“That’s Pickles,” said the woman. She pushed the dog back by the chest, but the dog sprang forward again in a boomerang motion and licked her ear. She giggled and said, “Oh, Pickles!” and rubbed vigorously behind one of the dog’s ears.

For heaven’s sake, thought Anthony miserably.

“Where are you headed, anyway?” the woman asked, pushing the dog back again (successfully, this time).

“Corn Neck Road.”

“I’ll get you there on one condition.”

“What’s that?” He felt wary and on edge, a fox guarding a vast den of secrets. His head ached. It was so hot.

“I want to know why you sent back my drink,” she said. “The other day. At Poor People’s Pub.”

Chapter 13

JOY

“CORN NECK ROAD,” said Joy. “That’s my favorite road.” It wasn’t, actually; her favorite road was Coast Guard Road—one of the most coveted, most private roads on the island—but she wanted to be polite.

“Is it?” said the man.

“It is,” she said firmly.

After that, a silence fell, and Joy thought about how she might as well become an Uber driver and make some money for her efforts. The bill from the dairy in Vermont that supplied her with cream had just come due, plus there was the impending rent increase, and the threat of the macaron truck. The fact was that she could probably use the extra income from driving an Uber.

Joy stole small, furtive glances at her passenger. She wondered if he was going to keep his end of the bargain. He was wearing a gray T-shirt, just as he had been the other times she’d seen him. No wedding ring. Finally she said, “Well? The drink? Why’d you return it?”

“I . . .” Long pause.

“It was a really good drink.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I had to drink mine and the one I sent to you. I had a headache the next day.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated.

She glanced again at him and thought he might be blushing. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a grown man blush. It was kind of adorable. She wondered briefly if Leo of Dinner by Dad ever blushed; it seemed like just the sort of thing he might do, given the proper circumstances. There was that time when the four-year-old had pulled a can of beans from the bottom row of a bean-can pyramid in the grocery store and that older lady had said that awful thing to him . . .

Her passenger said, “I’m not—I’m not drinking.”

It occurred to her that this man might be a recovering alcoholic—after all, Peter said he’d had seltzer at the bar. Joy scolded herself for what might have come across as insensitivity. She’d known plenty of alcoholics in her life: Dustin’s mother, her first roommate out of college, half of her mother’s extended family. “Did you come here to dry out?”

He coughed. “In a way. Sort of.”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I tried to tempt you.”

But I’m not drinking was different from I don’t drink. I’m not drinking implied a past, and maybe also a future. So Joy was intrigued.