“Consider it an act of charity. I need to come up with some gift ideas. I’ve alienated at least two or three members of my family this week.”

She laughed and was surprised at how good it felt. Really, what was the harm? It was a trip to the beach, not a marriage proposal. And she needed to get her mind off work.

They rode to the beach in Connor’s Range Rover. The short drive had the perfection of a Coca-Cola ad: the weather, the sun-dappled bay on the left, the salt marshes populated by cranes and herons. Gemma couldn’t help but think, This is not my life.

But it used to be.

As a child, she’d traveled endlessly with her parents: Phuket, the Amalfi Coast, Andalusia, Corfu, the Côte d’Azur. And then, her world became confined to rural Pennsylvania.

A year ago, one of her friends invited her along on a trip to the Hamptons, and Gemma felt completely out of her element. But Provincetown was like a welcoming pair of outstretched arms.

The Herring Cove parking lot was nearly full. Even before she set foot on the sand she could see the untamed, expansive beauty of the place. They walked down a blue tarp framed by shrubbery and wildflowers. A posted notice warned people to be mindful of their dogs at night because of the coyotes. Other signs offered trivia about local birds.

The beaches, Connor explained, were a part of protected federal wetlands.

“Some of the greatest natural wildlife in the country can be found right here,” he said.

Connor knew a lot about Cape Cod. He’d grown up in Boston and spent summers in nearby Chatham with his family. She tried to stay focused on his chatter, to be in the present. But her mind kept slipping into the past. Perhaps it was being back by the water. Or all the thinking about the Electric Rose. Either way, in that moment, she was mentally eight years old again, waking up in a strange hotel room, surprised to find her grandmother had suddenly arrived. The sinking feeling in her stomach.

“Tell me more about the gallery and how that all came together,” she said, trying to bring herself back to the beach.

“The art world is intense. And risky,” he said.

She nodded. “What world isn’t?”

“Antique shops?”

She smiled. “It’s my aunt’s store. I’m sure she has her own stress.”

For two hours, they watched the waves roll in and out. They talked about music, movies, the restaurants in Provincetown. It was unspoken, but they both clearly avoided any serious topics. As usual, she didn’t talk about herself. And like most people, Connor didn’t notice. She’d read once that the surest way for another person to find you interesting was if they do all the talking.