But that was exactly what happened.

The ferry was loaded with two classes of people. The crowd on the top deck looked like they were going to a cricket match or an equestrian show. Some of the men had sweaters tied around their shoulders. Others wore tweed jackets. The women wore tennis skirts or summer dresses in loud pink and green. They spoke with jutted jaws and used the word summer as a verb. One guy wore an ascot. He called his wife “sassy.” I thought it was a personality description, you know, like she was sassy, but after eavesdropping I realized that was her name. Sassy with a capital S.

The other class, on the deck below, were what I assumed were day workers or domestics. I had seen the same expressions, the same slumped shoulders on the bus going from Kasselton back to Newark. I didn’t know much about Adiona Island, but judging by the ferry, it was a playground for the old-money jet-setter crowd.

When we got off the ferry, Rachel had the GPS app on her smartphone ready.

“The Lowells live on Discepolo Street,” she said. “It’s less than a mile from here. I guess we should walk.”

It was a good guess, especially since there were no other options. There was nothing by the dock area. No taxis. No car rental. No restaurant or deli or even snack machine. Almost everyone else had cars at the dock. The lower deck hopped into the back of pickups. The upper tier had roadsters and antique cars and brands you normally associate with money.

In the distance we could see fancy homes along the water. They were big, of course, but not huge or new. They were more what one might call “stately” rather than some nouveau palace. Half a mile down the road we passed a ritzy tennis club, the kind where everyone wore only whites, like they were at Wimbledon or something.

No one else walked, so we got a few odd looks. Rachel, of course, got a few lingering glances, but she was used to that.

“How did it go with your father?” I asked.

“It’ll be okay,” she said.

“Are you mad at me?”

“For telling me about my mother?”

I nodded.

“No. I get it. My father thinks it was the wrong move. He thinks I’ll feel guilty for the rest of my life.”

“Is he right?”

Rachel shrugged. “I feel guilty now. I don’t know how I’ll feel tomorrow. But your uncle was right: I’d rather live with the guilt than the lie.” She pointed up the hill. “We take that left.”