The Islanders

Dedication

For Brian and the girls. Addie, Violet, and Josie:

you are each my favorite daughter.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Part 1: August, Block Island

Prologue

Part 2: Two Months Ago, June

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Part 3: July

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Part 4: August

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Epilogue

Chococoa Baking Company Chocolate with Creamy Vanilla Buttercream Filling Whoopie Pie

Acknowledgments

P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

About the Author

About the Book

Read On

Praise for The Islanders

Copyright

About the Publisher

Part 1

August, Block Island

Prologue

“IT WAS DISCONCERTING, to see a man cry like that,” said Bridget Fletcher.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Pauline Morrison, who thought that Bridget could be a bit soft at times. Probably because of her youth, and also because she hadn’t grown up on this island, as Pauline had. Growing up on an island toughened you. That was common knowledge. “Why shouldn’t a man be able to cry? I’d be crying, in that situation. Anyone would.”

“You’re not a man, though,” said Bridget reasonably. “That’s what made it all seem . . . uncomfortable. It seemed like such a private thing. He was just heaving. The sobs were coming out of him in waves. They were wracking his entire body.”

Pauline knew that Bridget was enrolled in an MFA course at Boston University that would begin in the fall. It was her private opinion that Bridget talked as though she were speaking lines from a novel she hadn’t yet written, and Pauline, who was as well read as the next guy, was used to a more plainspoken way of communicating. That’s what years of island living did to you. You learned not to waste anything: not food, not heating oil, not time, not words.

“I don’t blame him one inch,” answered Pauline stoutly.

“I don’t either, of course not!” cried Bridget. Young people were so eager, weren’t they? Especially young women. Pauline found it annoying and refreshing in equal measure. Retaining a feel for youth was why Pauline enjoyed her friendship with Bridget, as unlikely as it was. It had only come about because she and Bridget’s aunt, Leona, who owned the house on Payne Road where Bridget was staying (rent-free, lucky thing), had been friends at Vassar all those years ago. Leona—she lived in Boston most of the year, running some big-time charitable organization—had asked Pauline to “keep an eye” on Bridget. So dutifully once a week Pauline invited her for coffee at the whoopie pie shop on Dodge Street.