“Anthony?” A low drumbeat of panic began to play in Joy’s ribs. Did Cassie want Anthony back?

“Anthony Puckett.”

“I don’t know an Anthony Puckett.” This couldn’t be Cassie. The last name did sound familiar, though—where had Joy heard it recently? Puckett, she thought. Puckett, Puckett, Puckett.

“He’s here for the summer,” said the woman. “Or, ah, maybe longer, I don’t know. Sandy hair, about this tall . . .” She indicated with her hand. “Super-cute.”

Then again, could this be Cassie? The physical description of Anthony was spot-on.

“I know an Anthony Jones.” Super-cute was absolutely right. But something else felt very wrong.

The woman sighed. “Fine. Whatever. I’m sure it’s the same guy. He might be incognito.” She narrowed her eyes at Joy.

“Why would he be incognito?”

“Do you know an Anthony or don’t you?”

Now Joy was certain this was Cassie. She was caught exactly halfway between feeling threatened and feeling angry. If she’d had the guts, she would have smacked Cassie across her gently made-up face, smearing her lipstick. How dare she leave Anthony for another man! How dare she make him sad? How dare she, how dare she, how dare she? And also, what did she want with Anthony now, after all this time? Joy didn’t like feeling threatened.

Joy raised her finger and said, “Yes. I think I do. Do you need his number?”

“I have his number. I’ve been trying to call him since I got on that ferry. He’s not taking my calls.”

Joy picked up her cell phone from behind the counter. “Let me give him a try.”

Anthony answered on the first ring. “Joy!” he said. “I’m so glad you called. I was just thinking about last night. It was such a strange ending to a great night, and I know that’s because Maggie was home, but I never got to say—”

“Not now,” interrupted Joy. “Anthony, not now. I have to tell you something. Cassie’s here.”

“She is?” said Anthony. “Cassie?”

At the same time the woman with the colored tips to her hair said, “What the fuck are you talking about? Cassie?”

“Aren’t you Cassie?” Joy asked. She was definitely very confused.

“Absolutely not,” said the woman aggressively.

“You’re not?”

“I know Cassie, Cassie hired me. But I am definitely not her. She— Whatever. I can never remember how that goes.” Not-Cassie sighed and held a business card out between two fingers. Her nails were cut square and painted an extravagant turquoise, like they were trying to match the color of the water off Scotch Beach.

“Scratch that,” said Joy into the phone. “It’s not Cassie after all. My mistake.” She took the business card and squinted at it. “It’s Shelly Salazar, book publicist.”

“Oh, God,” said Anthony. “Really?”

In a quick and decisive motion Shelly Salazar took the phone from Joy and pressed it to her own ear. “I heard that, Anthony,” she said. “And I don’t know where you are on this tiny island but you’d better get yourself down to where I am, a place called . . .” She looked around. “What is this place called?” she asked Joy.