In May, he learned that Dabney had given birth to a baby girl and named her Agnes Bernadette, after her grandmother. He couldn’t count the number of times-when he was riding in the stinking hot third-class berth of a train, or slogging through rice paddies, or meandering through the markets looking for ripe mangoes but being offered teenaged girls-when the name had popped into his head like a chiming bell.

Agnes Bernadette.

He had heard from Agnes herself only once, shortly after her sixteenth birthday. Dabney had finally told Agnes about her true paternity and Agnes, unbeknownst to Dabney, had sent a letter to Clen in care of the New York Times. The letter had been forwarded to Clen, who at that time was living in Hanoi, in a good flat in the French Quarter. He had just won the Pulitzer and he had an offer for a book deal; for the one and only time in his life, he had been flush with cash, and there had finally been talk of transferring him to the Singapore desk, which had become his sole professional aspiration. Clen and his girlfriend, Mi Linh, drank a lot of champagne and ate dinner twice a week at the Hotel Metropole. They spent weekends at a resort in the cool hills of Sapa; Clen rented a junk and they sailed the emerald waters of Halong Bay.

Agnes’s letter had been straightforward: she now knew that Clendenin was her real father and she wanted to meet him; her mother, however, could never find out. Agnes was spending the summer in France. Could Clendenin meet her in France?

Clen had chewed on his answer for as long as he dared. The worst thing, he realized, would be not to respond at all. He wanted very much to buy a ticket to Paris and meet Agnes there. The whole idea of it was cinematic. He understood from the tone of her letter that Agnes didn’t need him to be a father; she had the economist for that. She did, however, require a connection. She was sixteen years old, on the verge of becoming a woman, trying to accrue self-awareness, and she wanted to fill in the missing link. Which was him.

What Clen couldn’t swallow was this meeting taking place without Dabney’s knowledge. He assumed that, seventeen years later, Dabney had made some sort of peace with his absence. She had married, she ran the Chamber of Commerce, and she had, he could only assume, a happy life. If he went behind her back and met Agnes in Paris and she found out about it-well, that wasn’t something Clendenin could risk.

Clen had written back to Agnes and tried to explain all this. The letter he’d sent had been ten pages long. It was an atonement of sorts, because that many years later he had come to understand that Dabney’s telling him she didn’t love him was the ultimate act of love. She hadn’t wanted him even to consider coming home because she knew he would be unhappy, unfulfilled. Not returning to your mother, and by circumstance, you, is the great shame of my life. I offer no excuse other than I was young and selfish, and I believed myself to be destined for great things. In the years since I’ve left Nantucket, I have seen sights both sublime and horrific, and I have tried to uncover truths and bring light and sense to this often misunderstood part of the world. But although I have never met you, I have always been aware that my greatest accomplishment is that I fathered a child. You.

Clen had both anticipated and dreaded a response. If he and Agnes started a secret correspondence, Dabney would be devastated as well. There was no good way for a relationship between them to proceed, and yet he wanted it to. He wanted it to.

But it was a moot point. Agnes never wrote back.

He couldn’t reel in a fish, or dig a grave, or change a tire. He couldn’t shuffle a deck of cards or deal a hand of poker. He would never be able to help Dabney fasten her pearls. This last thing bothered Clen more than he thought it might.

But he wasn’t disheartened, yet. He had the kiss, which redoubled his determination. He was going to keep trying. He was going to make Dabney take those words back, and admit that she had never meant them in the first place.

Couple #40: Tammy Block and Flynn Sheehan, married three years

Tammy: I am the match Dabney doesn’t like to talk about.

We’d all like our lives to be nice and neat. High school, college, marriage, kids, job, church, community, two-week vacations in Aruba or Tuscany-and then watch your kids, and then their kids, follow suit. Some people have lives like that, and some don’t.

I dropped out of Fairleigh Dickinson University (we all called it “Fairly Ridiculous”)-or, rather, I failed out-after three semesters. I just couldn’t handle the reading, it put me to sleep, plus I was drinking every night and smoking a lot of dope. I married a guy I met at a biker bar, a guy I barely knew. We drove to Atlantic City and got hitched, then we moved up to Rhode Island because my new husband was going to work as a fry cook for a buddy opening a fish restaurant. I got pregnant, had a son, then a year later, another son. My new husband left me for one of the waitresses at the fish restaurant and then those two ran off and I never saw a single support check.

I needed a way to make a living while being a full-time mom-at that point, I was qualified to be either a prostitute or work the register at the CITGO-and seeing that these were piss-poor options, I went for my real estate license.

I had a talent for selling houses, and my secret weapon was that which had served me well my whole life-apathy. You want the house? Great. You don’t want the house? Someone else will.

I landed on Nantucket ten years ago the way many people land here, I suppose-I came for a vacation and decided I never wanted to leave. I sold my Victorian on Prospect Street in Providence for three times what I paid for it, banked the profit, and rented a cute three-quarter house on School Street. (Three-quarter house meant two windows to the right of the front door and one window to the left. I was crazy for architectural terminology.)

Dabney Kimball Beech lived one block over, on Charter. I used to see her out walking every morning, and I have to tell you, she didn’t seem like anyone I would want to be friends with. It was the headband that put me off, I think, and the pearls. Who wore pearls at seven o’clock in the morning to go power walking? I quickly learned that Dabney was the director of the Chamber of Commerce and that she was quite beloved around the island. When I interviewed for an associate-broker position at Congdon & Coleman Real Estate and I mentioned I lived on School Street, the man interviewing me said, “Oh, you’re neighbors with Dabney Kimball.”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “If Nantucket elected a president, she would win by a landslide.”

I decided it would be wise, as a Realtor brand-new to town, to meet Dabney Kimball, so I strategized to be out watering my front flower bed at seven in the morning when she walked past.

I thought she might ignore me, but she stopped and literally beamed at me. And that was my introduction to the magic of Dabney Kimball Beech.

She said, “Hey there! You just moved in a few weeks ago! I’ve been dying to meet you. I’m Dabney.”

I said, “I’m Tammy Block.” We shook hands.

She said, “You’re the newest Realtor at Congdon & Coleman.”

I had only had the job for twelve hours. How could she have known?

I said, “Yes, that’s right.”

She said, “And I’ve seen your boys waiting at the bus stop. They’re so handsome.”

I smiled proudly because who can resist compliments about one’s children? But then I grew wary. This was probably just lip service.

Dabney said, “Today is Tuesday. I’m alone tonight. Come over for some wine, will you?”

I did go for “some wine.” We finished two bottles, along with a dish of smoked almonds and some really good French cheese and savory crackers and quince paste, which I had never tasted or even heard of before, but which was delicious. Things were like that at Dabney’s house-refined and lovely and eclectic, but not fussy. She made me feel completely at ease, even after I learned that her husband was some kind of famous economist who taught at Harvard, and Dabney herself had gone to Harvard. Usually when I was in the presence of educated people, I felt embarrassed about my pathetic three semesters at Fairly Ridiculous, but I did not feel that way around Dabney.

She asked me if I was married. I said, Long divorced.

She got a twinkle in her eye and told me she was something of a matchmaker. Forty-two couples to her credit, all of them still together.

I laughed and said, “Oh dear God, don’t even try. I don’t need a husband, or even a boyfriend. What I need is a plumber to fix the toilet in the boys’ bathroom. It runs incessantly.”

The very next day, Flynn Sheehan was standing at the top of my friendship stairs. I caught my breath. He had the most arresting blue eyes I had ever seen.

He said, “Dabney Kimball sent me?”

I thought, She has sent me a husband. And boy, was she spot-on. Just looking at Flynn Sheehan gave me butterflies.

He said, “Something about needing a toilet fixed?”

I laughed, then introduced myself and welcomed Flynn Sheehan inside. I was glad I had just come from work and was still wearing a dress, heels, and makeup. I led Flynn Sheehan up the stairs.

He said, “How long have you been renting the Reillys’ house?”

I said, “Three weeks.”

He said, “I basically grew up in this house. Kevin Reilly was my best friend. He was killed in Iraq in ninety-one.”

“Oh, God,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s why I came on such short notice. Kevin’s parents aren’t exactly known for their upkeep of this place…”

“Oh,” I said. “The place is fine. It’s charming. I love everything about it, except the running toilet.”

Flynn stopped at the top of the stairs. He was looking at marks made on the doorjamb, pencil marks and initials I hadn’t even noticed.

He pointed to a mark near his waist. “This is Kevin, age five, and me age five. Kev at ten, at twelve, me at thirteen, Kev at fifteen.”

I studied the marks: FS 2/10/77. KR 8/29/83.

Flynn pointed to the highest mark, at about his present height. “This was the last time we did it, right before he left. He had me by half an inch.”

I looked where Flynn pointed. FS 3/30/91. KR 3/30/91.

Flynn blinked. “He was like a brother to me.”

I didn’t know what to say but I felt my heart doing funny things, things it hadn’t done in a long time.

Then I noticed his wedding ring, and I thought: Story of my life.

Flynn fixed the toilet in thirty seconds, and when I tried to pay him, he waved me away. He was the most attractive man I’d seen in years and he had shown me the softest part of his heart within three minutes of meeting me. But he was married.

At the door, he handed me his card. FLYNN SHEEHAN PLUMBING. The address was a P.O. box. I found myself wanting to know where he lived. I would drive by his house and try to catch a glimpse of his pretty wife.

He said, “If you need anything, and I mean anything, even if it’s not plumbing, I want you to call me.”

I felt myself redden. I wondered what he meant by that.

Then he said, “The Reillys are my people. If anything goes wrong with the house, they would want me to take care of it.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

Flynn descended the friendship stairs and strode out to his truck, whistling.

“Goodbye!” I called after him. “Thank you!”

A day later, when I saw Dabney, she said, “So, you met Flynn?”

“Yes,” I said. “Thank you for sending him.”

Dabney gazed at me. She had dark brown eyes, but they seemed to send out gold sparks at times. “So what did you think?”

“He fixed the toilet in half a minute. I probably could have done it myself if I’d bothered to give it a try.”

“No,” she said. “I mean, what did you think about Flynn?”

“Nice guy,” I said.

“You’re rosy,” she said. She jumped up and down like a little kid, then she snapped her fingers. “I knew it! I knew it! You’re rosy!”

“Rosy?” I said.

“You liked him.”

“Dabney,” I said. “He’s married.”

Dabney’s face fell and I felt like I had just toppled her ice-cream cone.

“Yeah,” she said. “I know.”


I learned something quickly about Nantucket. Although it was a small island, you could go months without seeing someone. I went six months without seeing Flynn Sheehan. Indeed, I went for days and weeks without thinking about him. And then he would pop into my mind-most often when I walked up the stairs and saw the hash marks on the doorjamb-and I would hope and pray that the kitchen faucet would leak, or the light would go out in the refrigerator.