The sex was, in fact, astonishing. It became abundantly clear to Josh that having sex with a girl was one thing and having sex with a woman was quite another. Josh had thought Melanie’s pregnancy would make things weird, or uncomfortable, but it was just the opposite. Melanie was completely in tune with her body, her hormones were flowing, she was always ready for Josh, she craved him. She complimented him, she encouraged him to be creative. Yeah, the sex was a fantasy, Josh couldn’t deny it, but if the relationship with Melanie had been only about sex, Josh would have tired of it. The problem was that the relationship quickly became about more than just sex. Melanie talked to him, she told him things—

real, adult things; she trusted him with details. It was different from the dreck Josh usual y got from girls. When Josh thought about the stupid drivel he was used to hearing from girls his age ( My hair goes frizz-city in this humidity. . . . Ohmygod, look how many grams of fat! . . . Who’s going to be there? That bitch? . . . I downloaded it for free on . . . ), he was amazed his brain hadn’t turned to tapioca. At first, Josh wasn’t sure that hearing about Melanie’s shattered marriage or her quest for a child would be any better, but he was wrong. It was a story that sucked him right in.

A marriage, as you’ll no doubt discover one day, is a pact you make with another person. It’s a vow you take, it’s sacred, or so you believe on the altar. It’s a promise that you’ll never be alone, you’re part of a team, a unit, a couple, a married couple. That’s the dream, anyway, and I believed it. The baby thing was another dream. For most couples, it’s a given. They don’t even think about it and—bam!—pregnant. I thought it would be that way with Peter and me. I always wanted lots of kids. And then we tried and it didn’t happen and people said, Give it time, because what else can they say? And so we kept trying and kept trying, but the more I thought of it as “trying” the more stressful it became and I got sad and Peter got angry because there was nothing either of us could do. So then we went to see a doctor, and I was, of course, thinking there was something wrong with Peter, and Peter was thinking there was something wrong with me. But the frustrating thing was that there was nothing wrong with either of us. We were both perfectly healthy, we just weren’t connecting. So I took fertility drugs, which had unpleasant side effects, and they didn’t seem to be working anyway, so I stopped those, and we tried the holistic approach—powder from rhinoceros horn and making love upside down at midnight during a full moon—and then we just threw in the towel and admitted it wasn’t working. So what were our options? In vitro. But in vitro is tricky—there’s a timetable, they harvest eggs, they take Peter’s sperm, they fertilize the eggs in a laboratory, then they implant the eggs and hope they take root. There’s a lot of hospital time involved, lots of other people, health professionals helping you along, and meanwhile you’re thinking how unromantic it all is, and you’re wondering why you couldn’t just have conceived after three martinis or a weekend in Palm Springs, like everybody else. You start to hate yourself. Seven times I went through in vitro cycles. It was over a year of my life spent holding my breath, basically, and praying—then crying when it didn’t work, blaming myself, blaming Peter. I’m not going to say I was easy to live with—I wasn’t. Peter got tired of hearing about my cycle, ovulation, fertilization, implantation, viable embryos, but that was all I could think about. The real difference between Peter and me was that I kept the faith in our marriage. I thought we were on the same team—in a tug-of-war, let’s say, against whatever forces were working to keep us childless. But then it was like I looked behind me and Peter was gone, I was tugging alone. Or worse. It was like Peter had joined the other team. He and Frances Digitt. He was my dearest love, my best friend, my safe place, my hero, Josh—and then I discovered I was nothing to him. Less than nothing. It was—it is—the betrayal of a lifetime. I thought affairs were only in soap operas. I thought they were only in Cheever. I didn’t know they really happened. I was so fucking naive. Peter is having an affair with Frances Digitt, he is involved with Frances Digitt. You can’t imagine. You just can’t imagine.

She was wrong there. Al he could do was imagine, and when he did so, he found himself hating Peter Patchen. Because what Josh quickly learned was that Melanie was a sweet person, a genuine person, she thought of others, she was kind and vulnerable and trusting. Of course she believed in love that lasted forever, of course she wanted a house ful of children—and she deserved it. The more time Josh spent with Melanie, the more he wanted to help her, to save her. He wanted to be her hero. He realized he’d felt this way from the very beginning—when Melanie fel off the airplane’s steps and he offered her first aid, and then again when she was stranded at the airport and he gave her a ride home. Late at night, when Josh lay sleepless in bed trying to figure out what the fuck he was doing with Melanie, he wondered if there was something in him that needed to be needed—but if that were the case, he might as wel have stayed with Didi. She was the neediest person he knew. In the end, Josh would have to say that he didn’t know what he was doing with Melanie, but he was powerless to stop.

The nights passed in what felt like a blaze of light, at once slow-burning and quick as a flash. Neither of them was wil ing to skip a night, take a break, although they both pretended to think it was a good idea. ( We should probably take a breather at some point, Josh said. And with a yawn, Melanie: I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep these late nights up. ) Josh figured that at some point the novelty would wear off; his insanely absorbing anticipation of the moment when Melanie climbed into his Jeep would diminish. A lackluster night would come upon them, a night when he just wasn’t that into it, a night when Melanie seemed less dynamic than usual, or too familiar. This was how things went with Josh and girls.

Eventual y he felt—as with Didi—that he was being pul ed along against his wishes.

But with Melanie, it was different. With Melanie, it was like climbing a mountain to a breathtaking view, and each time it was as novel and captivating as the first time.

More and more, he wanted to be with Melanie in a real bed, but that wasn’t possible. His bed, his childhood bed, in his room with his model airplanes and soccer trophies, his journals now tucked into the drawer of his nightstand? No. And Josh would never have the guts to sneak into Number Eleven Shel Street knowing that Vicki and Brenda and Blaine and Porter (and Ted, on the weekends) were al right there. Josh found himself brainstorming for an alternative—a night in a bed-and-breakfast, maybe? It was an expensive option and risky to boot because Tom Flynn knew everyone on the island. Somehow, Josh was sure, word would get back to his father that Josh had paid three hundred and fifty dol ars for a room, which he had shared with an “older woman.”

Josh hadn’t seen much of his high school friends al summer. He was busy with work, they were busy with work—and going to the parties or meeting up at bars meant risking a run-in with Didi, which Josh was happy to avoid. Josh felt bad cal ing up Zach for what was, basical y, the first time al summer—but Zach could help him. Zach was spending his summer working for Madaket Marine, the business his parents owned, but as a sideline, he served as caretaker for a house in Shimmo, right on the harbor. The house was modest for Nantucket’s waterfront—it had five bedrooms and three baths, with a deck that extended the length of the second floor. The house was only used two weeks of the year—the first two weeks of July—and the rest of the time, it sat empty. It was Zach’s responsibility to let the cleaners in every two weeks and arrange for the landscaping—and in winter to shovel the snow and check for burst pipes or leaks. The owners lived in Hong Kong; they never showed up without warning, and in fact, Zach spent the weeks before their arrival ensuring that every detail was perfect and in place—Asiatic lilies on the dining room table, Veuve Clicquot in the fridge. People had been urging Zach for the years that he’d been taking care of the Shimmo house to throw a party, man! But Zach was even more intimidated by his father than Josh was by Tom Flynn, and the owner of the house was a longtime Madaket Marine client. So Zach’s answer was always, No way, man. Are you kidding me? Zach threw his parties at the beach.

Zach had been known, however, to entertain women at the house in Shimmo, especial y summer girls (he told them the house was his). So Zach’s scruples were negotiable (this had always been the case), and Josh thought, Well, it’s worth a shot. He cal ed Zach one night on his way home from swimming at Nobadeer Beach.

“I want to use the Shimmo house,” Josh said. “One night. Any night next week.”

“What?” Zach said. “Who is this?”

“Shut up.”

“I haven’t heard from you in ages, man. You skipped my party. You never go out. And now you want to use the house?”

“Don’t be so sensitive,” Josh said. “You sound like a woman. Can I use the house?”

“You have a girl?” Zach said.

“Yeah.”

“Who is it?”

“None of your business,” Josh said.

“Oh, come on.”

“What?”

“Tel me who it is.”

“A girl I met in ’Sconset.”

“Real y?”

“Real y. There are girls in ’Sconset who never show their faces in town.”

“What’s her name?”

“None of your business.”

“Why so secretive? Just tel me her name.”

“No.”

“If you tel me her name, I’l let you use the house. Next Wednesday.”

“Her name is Merril ,” Josh said. He wanted to use a name he would remember—and Merril was Melanie’s maiden name.

“Merril ?”

“Yeah.”

“Is she in school?”

“She just graduated,” Josh said. “From Sarah Lawrence.”

“Sarah Lawrence?”

“Yeah.”

“She graduated? So she’s older?”

“She’s older. A little bit older. I’d like to impress her. Hence, the request for the house.”

“And I take it this Merril person is why I haven’t seen your ass al summer.”

“Pretty much.”

“Wel , okay,” Zach said. “Next Wednesday. I’l get you the keys. But you must promise to strictly adhere to al the rules.”

“I’l adhere,” Josh said.

The fol owing Wednesday, instead of driving to the beach, Josh turned down Shimmo Road and pul ed into the last driveway on the left. He was al wound up with anxiety and sexual anticipation and an overwhelming desire to surprise Melanie. He dug the keys to the house from the console and jangled them in her face.

“What are we doing here?” she said.

“What we normal y do,” he said, grinning.

He got out of the car and hurried around to open Melanie’s door for her.

“Whose house is this?” she said.

“It belongs to a friend of mine,” Josh said. “He’s not using it this week.”

He watched for her reaction. She seemed nonplussed. It had occurred to him since the moment that Zach handed him the keys that Melanie would think borrowing someone else’s house was cheesy and juvenile. Peter Patchen made serious money. He was the kind of guy who booked a suite at a five-star resort in Cabo. He could have rented a place like this with ease.

Josh’s hands shook as he unlocked the front door. He checked over his shoulder at the neighbor’s house, where a single onion lamp burned.

These neighbors, according to Zach, were real watchdogs, and so one of the rules Josh had to strictly adhere to was not to turn on any lights on the north side of the house.

Inside the house, Josh took off his shoes.

“Take off your shoes,” he said.

Melanie laughed. “Ohhhh-kay.”

“I know,” he said. “Sorry.” The floors were made of some rare wood, Zach said, and the rule was: No shoes, not even if you were the Queen of England.

Josh walked up a curving staircase to a great room with windows overlooking the harbor. He turned on some lights and immediately set them on dimmers, way down low. There was a fancy bar with mirrors and blue granite and a hundred wineglasses hanging upside down. On the counter, as promised, Zach had left a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice and a plate of cheese, crackers, strawberries, and grapes.