"Really? Thanks for the tip. I must get some takeout and try it one night. Alone."

She hung up.

The next morning, Michael De Vere showed up on the doorstep at Pilgrim Farm.

"I brought you a present."

He thrust a neatly wrapped package into Summer Meyer's hands.

She opened it. It was a cookbook.

Meals for One.

"How thoughtful." She tried not to laugh but it was impossible.

"I am very thoughtful," said Michael. "How's the heartbreak coming along?"

"Slowly."

"Wanna speed it up?"

"Good-bye, Michael. Thanks for the book."

At two o'clock the next morning, Summer was roused from a deep sleep by a sharp rap on her bedroom window. Staggering out of bed, she opened it, narrowly missing being hit in the face by a pebble.

"What are you doing?" She rubbed her eyes blearily.

Michael grinned up at her in the moonlight. "Trying to get your attention. Is it working?"

"No."

"I brought a guitar."

"You did not."

"Would you like me to serenade you?"

"No! I'd like you to go home, you lunatic. It's the middle of the night."

"All right. I won't sing, if you agree to have dinner with me."

"Michael, we've been through this."

"You can cook dinner for one and I'll eat half."

"I'm in love with someone else!"

"I know. Chad Bates. Your mother told me."

"Well then."

"Well then, what? You broke up. I know Barry Manilow, you know." Michael shook his guitar mock-threateningly. "And I'm not afraid to use him."

Summer burst out laughing. "My God. You don't take no for an answer, do you?"

"It's a family trait."

"Fine. I'll have dinner with you. But as an old friend, nothing more. Now for heaven's sake go home and let me get some sleep."

Michael De Vere went home. But Summer Meyer didn't sleep. She lay awake thinking about Chad, Chad whom she'd loved so hard for so long and whom she really believed she was going to marry until he'd told her back in May that he "needed space" and never called her again. Chad was serious and cerebral and a genius. Chad was going to be an important journalist one day.

Then she thought about Michael, in his leather bomber jacket with that ridiculous guitar slung over his shoulder, Martha's Vineyard's answer to John Mayer. Michael was sexy and immature and impulsive. Michael had given up Oxford to become a professional partier.

There's your answer, Summer told herself. Michael De Vere is not the sort of man I need in my life.

Absolutely, categorically not.

"I wrote you a poem."

They were having dinner, not at Marco's but at a little, nondescript cafe by Eastville Point Beach. Summer had finished a delicious burger and fries, washed down with two Sam Adams, and was just starting to relax about the evening (Of course, two old friends can have dinner together. It doesn't have to be a big deal) when Michael pulled the envelope out of his pocket.

Summer's face fell. "A poem? I thought we agreed. I meant it when I said I'm not ready to start dating again. And even if I were, I'm not really a poetry sort of girl."

"How do you know? You haven't read it yet."

Summer opened the envelope and read aloud.

"There once was a loser named Bates.

Who danced the fandango on skates.

But a fall on his cutlass Has rendered him nutless, And practically useless on dates."

Summer grinned. "Very romantic."

"You like that?" Michael smiled back. "I made up a whole bunch of limericks, but I thought that was the best. He never deserved you, you know."

"How would you know? You never even met him!"

"I know, but come on: Chad. What kind of a name is that?"

"It's a perfectly normal name."

"Let's be honest, it's not a name one can imagine screaming in ecstasy, is it? 'Chad! Oh, Chad! Harder Chad!'"

"Stop!" Summer feigned indignation. "I suppose 'Michael' would sound so much better, wouldn't it?"

"Naturally. It just rolls off the tongue. I'll show you later if you like."

Summer cocked her head to one side and studied him closely. In faded brown Abercrombie shorts, flip-flops, and a Balliol Boat Club T-shirt, with his Hamptons tan and dark curly hair grown out, rocker-style, Michael looked even more handsome than usual. Ever since he was a kid, he'd been beautiful. But was there any substance behind the pretty face?

"I had the biggest crush on you when I was little."

"I had an inkling," said Michael.

"This is the part where you're supposed to say you always liked me too," Summer teased him. "Didn't you?"

"The thing is . . ." Michael swirled the beer around the bottom of his bottle thoughtfully. "You weren't that little."

"Hey!"

"No, really. You were absolutely enormous."

Summer picked up a piece of bread from the basket between them and threw it at him. "That's not very gentlemanly!"

"It's true, though." He laughed. "You were massive, and you never said anything. You just stared at me, like a hippo about to charge. Scared the shit out of me, if you must know."

It was pretty much the rudest thing anyone had ever said to her, but somehow, coming from Michael, it was funny.

"How did you lose the weight?"

"I ate less."

"Good strategy."

"Thanks." They both smiled. "I don't know," said Summer. "I got happier, I guess."

"You know what's funny?" said Michael, finishing his beer and ordering another.

The fact that I'm supposed to be heartbroken, but at this moment I feel totally happy?

The fact that I know you're a player and you're full of shit, but I still want to go to bed with you?

"No. What?"

"I've known you since you were five years old. But I don't really know you at all."

Reaching across the table, Michael touched Summer's hand, flipping it over and slowly caressing the inside of her wrist with his thumb. Chad Bates had never done that. Summer felt the blood rush to her groin like it had a plane to catch.

Michael grinned. "Let's go to bed."

"What are you thinking?"

Teddy De Vere looked over at his wife. In the moon's half-light, Alexia's skin looked flawless, like it used to when they were courting. The night's shadows had erased the wrinkles and age spots, leaving nothing but the beautiful profile he remembered: strong jaw, long, aquiline nose, high brow. Alexia was nearly sixty, but she was still a sensual, desirable woman, at least in Teddy's eyes. He had loved her for most of his adult life, and she had changed his life, completely. If he could choose only one word to describe her, it would be strength. The beauty of Alexia's strength was, it was contagious. She had made him strong. Teddy loved her for that.

The De Veres were having dinner on the deck at the Gables, just the two of them. A crescent moon hung in a star-flooded sky, and bullfrogs croaked sleepily from the pond at the bottom of the property. The guesthouse lights were still on, but neither of the children was home. Roxie was having supper with a friend, a rare occurrence indeed these days, and Michael was somewhere with Summer Meyer. Ever since Lucy and Arnie's dinner party Michael had been following the Meyer girl around like a lost puppy. Though it pained Teddy to admit it, it was rather sweet. He couldn't remember ever seeing his son so besotted, unless you counted Michael's infant crush on his mother.

Alexia let out a long sigh.

Teddy asked, "What was that for? Something on your mind?"

"No, not really. I was just thinking how lovely it is here. How peaceful."

She was right. It was a perfect Martha's Vineyard night, warm, the air slightly sticky and sweet with the scents of roses and violets and lavender, competing with the succulent aroma of lemon-garlic chicken wafting out through the kitchen window. Even so, Teddy sensed that Alexia was only half in the present.

"You're worrying. I can tell. What is it, my darling?"

Cupping her glass of Pellegrino in both hands, Alexia drew her knees up to her chest. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to me."

"If I tell you, do you promise not to overreact?"

"I'll do my best. What is it, Alexia?"

"Do you remember that man who came to the gates at Kingsmere, the night after I was elected?"

"Dimly. I remember you left the table. But didn't you say it was nothing?"

"It was nothing. It probably still is nothing."

Teddy raised an eyebrow. "Probably?"

"I didn't tell you, but a few weeks ago in London, I saw him again. The same man."

"But . . . you never saw him. I remember now. He'd gone by the time you got to the gate, and the camera wasn't working."

"It was working," Alexia said sheepishly. "I lied because I didn't want to worry you."

"For God's sake, Alexia. I'm not a child. I want to know these things."

"I know. I'm sorry. Anyway, I gave the footage to the police and they found out who it was."

"Well? Who was it?"

"An American. He's an ex-con with a history of mental illness."

"Jesus Christ."

"It's not as bad as it sounds. He's not violent or anything. But the thing is, he turned up again. In Parliament Square, a couple of weeks before the summer recess. He grabbed me as I was getting out of the car with Edward. We-"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on." Teddy sat up. "He grabbed you? What do you mean? Did he hurt you?"

"No. I was shocked, but no."

Teddy absorbed this information. He hated it when Alexia kept secrets from him, especially secrets like this. It was his job to protect her. His duty. He felt completely emasculated.

"Where were the police when all this happened? Your so-called security?"