Suddenly the hill to the inn seemed long and steep. How was she going to get all the way to the veranda with the phone, the cooler bag with samples of sixteen different whoopie pie flavors, and the additional weight of her financial panic?

“Joy?” asked Harlan.

Joy shifted the cooler bag. She’d never been the type to be outdone by a small setback, but seven-fifty more a month was really going to sting. Maggie was thirteen and Joy, as hard as she’d tried, had put away only a pittance for college. She’d been paying rent on the cottage and the shop for all of these years and was basically just keeping her head above water. She’d never be able to save enough to buy her own place. She’d die an old lady in a rented cottage, alone except for the cats she’d end up adopting. Not that she’d be able to afford cat food. All this work, all this time, and nothing to show for it.

“You with me, Joy?”

But what was she supposed to do? She couldn’t move! She’d outfitted Joy Bombs with the industrial ovens, the walk-in, tons of heavy equipment. She was still paying back the small business loan, monthly payment by meager monthly payment. And where would she find another location, anyway? The truth was the new rent Harlan was quoting reflected the fair market value. She’d have to suck it up. She’d have to grit her teeth and pretend that Bridezilla was a lovely young woman whose nuptials Joy was very much looking forward to. If Joy could score just a few more events each year maybe she’d be able to absorb the rent increase.

“I’m with you,” she said. “Reluctantly, I’m with you.”

“Joy?” said Harlan. “You need an official letter for that? I can put Stacy on it if you do.” Stacy was Harlan’s longtime secretary. You were supposed to say “assistant” nowadays but Harlan still called her his secretary. Stacy still wore her nails long and painted red; she still frosted and permed her hair.

Joy would just work harder, like she always had. That was the only solution. “No need, Harlan,” she said. “August first, I’ve got it. Save yourself a stamp.” She hung up and tucked the phone in her pocket.

She could see that Kimberly and her mother were sitting in chairs on the inn’s wide veranda. There was a third woman with them whom Joy did not recognize. Most likely a wedding planner trucked in from Boston. Everybody but Joy was wearing sundresses. Kimberly’s was off the shoulder. Her shoulders looked fantastic, tanned and toned, but even before she got all the way to the veranda Joy could see that her Bridezilla mouth was set in a sneer. Joy knew from this that Kimberly had had her heart set on a Boston wedding—the Taj, the Ritz, the Four Seasons. An urban hotel, not an inn on an island that Kimberly obviously thought was second-rate.

Just before she walked up the inn’s steps Joy turned and looked out toward Great Salt Pond, which connected to Trims Pond, which connected to Harbor Pond. Block Island was lousy with ponds—365, one for every day of the year. She took a deep breath in then exhaled slowly. This was her home. Her island, her business. She wasn’t going anywhere.