“Well, Angie, I guess, and Hayes and Laurel,” Belinda said.

“Laurel hates you.”

“I realize this, Bob.” Frankly, Belinda had been shocked when Buck invited her to the memorial weekend. Her first question had been, Will Laurel be there? Yes, Buck had said. Her second question had been, Does Laurel know I’m coming? Yes, Buck said. And she’s okay with that? Belinda asked. To which Buck responded, Laurel is an adult, Belinda. That wasn’t really an answer to Belinda’s question, although Belinda had accepted it as such at the time. Maybe Laurel’s feelings for Belinda-anger, resentment, dark, stinking hatred-had vanished when Deacon died.

What did the past matter now?

Belinda thought back to the first time she had ever met Laurel. Belinda had gone with Deacon to return Hayes, who had been seven years old, to Laurel’s apartment on West 119th Street. It was late autumn and growing dark at four thirty on a Sunday afternoon; Deacon and Belinda were flying to Los Angeles the next day. Deacon seemed to be having mixed feelings about leaving-happy to be starting a new life with Belinda, inconsolable about leaving his son. He didn’t think it was a good idea for Belinda to come up to the apartment, but Belinda insisted. She said, If I’m going to be in your life, I have to meet her. She had also been banking on her fame to save her. Laurel would naturally hate her, but Belinda thought she might also be a little star struck. Most people were.

Laurel had opened the door to the apartment, and Hayes rushed into his mother’s arms. Laurel had eyed Belinda over Hayes’s shoulder. “Don’t come in here,” she said.

“I’m Belinda,” Belinda had said. “Belinda Rowe.” She had offered her hand.

“You’re a thief,” Laurel had said, staring at Belinda’s hand as if it were a slimy newt. “A shameless thief.” Laurel had then looked at Deacon. “Don’t you come in, either. You two go. Please, just go.”

“Laurel…,” Deacon had said. His voice, Belinda remembered, had been full of tears and contrition and something else. It had been full of love, Belinda realized now. But at the time, thankfully, she hadn’t recognized this. She had taken Deacon’s arm and led him to the elevator. When they were safely down on the street, Belinda had said, “She’s just angry. She’ll get over it.”


Belinda didn’t see Laurel again until Hayes’s high school graduation. Laurel had refused to speak to Belinda; she wouldn’t even say hello. It had been an afternoon filled with toxic looks, and Belinda had been intimidated-not because she feared Laurel, but because she knew Laurel had every right to hate her. Belinda had skipped the party at Laurel’s apartment afterward; she had gone around the corner to get her nails done while Deacon made an appearance.

Things were marginally better when Hayes graduated from Vanderbilt. There was at least an icy hello, and Laurel had agreed to sit at dinner at Margot Café with Belinda, albeit at a long table crowded with Hayes’s college pals and Deacon and Angie. Laurel had sat at one end and Belinda at the other end, facing the same direction, so no conversation was required. But after dinner, as everyone was getting ready to leave, Belinda had bumped into Laurel in the ladies’ room, and they had locked eyes in the mirror. Belinda had consumed enough wine that her fear had mellowed. She was ready to clear the air, finally! Laurel had held Belinda’s gaze for a long moment before giving a tiny smile, which seemed to be an acknowledgment that she was ready to forgive. But no words came forth. Laurel washed her hands, snapped a paper towel out of the dispenser, and left.


“I don’t understand why you would willingly enter a combat zone,” Bob said. “I thought you were all about peace, love, and yoga.”

“I am,” Belinda said. “But there are extenuating circumstances. Deacon is dead, Bob.”

“Have you talked to Angie?” Bob asked.

“Not since she’s gone back to work,” Belinda said. Belinda had called Angie every day for the past six weeks, but Angie often banished Belinda to voice mail, like a queen sending an infidel to the dungeon-which, when Belinda thought about it, meant things were returning to normal. Belinda’s relationship with Angie had been strained ever since Belinda married Bob and discovered she was able to have children after all. Clearly I’m not enough, Angie had said. Clearly you wanted your own children, white children. Belinda had pointed out that Deacon had had another child as well, but that fell on deaf ears. Angie loved her father blindly.

“Just be careful,” Bob said. “They’re probably going to ask you for something. Money, or a favor. Or both.”

“Why do you have to be such a cynic?” Belinda said. “Isn’t it possible someone would want me around just for the joy of my company? Not everyone wants something from me, Bob.”

“If you feel you have to go-and obviously you do-then I advise you to say your good-byes and cut ties with those people and with that place once and for all. I mean, come on, Belinda-you don’t even swim.”

“I’ll find other things to do,” Belinda said. “Like I did in the past.”

“Ah, the past,” Bob said. “That’s what this weekend is really about, isn’t it? Reliving the past. Going back to the house you shared with Deacon.”

Definitely jealous, Belinda thought. She couldn’t believe it. She felt a surge of something like triumph. In the ten years of their marriage, it was always Belinda who had been the jealous one-ever since she had first caught Bob in the tack room with Carrie. It was refreshing to see the tables turned.

“I’ll be back next week,” Belinda said, trying to sound like the most influential woman in all of antiquity. “Mrs. Greene can handle the girls.”

“Whatever,” Bob said. And he hung up.


Belinda took the red-eye to Boston first class, on United. She put on her Dodgers cap and her Tom Ford sunglasses, although it was impossible to disguise her strawberry-blond mane and her milky skin. When she took her seat, the flight attendant gave her a sad smile and squeezed her forearm.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the flight attendant whispered. “We all cried when we heard the news.”

My loss? Belinda thought. Was it possible that this flight attendant hadn’t read People magazine in ten years? Everyone in America knew that Deacon had divorced Belinda and married their nanny, Scarlett Oliver.

The two of them had carried on all through the final years of Belinda and Deacon’s marriage. He had taken her on a trip to the Virgin Islands while he and Belinda were still married! Belinda shuddered when she thought of all the times Deacon and Scarlett had traveled together under the auspices of “visiting Belinda on location.”

Belinda’s next question to Buck had been, Will Scarlett be coming to Nantucket? Laurel was one thing… but Scarlett was completely another. Belinda could not spend one second in the same house as Scarlett.

No, Buck had said. She refused my invitation. She’s staying in Savannah.

Of course she is, Belinda thought. Scarlett would be holed up in the decaying family manse with Mummy and a quartet of her fellow debutantes, who would provide Scarlett with freshly pressed handkerchiefs. And the old boyfriend would be there-what was his name? Belinda couldn’t remember. She had tried to banish everything she had once known about Scarlett from her mind. Scarlett was a genteel Southern girl through and through, although she’d lost all her wide-eyed innocence. No one who fell in love with Deacon Thorpe remained innocent for long.


At Logan, Belinda transferred to a Cape Air flight, a nine-seater Cessna with dual props. In the fifteen years she had gone to Nantucket, this was always her least favorite part of the trip. How many times had she accused Deacon of wanting her dead? Belinda was terrified of small planes, despite growing up around them. Her grandfather had been a barnstormer outside Iowa City, and her father had delivered the air mail for all of eastern Iowa; he had met his fiery death one frigid January night-ice on the wings. The only reason Belinda had ever agreed to fly was that she couldn’t abide arriving by boat. Belinda was more terrified of the water than she was of fire and earth.

Bob didn’t understand why she was choosing to spend a weekend in Nantucket (with those people, in that place) when she was afraid of the water. She might have replied that in her first adult relationship, with director James Brinegar, she had traveled to Aspen, Jackson Hole, Sun Valley, Telluride, Whistler, Vail, Breckenridge, Alta, Snowbird, and Tahoe, all so that Jaime could ski higher and more challenging mountains. She, Belinda, had sat in the lodge, dressed in snug snow pants, a Fair Isle sweater, and fur-lined boots, drinking hot toddies and reading in front of the fire, looking the part. She also might have replied that for the past ten years, she had lived on a horse farm without ever once mounting up for a ride. Belinda had been brought up without any skills except the ability to pretend that she had skills. She was an actress!

Belinda boarded the plane with eight other souls, none of whom seemed concerned in the slightest about catching wind shear and crashing. Belinda buckled herself in and listened to the (female) pilot’s spiel about emergency exits and what to do in the event of a water landing.

In the event of a water landing, Belinda would drown. She had never learned to swim.

Never learned to swim, Deacon said so many years ago, as though she had said she had never learned to play the zither.

She had shrugged. I grew up in the heartland.

Planes don’t crash anymore, Belinda thought. Unless they were hijacked or tampered with by terrorists. Belinda looked around. She saw a man in Nantucket Red shorts, a blue and white striped oxford, and loafers; a severe-looking blond in naughty-librarian glasses; a couple in their eighties whose skin was as brown and wrinkled as tobacco. Everyone seemed appropriately Waspy and East Coast. They could probably all tie ten nautical knots and make a mean gin and tonic. No terrorists here.

Belinda dry-mouthed an Ativan, plucked discreetly from her bag. None of the other passengers had overtly seemed to recognize her, but she figured at least half did and were simply too well bred to gawk. But if, say, Naughty Librarian had seen Belinda take the Ativan, she might very well find herself outed on the front page of the National Enquirer as a pill popper.

Belinda took some comfort in the fact that the pilot was a woman. She imagined it was Mrs. Greene flying the plane. Mrs. Greene was far too competent a human being to ever let it crash.

The engine revved. The plane careered forward, gaining speed, gaining speed, and then… they took off.


Saturday, June 18


ANGIE

She had kept her phone on all night expecting to hear from Joel-he had said he was going to tell Dory the second he walked in the door-but he hadn’t called. He might have punted, she thought, and simply gone to bed, then decided to tell Dory when they woke up. But by ten thirty, when she hadn’t heard a word-not one call, not one text-she went down to the corner deli for cigarettes. The city streets were a cauldron. Summer had arrived like a panting dog.

What was happening in New Canaan?