A phone call from a landlord was almost never an indication of good news to come. Before Joy answered Harlan’s call she ran through her monthly mental to-do list to make sure she’d paid the June rent. She knew she had, because she remembered running into the high school basketball coach, Bernie Bowman (“Double B”) in the post office. Double B was mailing two Block Island sweatshirts to his grandsons in Traverse City, Michigan, and Joy had helped him figure out that the priority flat-rate box was a better deal than paying by weight. And then she’d put the rent check to Harlan through the slot. She was positive she had.

“Harlan!” she said, trying to make her voice sound carefree and non-worried, even though she was neither. She parked on Ocean instead of behind the inn because she enjoyed the walk up the vast green lawn; she liked pretending she was a summer person from the early 1900s, just emerged from her carriage and on her way to an elegant dance. Or would she be emerging from an automobile? Didn’t matter.

“Joy,” said Harlan. “There’s something I gotta talk to you about. And I’m not sure you’re gonna like it.” Harlan’s voice had the gravelly, overworked sound of a longtime smoker. He was a property developer who lived in Providence, and Joy imagined that he could have been part of the murky political underworld occupied by Buddy Cianci back in the day. Possibly he still was.

“Okay,” said Joy. She braced herself. She’d never known a person to say, I’m not sure you’re gonna like it, and then follow those words with a lovely surprise.

Harlan went on to tell her that he’d be increasing the rent for Joy Bombs by seven hundred and fifty dollars per month, effective August 1.

“Harlan!” cried Joy. “That’s a lot of money!” Her pulse started to race.

“I’m really sorry,” said Harlan. “But it’s a business decision.”

“Out of the clear blue sky, though?”

“Not really. Your lease is up for renewal.”

“But—”

“It’s like this. We’re moving my mother into Highlands on the East Side, one of those long-term care places. They have, what is it, yoga and tai chi and all of that.”

“Tai chi?” said Joy.

“Right. Also Halloween parties, that sort of thing. Memory care. My wife and I can’t help her on her own anymore. She’s got a touch of the dementia. So we’ve got to find a place for her to live, and with those places you get what you pay for. She’s got—what? A little bit of my dad’s pension. But basically nothing. So . . . I had to make some decisions. And this is one.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Joy. She really was. “But, with all due respect to you and your mother, an increase like that is outrageous! With no warning.”

“This is your warning,” said Harlan. “If you read the fine print in your lease you’ll see that you’re entitled to a forty-five-day notice regarding rent increases or other changes as you come up for renewal. Now, if I’m doing my arithmetic correctly, this is forty-eight days.” She pictured Harlan counting laboriously on his thick fingers, moving his lips as he counted.