he said. "I admit, it's complicated. What happened, our history. I asked her not to contact you, but she did anyway. So you won. You should be happy."

"Happy?" Marguerite said. Though secretly she thought, Yes, I am happy.

"Anyway," he said. "That wasn't why I called. I called because I need your help."

"My help?" Marguerite said. And then she thought, Of course. He never would have called unless he needed something.

"Renata phoned me a little while ago," Dan said. "She told me she was coming to you, and then she told me about the boy."

"The boy?"

"You don't know? She says she's getting married."

Ah, yes. The fiance. Hulbert Avenue. "You just found out?" Marguerite said.

"This morning."

"I wondered when she said 'fiance.' I wondered about you."

"I can't allow it."

"Well..." Marguerite saw where this was headed. Dan wanted Marguerite to be his mouthpiece. Talk her out of it. Explain how hasty, how naive, how reckless, she's being. As if Marguerite had any influence. If she did have influence, would she waste it talking about the fiance? "She's an adult, Dan."

"She's a teenager."

"Legally, she could go to the Town Building on Monday and get married by a justice of the peace."

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line. "I can't allow that to happen, Margo. I will get on a plane to come up there right now. If she marries him, it'll last a year, or five, and then she'll be the ripe old age of twenty-four and maybe she'll have a child or two and then-you know it as well as I do-something will happen that makes her see she missed out on the most exciting time of her life. She'll want to ride elephants in Cambodia or join the Peace Corps or go to culinary school. She'll meet someone else."

"She's in love," Marguerite said. "Some people who fall in love get married." She spoke ironically, thinking of herself and Porter. Some people fall in love and dance around each other for years and years, until one partner tires, or dances away.

"If he's knocked her up, I'll kill him," Dan said.

"She didn't sound like she was in that kind of trouble," Marguerite said. "She sounded blissful."

"Nineteen is too young to get married," Dan said. "It should be illegal to get married before you've traveled on at least three continents, had four lovers, and held down a serious job. It should be illegal to get married before you've had your wisdom teeth out, owned your own car, cooked your first Thanksgiving turkey. She has so many experiences ahead of her. I didn't spend all that time and energy-fourteen years, Margo, every single day-to stand by and let her ruin her life this way. Marry some spoiled kid she's known less than a year. If Candace were here, she'd-"

"Talk her out of it," Marguerite said.

"Flip," Dan said at the same time.

Marguerite cleared her throat. "If Candace were here, Renata wouldn't be getting married."

"Right," he said softly. "She's getting married to escape me."

"She's getting married because she thinks it will fill the empty s.p.a.ce she has inside of her."

"It won't," Dan said. "That s.p.a.ce is there forever."

"I know it as well as you do," Marguerite said. "Don't I?"

They were both silent for a second, thinking of the whistling gaps a person leaves behind when she dies, and how natural it would be for someone young and optimistic like Renata to believe that this hole could be filled with a substance as magical and exciting as romantic love.

The receiver slipped in Marguerite's hand. The bedroom was hot; she was sweating. She had so much to do, and yet she couldn't make herself hang up. You always made her feel like she owed you something. Dan blamed Marguerite for Candace's death and she accepted that blame; she had tried for years to wash the blood from her hands. Now he was asking her for help. Save my daughter. Marguerite wished she could. But the fact of the matter was, she had one person to save tonight and that was herself.

"It might work out just fine," Marguerite said. "Plenty of people who get married young stay married. Some do, anyway. You've met the boy?"

"Yes," Dan said. "He's not good enough for her. But he thinks he is. That's what really gets me. He thinks he is."

"For you, though," Marguerite said, "n.o.body would be good enough."

"I'm not going to argue with you, Margo," Dan said. "I'm just going to ask you for your help. Will you help me?"

"I don't think I can."

"Will you try?"

"I'll ask her about him," Marguerite said. "See where she is, how she's feeling, why she wants to make so serious a decision. I would have done that even without this call. I want to know her, Dan. You've kept her from me."

"I wanted to keep her life simple. Knowing a bunch of stuff about the past won't help her, Margo. Her mother is dead. That's a fact she's had to deal with her whole life. How she died, why she died-knowing those things will only confuse her."

"Confuse her?"

"You want to confess everything to make yourself feel better," Dan said. "You aren't thinking of Renata."

"Aren't I?"

"No."

"Well, now it sounds like you're arguing with me. I have things to say to the girl and I'm going to say them. After fourteen years, I deserve to have a turn."

"Fine," Dan said. "I'm asking you to think of her. And to be careful. That's all I can do." He was quiet for a moment, and against her wishes Marguerite had a vision of Dan's face, contorted with anger, grabbing the child from her arms. She pitied you, Margo. The child had turned back to Marguerite, reached out for her. Those pink overalls. Marguerite shook her head. A guttural noise escaped her throat. Daniel said, "She's coming to you because she thinks you have the answers. You're like Mata Hari to her, Margo. She's going to listen to what you say."

"I hope so," Marguerite said. Her voice was very soft, so soft she knew Dan wouldn't hear. "I hope so."

Dead noon The wind whipped Renata's hair into her face as she roared down Milestone Road in Miles's convertible Saab. She could never have predicted that defiance would be this fun. Pure defiance! She'd left the Driscoll house without a note, and she did not bring her cell phone. No one knew where she was, who she was with, or how to get ahold of her, no one except for Miles, who was so capable and self-a.s.sured it was making her dizzy. He had grabbed a twelve-pack of beer from his apartment over the Driscolls' garage, and now they were driving too fast in the midday sun. Renata unbuckled her seat belt and eased the seat into recline position. She wore only her bikini and a little skirt. Miles glanced over at her and she wondered what he was thinking. Did he like what he saw, or did he think she was being obvious and silly? Renata saw his eyes catch on her diamond ring. She was engaged. Did this make her more desirable to him or less so? She wanted to believe it made her more desirable; a girl of nineteen who was already engaged must be the most desirable woman on earth.

It was too loud for conversation, and that was for the best. If they had talked-about Miles's job, the Driscolls, Cade-Renata's guilt would seize her like a fever and make her sick. As it was, they were two actors in a silent movie. Two kids on a summer day headed for the beach.

Miles. .h.i.t the brake, hard. Renata gripped the sides of the seat. Police? He downshifted, hit his turn signal, and whipped a right so tight that Renata pictured the car tilting, turning on only its right tires. Screech. She sat up, readjusted the seat, buckled her seat belt. An airplane took off right over them.

"This is the way to Madequecham?" she said.

"We're picking up a friend."

Renata smiled mildly, as her spirits plopped at her feet. He hadn't said anything about a friend when he invited her, or when they left. It felt like a deception. She had thought they were going alone. This was probably better; Renata could only imagine what Cade and Suzanne Driscoll would say if they found out Renata had disappeared with Miles alone.

Miles headed down the road toward the airport. The planes were so low in the sky, Renata could see their pale underbellies; she could taste the fumes. To her and Miles's left was a ma.s.sive storage facility, some baseball fields, a lot of construction machines.

"I didn't know anybody lived out here."

"Not everyone on Nantucket is rich," Miles said. "Some of us have to work."

"Right," Renata said. "Sorry."

"No need to be sorry," Miles said. "I can tell you're just an innocent bystander to the great spectacle of the Driscolls' wealth."

"Not so innocent today," Renata said.

"No?" Miles said. He gave her a sneaky sideways look and grabbed her leg with two fingers, right above the knee. She yelped and started laughing. She felt like something was going to happen, and she tried to quell her exhilaration. She turned her diamond ring so that it caught the rays of the sun. Cade, she thought. Cade, Cade, Cade.

Miles slowed down and turned onto a b.u.mpy dirt road bordered on both sides by scrub pines. A mosquito bit Renata's arm, then her neck.

"Where are we going?" she said. "I'm getting eaten alive."

"Almost there," he said.

Another fifty yards down, he turned into a gravel driveway. There was a small gray-shingled cottage with two dormer windows. The front door was painted a very feminine pink, and the window boxes were planted with spindly pink geraniums. The front lawn had just been mowed; it was s.h.a.ggy with dried clippings and littered with big-kid toys: two mountain bikes on their sides, a white surfboard, a brilliantly colored box kite. Miles honked the horn. A few seconds later, the pink door opened and a girl came out. Renata thought girl, but really she was a woman. She was striking-tall, slender, with long auburn hair cut in angles around her face. She wore a black bikini top and black and pink board shorts. She had a dark green tattoo around her right ankle, silver rings on her toes; a tiny round mirror dangled in her pierced navel. She picked up the surfboard as she walked toward the car. Renata was stunned. He had said friend and she had thought male, not female, not a queen bee like this.

"Hey," Queen Bee said, in a s.e.xy-scratchy voice. She was smiling at Miles. Renata felt invisible. This was not better at all. This was awful, a travesty. Ten minutes ago, Renata was perched on a decadent mountaintop, as self-satisfied as she'd ever been in her young life. Then boom, just like that: eclipsed.

Miles turned to Renata. "Can you climb in back?"

"Huh?" Renata said. He was asking her to move? "Sure," she said, fumbling with her seat belt, trying to keep dismay from painting itself on her hot cheeks. As she crawled between the seats, her bag snagged on the gearshift and her tiny skirt hiked up, revealing her backside. She was making an a.s.s of herself quite literally, while Queen Bee waited with an expression somewhere between amused and impatient.

Renata settled into the very cramped backseat. It was so tight that she had to sit on the right side of the seat and put her feet on the left side. There was no seat belt even if she'd wanted one, and to make matters worse, Miles used his backseat as a trash can-there were crumpled Dorito bags, empty CD cases, and lots of sand.

"Here comes the board," Queen Bee said. It seemed she was addressing Renata because suddenly the fin side of the surfboard was shoved into her face. What was she supposed to do with it? There was no room.

"There's no room," Renata squeaked.

"Like this," Miles said, and he balanced one end of the surfboard on top of the windshield and the other end on the back trunk. It sliced right through the backseat, making it impossible for Renata to see Miles, or her own feet. She could turn a few inches to the right to see outside of the car, or she could stare straight ahead at the back of Queen Bee's auburn head. "Now hold on to it."

"Yes, hold on to it," Queen Bee said, as if that were the reason Renata had been invited along: to hold the surfboard.

"I'm Renata," Renata said, thinking that maybe an introduction would make this situation more bearable, but as she spoke, Miles turned the radio up full blast for an old Sublime hip-hop anthem and backed out of the driveway. Renata's words were left behind, overturned in the yard, like the bikes.

This was, she thought a minute later when they were back on the Milestone Road rocketing along at unsafe speeds, a bed of her own making. No sooner had she digressed from her proscribed course than punishment was meted out. She should be at the yacht club picking at a BLT while Suzanne Driscoll stopped every other pa.s.serby to introduce Renata. ("Cade's new fiancee...we're so excited!") She should be with Cade, holding hands, whispering, instead of here, trying to keep a ten-foot surfboard from becoming a projectile missile and decapitating the people in the Audi TT behind them. Up front, Miles and Queen Bee were chatting easily-Renata could hear them talking, though she couldn't make out a single word they said. She ached for Action, who would have handled Queen Bee and Miles in just the right way. For one thing, Action would never have agreed to climb into the backseat. Where do you think we are, Alabama 1961? She might even have asked Queen Bee, right off, if she dyed her hair. Action would, however, be proud of Renata for escaping Hulbert Avenue. Vitamin Sea, bah! And yet Renata could not cultivate this devil-may-care att.i.tude. Each minute at celestial speed on this road was taking her further and further from where she was supposed to be. She was at Miles's mercy; she was at the mercy of her own idiotic decision. With her free hand she reacquainted herself with the contents of her bag. No money, no phone, no lotion, no bottled water. No brain, she thought. No common f.u.c.king sense. All she had brought was a towel, her sungla.s.ses, her book, and Suzanne's list, which was crumpled into a little ball. Renata was captive, a hostage, stranded with two people she didn't know. What was Miles's last name? She had no idea.

He slammed on the brake again and took another turn at breathtaking speed. Renata held on to the surfboard, but she was no match for the forces at work. It's going to fall, she thought. She didn't care. Queen Bee's hair was flying backward, stinging Renata between the eyes. Miles let out a whoop and Queen Bee grabbed the front of the surfboard, her slender arms tensing, revealing taut, toned muscles. Renata was mesmerized by the arms and by the side of Queen Bee's breast, perfectly round and pale and smooth. Renata didn't see the surfboard swing back. It smacked her in the jaw.

Renata yowled. Pain, mixed with rude, rude surprise. Her jaw was broken; it felt like her back teeth had been jarred loose. Renata's vision was blurred by tears. She let them fall. What did those two care if she cried? They wouldn't even notice.

They were driving down another dirt road; each rut and b.u.mp stabbed at Renata's jaw.

"Slow down!" she called out. She tasted blood.

Miles sped up; they careened down a road that was ridged like a washboard. Renata panicked. She wanted to escape, but she would never be able to make it back to Vitamin Sea by herself; now she wasn't even sure which direction they had come from. She could hitchhike maybe, pray for some kind person who might deliver her to the Nantucket Yacht Club by twelve thirty. But as they rumbled farther and farther from the main road, Renata's hopes plummeted. The sun burned her shoulders; she hadn't thought to put on lotion. This was awful; this was h.e.l.l.

And then, for some reason, Miles slowed down. Queen Bee said something; she was pointing. Something on the side of the road. An animal? Renata looked out. A white cross stuck out of the low brush. Renata's jaw pulsed.

"Look," Queen Bee said. "Someone died right there. I think it's so morbid, those crosses, don't you?"

"Stop!" Renata said. She wedged an arm under the surfboard and managed to make contact with Miles's shoulder. "Stop the car!"

He hit the brake. Dust enveloped the car. "What?"

"Stop," Renata said. "I'm getting out."

"What?" he said.

Renata extricated herself from the backseat. Dust coated the inside of her mouth. She hopped down onto the road and walked back to the cross, watching her feet as she went. Her toenails, painted "Shanghai sunset," became filmed with dust.

It was just a white cross, just two pieces of wood nailed together; the paint was peeling. Renata stared at it. Was this it? The marker for her mother? There was a grave in New York, a large, simple granite stone that said: Candace Harris Knox, 19551992, Wife, mother, friend. Renata's father put flowers on the grave every week; he took a pumpkin in the fall, a wreath at Christmas. But this cross spoke more loudly to Renata. It screamed, Here! Here, on a pocked and rutted dirt road, among blueberry bushes, brambles, and Spanish olives. Here is where it happened. Candace was. .h.i.t, in February of 1992: It was icy; the electric company truck had been going too fast; the driver had been drunk at ten o'clock in the morning. Candace had slipped, or the truck had skidded; it had never been made clear to Renata what had happened. But now at least, she knew where it had happened. If this was indeed a cross for Candace. Renata supposed there might have been other deaths out here; it was impossible to tell if the cross had been there fourteen years or two years, or forty years. There was no writing on it, no hint or clue, except for Renata's intuition. This was it. Would Marguerite know for sure? Would Daniel?

"What are you doing?" Miles called out. "Come on; we're going."

"You guys go," Renata said.

"What?" Miles said. "You have to stay with me. If you get lost or whatever, the Driscolls will kill me."