“None,” Margaret said. “Deacon was the last investor in, so even if the restaurant were turning a profit, he’d be the last of the six to see any money.”

“There goes the house,” Buck said.

“Have you told them?” Margaret asked.

“I’ve only told Laurel and Belinda,” Buck said. “Scarlett got here just this morning.”

“Scarlett showed?” Margaret said. She sounded gossipy, as she did when she and Lanie, Buck’s intern, discussed the plot twists of Ray Donovan.

“She did,” Buck said.

“Wow,” Margaret said. “So now it’s you and the three wives. How are you handling that?”

Badly, Buck thought. He needed to make things right with Laurel-but how?

“Just fine, Margaret, thank you.”

“Okay,” she said, in a tone that indicated she knew things were anything but okay. “Call if you need me.”

“Will do,” Buck said, then he hung up.

At that moment, he gazed down the road to see two figures bicycling toward him-Laurel and Scarlett. He waited for them to approach. They were both wet. Scarlett’s red dress was plastered to her body, but Buck made a concerted effort not to look.

“Hi, Buck!” Scarlett said. Her mood had markedly improved. “We biked to the pond, and I swam in my dress.”

“How very Becky Thatcher of you,” Buck said. He smiled at Laurel. Her damp hair fell over her tanned shoulders. She seemed to be staring off in the direction of the lighthouse; most likely, she was simply avoiding Buck’s eyes. Still angry.

“I was just on the phone with my secretary,” Buck said. “I have some business issues I need to discuss with Laurel. So if you’ll excuse us, Scarlett…?”

Scarlett’s mouth dropped open. “Business issues to discuss with Laurel? That makes no sense. I was Deacon’s wife. Someone here needs to acknowledge who the widow is. It’s me.”

“You’re the widow, yes, you are,” Buck said, hoping that sufficed as acknowledgment. “But right now, I need to talk to Laurel.”

“I’m starving,” Laurel said. “Can it wait until after I eat something?”

Scarlett hopped off her bike. “‘Business’ means ‘money,’” she said. “So I think I’d like to be in on the conversation.”

“We will have a conversation, I assure you,” Buck said. “But first I need to talk to Laurel.”

“Unbelievable!” Scarlett said. She huffed as she pushed the bike up the rocky incline of the driveway.

When she was out of earshot, Buck said to Laurel, “Let me take you out to lunch.”

“No.”

“Laurel, please.”

“You don’t seem to understand,” Laurel said. “I’m not sharing a man with Belinda. I did that once, and I’ll never do it again. You had a chance with me, Buck, but you blew it.”

He looked up. There was so much sky here, whereas in Manhattan, one got only slices. “I know I messed up,” he said. “I’m not interested in Belinda, and she most certainly isn’t interested in me. What happened yesterday”-God, had it been only yesterday? It seemed like three years earlier-“was as random as an asteroid strike. And as insignificant as…” Buck rummaged through his mind, trying to think of something insignificant. “As an ant’s shoelaces.”

Laurel didn’t even smile. “It was significant to me,” she said. “I need someone I can trust.”

“I’ll earn your trust back,” Buck said. “I’ll spend the rest of my life doing it. But right now, let me take you to lunch. Please?”

Laurel’s expression softened. “Okay,” she said. “But only because I’m hungry and there’s a place I’ve been wanting to go.”

In town, Laurel parked the Jeep in front of a restaurant called Black-Eyed Susan’s, with a big plate glass window and window boxes bursting with candy-striped petunias. Buck’s stomach rumbled at the alluring smell of frying bacon emanating from within. He had changed from his board shorts back into half of his suit. He ran his free hand over his face. He hadn’t seen his razor since leaving New York, so he was now sporting gray whiskers. There was nothing worse; he felt like his grandfather. But who cared? He was with Laurel. He had to make this count.

“This will be more like breakfast,” Laurel said. “Is that okay?”

Buck wanted to say he would eat his Gucci loafers as long as he could do it across the table from Laurel, but he didn’t want to sound like a stooge.

Buck and Laurel were seated at the two-top in the big plate glass window, where they could watch the day unfolding out on the street. Laurel ordered a latte, the veggie scramble with pesto, the Yucatán chicken sausage, and the Santa Fe hash browns with extra sour cream.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m starving.”

Buck felt abstemious by comparison: black coffee and the corned-beef hash with two poached eggs and rye toast.

“Can you throw a ladle of hollandaise on top of that?” he asked the waitress.

“Now you’re talking,” Laurel said, rubbing her hands together. “You are definitely giving me a bite of that.”

Buck couldn’t believe he had just added seven hundred calories to his breakfast solely to impress a woman. But then again, it wasn’t just any woman.

Buck relaxed in his chair and inhaled the scent of bacon and coffee. Black-Eyed Susan’s was a homey place, a sort of farm-to-table diner where everything was prepared by line cooks on a griddle that ran the length of the bar. There was music playing, a mellow country band. How long had it been since Buck had noticed music? He and Deacon had gone to see the Rolling Stones on a reunion tour, but that was before Ellery was born. Buck wished he knew the words to this song; he was so happy to be with Laurel, he felt like singing.

A mother and daughter in matching toile sundresses sat on the bench outside; an older gentleman in bright-yellow Bermuda shorts walked a French bulldog. A young couple-in high school, maybe? college? Buck could no longer gauge anyone’s age-stopped right in front of the window and started to kiss as though peace had just been declared after a decades-long war. Buck watched for a second before looking away. He wanted to kiss Laurel like that.

“Do you think people assume we’re a couple?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter, because we’re not,” Laurel said. “I’m here for the hash browns.”

“You know, I’ve tried everything in my power to save the house,” Buck said. “If I had the money myself, I would hand it over to you, and you would never have to pay me back, I swear.”

“I know, Buck, it’s okay.” She frowned. “I thought Deacon was doing well financially. He lived like a rock star-that apartment on Hudson Street, the fancy school for Ellery-and I know he’s been helping Hayes out.”

“He ran through his income. I mean, don’t get me wrong-as of last December, he had a million dollars in the bank. But once that was gone, he started to sink. The TV royalties made him money, but after my commission and losing forty percent in taxes… I mean, it’s a cooking show; it’s not like he was hosting American Idol. I found a canceled check for a hundred grand made out to something called Skinny4Life. Ever heard of it?”

“No.”

“It sounds like one of Scarlett’s schemes,” Buck said. “But unless there’s something I don’t know, it hasn’t paid off yet. One of the reasons she came to Nantucket was because she ran out of money-credit cards denied, checks bounced.”

“Oh jeez,” Laurel said. “What about Scarlett’s parents?”

“Brace declared bankruptcy last year,” Buck said. “Deacon paid for his lawyer.”

“Who else do we know who has money?” Laurel asked. She caught Buck’s gaze. “I refuse to ask Belinda.”

“She has the money.”

“I don’t care,” Laurel said. She took a sip of her coffee, then wrapped both hands around the mug. “I caught her standing outside Hayes’s room.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking guilty.”

“Even Belinda isn’t that warped,” Buck said.

“I put nothing past her,” Laurel said. “And I’m not taking her money.”

“Okay then,” Buck said. “Pray for a miracle.”

“Have you told Scarlett yet?” Laurel asked.

“No,” he said.

“Oh boy,” Laurel said. “She won’t be happy.”

“Put mildly.”

Their food arrived. Buck dug into his hollandaise-drenched corned-beef hash. It was Deacon worthy: the kind of bite that made Buck’s eyes roll back in his head. He took another greedy bite, then he glanced out the window at the gentleman walking the bulldog. Yellow shorts. Could he do yellow shorts?

“I think I need some new clothes,” Buck said.


Thirty minutes later, Buck and Laurel wandered into a store called Murray’s Toggery, which was an old-fashioned clothier, so preppy it would have made Lisa Birnbach pop a wheelie (Lisa had nearly been a client, once upon a time). The men’s section of Murray’s was a profusion of madras and bold-colored prints. There were spinning racks of whimsical ties-yellow with pink anchors, navy with lavender dolphins-piles of cable-knit sweaters, and a whole wall stacked with dusty-pink pants. Home of the Nantucket Red, a sign said. Whatever that meant.

“I have always loved this store, but I couldn’t get Deacon within a hundred yards of it,” Laurel said. “He didn’t like shirts with collars. Do you mind if I start picking out things for you?”

“Go crazy,” Buck said.

In the dressing room, Buck tried on polo shirts-light blue, navy blue, Kelly green, and pink-and khaki shorts in three different shades. He modeled each outfit for Laurel, who was sitting in what he thought of as the judging chair, giving him the thumbs-up or thumbs-down.

“You look fantastic!” she gushed. “You look twenty years younger! You look like a completely different person.”

Their salesman, named Wyatt, was extremely enthusiastic about Buck acquiring something called the “on-island look.” He brought Buck a pair of madras shorts and a pair of navy shorts embroidered with white whales.

Buck scoffed at the whale shorts, but he agreed to try them on with-Why the hell not?-the pink polo shirt. He spoke to Deacon in his mind. It would serve you right if I wore this getup to spread your ashes.

Then Buck thought, Why not? He would buy the whale shorts and the pink polo.

Buck poked his head out from the dressing-room curtain. “I’m buying this combo,” he told Laurel. “I’ll wear it tomorrow when I say good-bye to our old friend.”


Intermezzo: Deacon and Scarlett, Part I

The age of the celebrity chef is upon them. Mario Batali and Bobby Flay, Daniel Boulud and Anthony Bourdain, and the biggest gun of them all-Thomas Keller-are household names. No sooner does Deacon quit Raindance, and no sooner do he and Belinda officially separate-both developments land Deacon on the front page of the tabloids-than the Food Network calls to offer Deacon a new half-hour show called Pitchfork. The producers want to capitalize on Deacon’s bad-boy image while it’s still fresh in everyone’s minds. The show will spotlight his diabolical recipes-the caramelized foie gras pudding, the striped bass cooked in cigar smoke, the lobster momos with the creamy sriracha dipping sauce.

Buck is over the moon. Deacon’s shameful behavior has turned out to be his salvation-once again.


Only two weeks after his divorce from Belinda is final, Deacon resumes his old ways. He tapes the show every afternoon, and then he goes out drinking. His haunts include McCoy’s, McSorley’s, the Cupping Room, Spring Lounge, Mother’s Ruin, Fish, the White Horse Tavern, and El Teddy’s. Sometimes he meets Buck at Ryan’s Daughter because Buck doesn’t like to go below Fourteenth Street, and especially not since 9/11.

Having Angie helps keep Deacon in check. He’s home by seven or seven thirty to make her dinner and see that she’s at least pretending to do her homework. One weekend per month, however, Belinda comes into town, and Angie is required to stay with her. Belinda has given Deacon the apartment in the Waldorf Towers, and now she stays at the Standard, in the Meatpacking District.

The first time Belinda fulfills her maternal duties, Deacon is at loose ends. Angie keeps him honest, but now she’s with her mother, and the way Deacon feels about Belinda, a city of nine million people isn’t big enough.

He goes on a bona fide bender: Spring Lounge, Gatsby’s, White Horse, Jekyll & Hyde, the Ear Inn, the Four-Faced Liar. At the Four-Faced Liar, he bumps into a bachelor party for two gentlemen getting married, one of whom used to be a sommelier at Raindance, a guy named Morgan. Morgan lassoes Deacon into their group, and down they go to Soho, to places that are so exclusive, they don’t even have names-private lounges, supper clubs, speakeasies. They are dimly lit and filled with beautiful people. Deacon is underdressed and unprepared, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Everyone knows him. Free drinks appear wherever they go-or maybe the drinks aren’t free, maybe Morgan’s future husband is paying; Becker is the in-house counsel for Merrill Lynch. Deacon is confused, disoriented, drunk, and growing more depressed by the minute. The downtown partying life is empty and hollow; it’s filled with poseurs, pretenders, charlatans, and actors like him. He’s a chef, but something about cooking in makeup makes him feel like a fake. He longs to be back in a real kitchen, but not at Raindance. Raindance was too corporate. He longs for his days at Solo, back when things were immediate and real. Back when he was with Laurel.