“Well, I find it to be a chore,” she said. “And that has nothing to do with my love for Pearl. It’s just grunt work.”

“So you’re one of those people who paid someone to diaper your kids,” he said.

“I don’t have children,” she said.

“No? Me neither,” he said. “I was too busy working.”

“Me too,” she said, and smiled. “But I thought women were the only ones who had to choose between parenthood and career. At least, that was the prevailing wisdom when I was growing up.”

The truth was, work had nothing to do with her childless lifestyle. She had no desire to be a single mother and had simply never found a romantic partner, at least not one that stuck. There had been a few dalliances with men who ran in her circles, people she could call when she needed someone on her arm for this benefit or that, and people who called on her for the same. But it had rarely gone beyond that, and if it did, she always pulled herself back from the edge of developing any real feelings.

“The sea is a demanding mistress,” Tito said.

Her phone rang. Sloan Pierce. Again. She sent it to voicemail.

“Well, who needs kids and marriage? We have our four-legged children.”

“True. But I gotta admit I think about it sometimes. You don’t?”

“No,” she said quickly. “Never. I’m devoted to my work. Relationships have always seemed a messy distraction to me.”

Tito seemed to consider that. Pearl sniffed around Bart and began straining on the leash. “I should get going. She needs exercise.”

Tito gave her a small salute and began walking toward the house. But then he turned and called out to her. “I have a thought, just an idea to make walking her less of a . . . chore. What if we meet up in the morning and keep each other company?”

Well, why not? She missed seeing her usual people in the city. The doormen. Her dry cleaner. The woman at Eli’s who made her cappuccino. It might be nice to have a Provincetown routine.

“I like that idea,” she said. “Just not the crack-of-dawn shift.”

“If you have any questions, just ask. And don’t feel intimidated: Most customers walking into the store during the summer know less about all this stuff than you do,” Jack said.

He was so kind, and a seemingly endless font of information. Gemma followed him around the store, listening more than talking and feeling, happily, like she was back in school.

She picked up a colorful glass bowl. It was floral on the outside and deep pink on the inside and the waffled edges were gilt.

“That’s called a bride’s basket,” Jack said. “It’s colored Victorian glass. That edge there? It’s quatrefoil.”

“How old is it?” she asked.

“That piece is circa 1885.”

She checked the price tag: seventy-two dollars.