Amy reached for her tea, took comfort in the mug she drank from: a brown-speckled mug Jack made at camp years ago. The objects of home, the important things, she reminded herself—even as she fingered the edges of the scrap of paper she’d been keeping in the pocket of whatever she’d worn for the past two weeks. Touched it—that was all she did.

The phone’s ring startled her and she grabbed it before the second ring. Carol Anne, reminding her of the fund-raising meeting in an hour.

“You do not have to remind me.” Lies seemed to flow so much easier now. “I’ll be there.”

“I do have to remind you. You’ve been a little . . . gone lately. You missed the meeting last week and we can’t do much without the chairperson. You have all the paperwork and schedules.”

Irritation swelled. Amy placed her head against her palm. “I’ll be there in an hour. I was working on my lesson plans for this week. We have a field trip.”

“Amy, you’ve been using the same lesson plans for five years. What’s up now?”

“Nothing. Really. I’ll see you in an hour.”

She hung on to the phone long enough to hear a rapid-squeal signal. Her lesson plan was done, the art-auction paperwork was in perfect order and she did have the phone in her hand. Ah, the rationalizations. She held the receiver in one hand and reached inside the pocket of her wool pants, keeping her eyes closed as though she couldn’t watch herself. She fingered the piece of paper as if she could read Nick’s phone number through her skin.

She laid the paper on the desk, the phone still in hand, and opened her eyes; the paper remained folded. She stared at it as the phone screamed its off-the-hook warning. She opened the paper with one finger and stared at the number. She reached across the desk and pushed the button to reconnect to a regular dial tone. The paper flopped closed when she lifted her finger.

She began to rest the phone back on the hook. This was not a good idea. But didn’t she have a right to know what had really happened? It was part of her life, her life, and she wanted, deserved to know why he had never come back, what telegram he was talking about, what she possibly could have done that made him believe he couldn’t come home. Also he’d said he could help with Oystertip, and the committee could definitely use him. She’d told the others on the island project about him and they knew Nick Lowry, knew his reputation, and couldn’t believe that she could get him to help.

She opened the paper and pressed each number slowly, deliberately.