Ever so slightly, his spirits began to lift.

But then he remembered that he was shunned and probably toxic. He remembered that the only people in his universe who would talk to him were his mother, whose pity and concern he couldn’t bear, and Shelly Salazar, who wanted him to do a photo shoot with his father and Annie fucking Leibovitz. He remembered that he wasn’t even fit to be a good father to his son, and he felt his heart close up like a crocus after sundown. He didn’t deserve a new friend.

“Sorry,” he said gruffly, trying not to look in the woman’s eyes in case he had hurt her feelings. “No sugar.”

Chapter 5

JOY

AS THEY WALKED to the eleven-fifteen ferry, Joy watched Maggie carefully for signs of confusion or stress. Maggie was going to visit her father, Dustin, and Sandy (his newish wife) and Tiki (their two-year-old daughter), as per their usual arrangement. One weekend a month Maggie would don one of her clever T-shirts—Never Trust an Atom, They Make Up Everything; I Don’t Want to Taco ’Bout It, It’s Nacho Problem—and cross Block Island Sound to spend the weekend with her father.

Joy knew from Holly, whose mother was a child psychologist in Boston, that childhood stress could manifest itself in unrecognizable ways, and even though Maggie had been making this trip for nearly two years now, ever since Dustin had resurfaced, taken up residence in Newport, and expressed a desire to reconnect with Maggie, Joy wanted to be watchful. Thirteen was a vulnerable age.

Did Maggie possibly have a stomachache that she was trying to hide from Joy? No, she was just brushing some confectioners’ sugar from her T-shirt. (Lemon ricotta pancakes, Dinner by Dad, ab-so-freaking-lutely phenomenal.)

Was she showing signs of reluctance to leave the island? No, she had merely stopped in front of Mia’s Gelateria to tie the laces on her Converse. New England, read today’s shirt. Because Old England Was Wicked Stupid.

Pickles walked between Joy and Maggie, looking eagerly from one to the other. “Sorry, Pickles,” said Joy. “No ferry ride for us.” Pickles, like many island dogs, loved the ferry.

The girl working at the ferry terminal was a soon-to-be senior at the high school (one of seven): Madison Blevins. She had a cast on her left arm from wrist to elbow. “Hey, Madison,” said Maggie, and Madison said, “Hey, Maggie.” Madison wore a dark blue polo shirt with the ferry insignia on the upper left side. Joy tried to unremember the story about Madison Blevins getting drunk at a house party the evening of the last day of school and falling down on her wrist, because this was a tiny island and even teenagers who made mistakes probably deserved more privacy than they got.

Unless that teenager was someday Maggie, in which case Joy would want to know about any bad behavior immediately.

“You don’t need to bring me on the ferry,” said Maggie, after Joy had bought her ticket. “I can find a seat on my own.”