One of Bree’s bees landed in a spot of clover not far from her arm and dipped its proboscis into the heart of a flower. As bruises from her attack had begun to fade, everything that had been so murky was becoming clear. For years she’d lived in a skin that didn’t fit her, but the skin she’d adopted this summer had proved to be just as wrong. Had she really thought that slapping on a few tattoos and playing at being fearless would somehow transform her into the free spirit she wanted to be? This summer had been nothing more than a fantasy. Panda was nothing more than a fantasy.

She rolled to her side. Her arm looked different without its rose and thorn ink, like it belonged to someone else. She picked up the pristine pad of yellow paper that lay next to her. This time she didn’t feel like running off to bake bread or take the kayak out. Instead she sat up, balanced the pad on one knee, clicked her ballpoint pen, and finally began to write in earnest.

A lot of what happened that summer, you already know. The way Nealy, Mat, Tracy, and I met has been widely documented by journalists, scholars, biographers, a few novelists, and an awful television movie. But it’s always Nealy and Mat’s story, with me in a supporting role. Since this is my father’s book about Nealy, you might expect more of the same, but I can’t write about my mother without writing about myself …

PANDA STEPPED UP HIS WORKOUTS to mark off the hours until he could finally leave the island. When he wasn’t lifting weights or out for a run, he worked around the house. He repaired the broken screen on the back porch, fixed a couple of rotted windowsills, and talked to half a dozen potential clients on the phone. It was Wednesday. Lucy had only been gone since Friday, but it felt like weeks. He’d driven by the farm stand a couple of times, but he’d seen only Toby or Sabrina West, never Lucy. Every part of him yearned to stalk over to the cottage and drag her back here where she belonged.

He glanced out the window. Temple was down on the dock again. It had been so long since she’d made a snarky remark that he was starting to worry about her. She wasn’t working out as much these days, and she barely spoke. He needed Lucy here to talk to her. To talk to him. For all Lucy’s complaining that he never told her anything, she could read his mind better than anyone.