“Hel o?”

Melanie wasn’t worried about cal er ID since she was using Brenda’s phone. She hung on for a minute, listening for Peter. Was he there? What she heard was a dog barking (Frances Digitt had a chocolate Lab) and what sounded like the basebal game on TV. Dog, basebal . Of course. The irony of the situation was that Frances Digitt was not a woman who had ever threatened Melanie, or any of the other wives at Rutter, Higgens; she was the opposite of a bombshel . She was the girl who beat the boys in races in gym class, the one the boys forgot come seventh grade when al the other girls developed breasts. Frances was smal and boyish. She was, Melanie reflected, the only kind of woman who could survive the locker-room miasma of Peter’s office: She was the little sister, but smart as a whip, she knew the market, she did her research, she organized the office footbal pool and the brackets for March Madness. Everyone assumed she was a lesbian, but Melanie had seen it al along—she was too cute to be a lesbian! She had a certain recklessness that might translate to her being a dynamo in bed. It made Melanie sick just to think about it. She hung up, then pressed Brenda’s phone to her pounding heart. She dialed Frances Digitt’s number again.

“Hel o?” Now Frances Digitt sounded irked, and Melanie thought, You have no right to sound irked. If anyone should sound irked here, it’s me.

Thus prodded, she said, “Is Peter there?” It was more a question than a request for his presence on the phone, and Frances, predictably, paused. No need to ask who was cal ing, no need to play games, or so Frances ultimately decided, because she said, “Yes. He is.” She set the phone down a bit too firmly on what Melanie pictured as her cheap, shoddily assembled plastic-laminate-over-plywood side table from IKEA.

People in their twenties had no taste.

“Hel o?” Peter said, sounding wary.

“It’s me,” Melanie said. And then, in case he stil didn’t get it, she said, “Melanie.”

“Hi,” Peter said—and this was the syl able that squashed Melanie’s heart once and for al . He sounded uninspired, uninterested; he sounded caught. Melanie felt like his truant officer, his Sunday school teacher, his dentist.

“I’m on Nantucket,” she said.

“I know.”

“For the whole summer.”

“So the note said.”

“Do you want me to come home?” she asked.

“What kind of question is that?” Peter said.

It was the only question that mattered. She had left because she wanted time to think, but as it turned out, al she could think about was Peter.

She had wanted to get away, but now that she was away she wanted, more than anything, to be home. I’m pregnant, she thought. You have a child in this world and you don’t even know it. Keeping this from Peter was cruel, but was it any worse than what Peter was doing?

No! He was at Frances’s apartment. They were fucking! Melanie felt sick. She was going to . . .

“I have to hang up,” she said.

“Okay,” he said.

Melanie stared at the dead phone. She retched into the plastic-lined trash can at the side of her bed. Nothing came up. She was vomiting bad air, her own sadness, Peter’s rejection. Out in the living room, Brenda and Vicki were stil fighting. Something about a babysitter. Something about Brenda’s screenplay, a total sham, then something about their parents, that’s the way things always are with you! Then Melanie heard her name, or rather, what she heard was the absence of her name: a repeated “she,” a repeated “her.” It was Brenda in a stage whisper: You want her to take care of the kids and look what happened! I understand she has shit to deal with, but we all do. You’re sick! I refuse to spend the summer accommodating her! I just don’t get it! She’s one more person to take care of! Did you think of that before you invited her along? Did you?

Melanie staggered to her feet and began tossing her belongings into her suitcase. She was going home. It had been an impulsive decision to come, and now she realized that it was a mistake.

She tiptoed to the bathroom for her toothbrush. They were stil at it. It would be better for Brenda and Vicki to spend the summer alone, working through their issues. Melanie didn’t have a sister; she knew nothing about it, but it seemed like hard work.

Everything fit into her suitcase except for her straw hat. It was mangled from when she’d stepped on it at the beach, and she was tempted to leave it behind. It was a present from Peter last spring on her birthday; it was wide-brimmed and old-fashioned, but she loved it. It was her gardening hat. She put it on, tying the satin ribbon under her chin, then zipped her suitcase and looked around the room. This room was witness to her startling decision. She would go home and confront Peter in person. She would tel him she wanted an abortion.

She slipped into the living room. Brenda and Vicki were gone. Melanie heard them somewhere. Out back. One of them was in the outdoor shower. They were stil arguing. Before Melanie walked out the front door, she scribbled a note and left it on the kitchen table: Call John Walsh!

Strangely, John Walsh was the only person Melanie felt responsible to. She would cal Vicki later, once she was safely home and there was no chance of Vicki talking her into staying.

Melanie extended the handle of her suitcase and tried to rol it down the shel -lined street. Shel s caught in the wheels, and the suitcase jerked to a stop. She decided it would be easier to carry the suitcase, though it was heavy and she bent to one side in a way that couldn’t have been good for the baby. Abortion, she thought. After al she’d been through. Seven times her hopes had been dashed at the sight of her own blood. Seven times she had failed; success had come unbidden, when she no longer wanted it.

She made it to the rotary, where she found a cab waiting. Thank God! She climbed in and said, “Airport, please.”

It was Sunday at five o’clock, and every plane back to New York was booked and overbooked. When it was Melanie’s turn in line, she pushed her ticket across the counter, her spirits temporarily buoyed by the business of getting home—until the woman working the US Airways desk pushed the ticket right back.

“We have nothing tonight,” she said. “And nothing tomorrow until three o’clock. I’m sorry.”

“I’m happy to pay the change fee,” Melanie said. “Or go standby, in case someone doesn’t show.”

The woman held up a piece of paper crowded with names. “This is the waiting list. You’d be number one sixty-seven.”

Melanie stuffed her ticket into her purse and dragged her suitcase to a bench. The predictable thing would be for her to cry. She was about to start down that hackneyed road when she noticed someone walking toward her. A kid in a fluorescent orange vest. The one who had offered her first aid when she fel down the stairs. She smiled at him. He came right over.

“Hi,” he said. He grinned. “Did you have a nice trip?”

“Very nice,” Melanie said.

“That was a joke,” he said. “‘Trip,’ you know? Because you fel down.”

Melanie felt her cheeks burning. “Right,” she said. “Wel , as it turned out, that wasn’t the stupidest thing I did this weekend.”

The kid tugged at his vest and scuffed at the floor with his sneaker. “I didn’t mean you were stupid,” he said. “I was just trying to . . .”

“It’s okay,” Melanie said. She touched her elbow. It was stil tender, and yet with al that had happened, she had forgotten about it. “I’m Melanie, by the way.”

“Josh Flynn,” he said. He looked at her suitcase. “Are you leaving tonight? You just got here.”

“I was supposed to stay longer,” Melanie said. “But I have to get home.”

“That’s too bad,” Josh said. “Where do you live?”

“Connecticut,” she said. “But, as it turns out, I can’t get a plane tonight. They’re al sold out. I was just gathering my wits before I grabbed a taxi back to the place I’m staying.”

“You’re in ’Sconset, right?” Josh said. “I can take you home. I just finished my shift.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Melanie said. “I’l take a cab.”

“It’s no problem for me to give you a ride,” Josh said. “I even know which house. I was there yesterday to drop off a briefcase.”

“Right,” Melanie said. She eyed her luggage. She was so devoid of energy, she wasn’t sure if she could even get herself to the curb. “I hate to impose.”

“It’s on my way home,” Josh said. He picked up her suitcase. “Please. I insist.”

Melanie fol owed him out to the parking lot, where he threw her luggage in the back of his Jeep. The Jeep had an inch of sand on the floor, and the passenger side was strewn with CDs. Melanie slid into the seat, stacking the CDs in her lap. Dispatch, Offspring, Afroman. She had never even heard of these bands. She felt old enough to be his mother.

“Sorry the car is such a mess,” Josh said. “I didn’t know I’d have female companionship.”

Melanie blushed and straightened the edges of the CDs so that they made a perfect cube. Female companionship? She felt like a hooker. Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Her straw hat made her look like the Farmer in the Del ; it made her look like Minnie Pearl or some other character from Hee Haw. She took off the hat and set it in her lap as Josh buckled himself in, swiped at the dust on the dashboard, and turned down the radio. He stretched his arm over to Melanie’s seat as he craned his neck to check behind him before backing out. His hand was resting an inch or so above her head. She could smel him. He was very handsome— hot, someone younger would have said—but he was just a child. How old?

she wondered.

“Do you live here?” she asked.

“Born and raised,” he said. “But I go to col ege. Middlebury, in Vermont.”

“Good school,” Melanie said.

“I’l be a senior,” he said.

So that made him around twenty-one, Melanie thought. Maybe twenty-two. Which was how old she’d been when she’d met Peter.

They pul ed onto the major road. Josh’s window was unzipped and air rushed in as they sped toward ’Sconset. Melanie rested her head against the seat and closed her eyes. There was something therapeutic about this ride. I feel okay, Melanie thought. Right this second I feel okay. How can that be?

She turned to face the wind. Josh’s brown hair ruffled up like a rooster’s comb. In her lap, the brim of her hat flapped.

“How do you like your job?” she asked.

“I hate it,” he said.

“That’s too bad.”

“Truly,” he said. “My father’s an air traffic control er. He sort of got me in there.”

“Oh,” Melanie said.

“I’m going to quit anyway,” Josh said. “Life’s too short.”

“I agree. That is, basical y, my mantra. But wil your father be mad?”

“He’l be mad,” Josh said. “But he can’t stop me.”

“Al right, then,” Melanie said. The road stretched out before them; to the left, across the moors, was a lighthouse, and beyond that, the ocean. “It’s beautiful here.”

Josh didn’t answer, and Melanie chastised herself for saying something so obvious. He probably heard it from tourists al the time: how lovely, how quaint, how pristine, how beautiful. She tried to think of something witty to say, something bright, something that would make him think she was

. . . cool. She had never been cool in her entire life, and she certainly wasn’t cool tonight. But she wanted Josh to believe she was worthy of the ride.

“I just found out I’m pregnant,” she said.

He looked at her quizzical y. “Real y?”

“Yeah.” She stared at her knees. She would never make it in the CIA. She had just shared the strictest secret with someone she barely knew. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tel anybody.”

He seemed puzzled by this, and Melanie would have laughed if she didn’t feel like such a horse’s ass. Who would he possibly tel ?

Stil , he humored her. “My lips are sealed, I promise,” he said. “You know yesterday, when you fel ? I thought your friend sounded pretty concerned. Overly concerned—about you, not her baby.”

“She worries about me,” Melanie said.

“Right,” he said. “But I wondered if there was something else going on. Something no one else knew about.”

“Oh,” Melanie said. “Wel . . . yes.” She looked at him. “You have a good memory.”

“The three of you were hard to forget,” he said.