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Chapters (82)
  1. Cover
  2. ALSO BY JAMIE BRENNER
  3. PART ONE
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. PART TWO
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. 49
  54. 50
  55. 51
  56. 52
  57. 53
  58. 54
  59. 55
  60. 56
  61. 57
  62. 58
  63. PART THREE
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. 63
  69. 64
  70. 65
  71. 66
  72. 67
  73. 68
  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. 72
  78. 73
  79. 74
  80. Acknowledgments
  81. About the Author
  82. What’s next onyour reading list?

“Sorry to bother you,” Jack said. “But a customer’s here to pick up an amberina pitcher and I have no idea where you put it.”

“I’ll be back in a minute.” She put down the phone and said, “I’m sorry. I have to go back to the store.” As much as she wanted the conversation to be over, she knew it was far from finished. “Gemma, I’m sorry you came all this way for something I can’t help you with. But for what it’s worth, I’m happy to see you. Please . . . stay at our house tonight.”

20

Gemma walked up Commercial Street feeling like a fool. She’d run all the way out to Provincetown based on a single phone call from Elodie. That’s what happened when you felt desperate: You acted desperate. She’d let everything from the past few days rattle her. And now she’d wasted precious time and money.

At least her aunt Celeste offered to let her stay at her house. She canceled her hotel reservation—a place in town that didn’t allow pets and therefore had openings—and lost her deposit but got the rest refunded thankfully. First thing tomorrow, she’d head back to the city. In the grand scheme of things, very little harm done. And yet . . . why had Elodie lied to her?

She’d felt like such a brat asking her aunt Celeste about the ring. As if she just wanted a big fat diamond. Gemma wasn’t a diamond type of person. Even if she got engaged someday—hard to imagine with her current track record—she hoped her husband-to-be proposed with a ring that meant something, not just a generic gem. No, this wasn’t about a diamond. This was about her mother.

Gemma walked the length of Commercial, passing cute shop after cute shop, each window tempting her more than the next: sumptuous throws, robes, and textiles at Loveland, surprisingly hip clothing at a store called MAP, the Provincetown Bookshop, marked with a wooden sign painted with an owl.

The past four years in Manhattan had made long strolls a habit. A tide of pedestrians swept her up toward the East End, past Cabot’s Candy and a second bookstore, East End Books, with a view of the bay. Here, clothing shops and cafés gave way to art galleries.

She decided to climb the brick stairs to the Harrison Gallery. Sometimes, looking at paintings or sculpture helped give her ideas for her own work. No matter what was going on in her life, work—creating—was always the answer.