“Why are you so keen for the money?” Trevor said.

“We have bills, Trev. We promised Brick a car!” she said. “I know it was my idea to invest the money with Eddie…”

“A hundred percent your idea,” Trevor confirmed.

“I’m kicking myself now,” Madeline said.

“Madeline,” Trevor said. “You need to breathe.” This was his standard line when he thought she was being hysterical and he wanted to calm her down-but today, it only served to agitate her further.

“I am breathing!” she screamed, and then she hung up.


Maybe Eddie has other things going on. Eddie had more going on than he even knew! Grace was in love with Benton Coe! She was excited to take things to the next level by going with Benton to the Sunset Soiree.

Listening to Grace was an addiction. Madeline could NOT wait for the next installment of the story. Madeline knew she should advise Grace to turn the car around. But instead, she was Grace’s steadfast sounding board, and not only that-she was using everything Grace told her in her novel. Her characters “B” and “G” were moving full steam ahead. Madeline could not stop writing; nothing had ever come to her this easily. It was black magic, like the séance with Barbie.

Two of the women at this table will betray the person on their left.

But in a way, writing the novel felt natural and organic, as if Madeline were giving birth-this novel, somehow, was like the second child Madeline had never managed to have.

She couldn’t stop. Could not pull the plug or abort the mission. She would write the novel and then, later, go back in and change everything so that nothing was recognizable except to Madeline herself.


For years, Madeline had been in charge of the potluck barbecue lunch between the games of the doubleheader with the Vineyard. Last week, she had managed to get the e-mail out, and the usual people signed up to bring the usual things. Cathleen Rook was bringing her pepperoni bread, which all the boys and coaches fought over, and Rachel had overvolunteered as usual and was bringing her potato-and-egg salad, pesto pasta, and a seven-layer Mexican dip. Madeline was in charge of condiments, paper products, Gatorade, bottled water, and ice-but she had spaced on the ice, so she had to stop at the airport gas station, where five bags of ice ran her twenty-five bucks.

She set out the hamburgers and hot dogs, rolls, paper plates and napkins, ketchup, mustard, and relish. The propane gas tanks on the grills were both full. When it came time to watch the actual game, Madeline found a shady spot in the bleachers, pulled out her legal pad, and started to write.

Diana Marz, Parker’s mother, was the first to comment.

“Is that your new novel?” she asked.

Madeline smiled in what she hoped was a cryptic way. She had always wanted people to think of her as a novelist, but now, the less she said about her work, the better. She realized it might have been smarter to have left her legal pad at home, but she couldn’t fight the urge to finish this one particular scene: B and G taking things to the next level by venturing out together in public-in this fictional case, to the Summer House pool, where they couldn’t keep their hands off each other, both under the table and then later, splashing around in the pool. Madeline was currently writing a scene about some clandestine underwater fooling-around between B and G. Angie, she knew, would love it.

Every once in a while, Madeline raised her head from her work to take in a few seconds of the baseball game. Brick was playing first base, smacking his glove, trying to get Calgary McMann, who was pitching, to pick off the Vineyard base runner. Rachel was a few feet to Madeline’s right, wearing a navy-and-white-striped sundress with a giant navy N on the front, which it seemed Rachel had applied herself with an iron. Rachel had brought her pom-pom. She cheered away, stopping every so often to apply SPF 50 to her face, even though she was wearing a large-brimmed straw hat.

Despite her keen interest in the game, Rachel, too, noticed Madeline writing.

“Look at you, scribbling away!” she sang out. “I see ‘A Room of One’s Own’ has worked! You’re a writing machine! I fully expect a mention on the acknowledgments page now.”

Madeline nodded while finishing her sentence. It was the top of the seventh inning; she needed to head back over to the picnic area. But just then, her cell phone rang, and Madeline climbed down from the bleachers to answer it, believing that it might be Eddie, calling her back.

It was Redd Dreyfus.

He said, “You got the e-mail from Angie, yes?”

“From when?” Madeline asked.

“This morning.”

“No,” Madeline said. “I’ve got something else going on today, and I’m not near my computer.” Normally, Redd liked to hear vignettes about “island life,” and Madeline might have launched into a description of the Nantucket-Martha’s Vineyard all-star baseball game, but right now, he sounded all business.

“Well,” he said, “it appears the editorial board of Final Word made an executive decision on the title of your new novel.”

“Oh God,” Madeline said. “But wait a minute, I thought…”

“They’ve gone completely mad,” Redd said. “Or completely postmodern.”

“What’s the title?” Madeline asked. From the stands, there was enthusiastic cheering, indicating the end of the game. Madeline plugged her ear.

“They’re calling it B/G,” Redd said. “How would one even refer to that in spoken language, I wonder? ‘B slash G’? It’s reminiscent of what Prince did with that ludicrous symbol.”

“B/G?” Madeline said. “No. We can’t use that.”

“It’s been decided, I’m afraid,” Redd said.

“Angie said she would run it past me first!” Madeline said. “She said I would have final approval.”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of publishing,” Redd said. “Angie and her superiors are in the business of selling books. They seem to think this absurd title will break new ground or, at the very least, create interest from a publicity standpoint.”

“They can’t use those initials!” Madeline said. “We have to change the initials. I don’t care what to. Any other two letters will work.”

“But those are the names of your characters,” Redd said.

“For now!” Madeline said. “This book still needs a lot of editing!” She watched the crowd rise from the stands and make their way en masse toward the picnic tables. “Ask them to change the initials, Redd, please!”

“They think it’s evocative of ‘boy meets girl.’ I don’t think they’ll look fondly upon changing the initials. Their company isn’t called Final Word for no reason, Madeline.”

“Listen, Redd, I have to go,” Madeline said. “Please… do everything you can!” She hung up. B/G? They might as well have decided to call it Benton and Grace!

Madeline raced to the concession stand to get the Gatorades and waters on ice. Soon, Cathleen Rook showed up and began pulling side dishes out of the big cooler.

“Where’s Rachel?” Madeline said. “Did she bring serving spoons for the potato salad or the pasta?”

“She’s still in the stands,” Cathleen said. “She started reading your book, and she said she couldn’t put it down.”

“What?” Madeline dropped a bag of ice in the grass and darted through the hungry and expectant crowd until she reached the bleachers.

Sure enough, there was Rachel McMann, bent over Madeline’s legal pad, eagerly reading.

Madeline all but ripped the pages from Rachel’s hands. “What are you doing? This is my work!”

Rachel beamed. “I can’t get over how good this is!” she said. “It’s sexy stuff, Madeline, but smart sexy, seductive sexy. Look at me, I’m flushed!”

“Rachel!” Madeline said. “This is not for public consumption.”

“I’m not the public, silly,” Rachel said. “I’m your friend.”

Madeline was so angry and embarrassed that she couldn’t even meet Rachel’s eyes. Instead, she focused on the N ironed on the front of Rachel’s dress. N for nosy!

“This is going to fly off the shelves!” Rachel said.

Madeline hugged the notebook to her chest. “We are friends, Rachel, and for that reason I know I can trust you to please not tell anyone what the book is about… or that you even read it.” She swallowed. “It’s in the very early stages. Probably, everything you just read is going to change.”

“If I were you I wouldn’t change a word,” Rachel said. “But don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell a soul.”


Madeline had learned her lesson: she wasn’t going to write anywhere but in her apartment. She wasn’t even going to bring her legal pad home at night. It was going to stay in the apartment, tucked under the sofa cushions or hidden in the microwave oven.

Madeline was pretty sure Rachel had a duplicate key to her apartment, and at this point, Madeline wasn’t sure she was beyond using it.


The next day, Madeline e-mailed Angie about changing the title. Madeline had suggested an alternate title: Heaven Knows.

Angie wrote back, saying, We’re going with B/G. Besides, when I hear Heaven Knows, I think of that bad Donna Summer song.

Madeline then called Angie-three times-and three times she was greeted by Angie’s voice mail. She couldn’t even get Marlo, Angie’s assistant, on the phone.


At five o’clock in the evening, there was a knock on her door.

Eddie, she thought. With her check.

She raced to open it.

Trevor was standing there, holding his very cute pilot’s hat, looking grim.

“Hey, babe,” she said. “This is a surprise. I thought maybe you would be Eddie.” She kissed Trevor on the lips, but he didn’t respond. In fact, he flinched a little.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“I heard a rumor today, from Pamela at the Island Air desk.”

“Oh shit,” Madeline said. It was about Grace and Benton Coe; it had to be. This was so bad that Madeline felt sick. Pamela at the Island Air desk was one of the worst gossips on Nantucket-her, Blond Sharon, Janice the dental hygienist, and Rachel McMann.

Madeline pulled Trevor into the apartment and closed and locked the door behind him.

He collapsed on the sofa.

“What is it?” she said.

“You thought maybe I would be Eddie?” Trevor said. “Why would you think that? Does Eddie visit you here often?”

“No!” Madeline said. “He hasn’t been here since the day I first rented it.”

“Okay,” Trevor said. “Because the rumor I heard… what Pamela told me she’d heard from at least six other people… is that you’re having an affair with Eddie Pancik.”

“Good God,” Madeline said.

Trevor was quiet.

“It’s not true,” Madeline said. “Obviously. Where do people come up with this shit?”

“Oh, any one of a dozen places,” Trevor said. “You got your own apartment, and Eddie stopped by to see you on the first day, and someone saw him. Then, someone else overheard him on the phone with you.”

“I told you I called him,” Madeline said, “because I want our money back. Life is expensive, and right now that fifty grand is the difference.”

“What is so urgent all of a sudden?” Trevor asked. “Do you have gambling debts I don’t know about?”

Madeline sat gently on the sofa next to her husband. “I’m having a hard time with the next novel,” she said. “Like, a really hard time. And I’m afraid I might have to pay my advance back.”

“You’re having a hard time with the new novel?” Trevor said. “That’s not what I heard. I heard your new novel is all about this couple who is having some superhot extramarital affair.”

“Who told you that?” Madeline said. “Did Pamela tell you that?”

“It doesn’t really matter who told me that,” Trevor said. “The rumor is out there, Madeline. People are saying that you and Eddie are having an affair and that this is the fuel for your supersexy new novel.”

“You can’t possibly believe this,” Madeline said. “You know I would never be unfaithful.”

Trevor picked her legal pad up. “Is this the new novel?”

Madeline tried to snatch it from his hands, but he hung on, and Madeline feared that between them, they would rip the pages. She fell back against the sofa cushions and tried to breathe. “It is my new novel, but I’m not ready for you to read it yet.”

“Is it about a couple having a superhot extramarital affair?”

“Sort of,” Madeline said.

Trevor threw the legal pad onto the coffee table. “Great.”