Natalie had grown up watching the ferryboats and sightseeing catamarans coming and going from the docks of the Marina District. As a girl, she’d attended a couple of parties at the St. Francis Yacht Club, hosted by her school friends whose parents seemed to be drowning in money. She’d been on the high school sailing team, and she and her best friend, Millicent Casey, had become experts at maneuvering their double-handed Vanguard-15 around the bay. However, Natalie had never been aboard any of the luxury yachts with their shiny hulls and helipads and incognito celebrities lounging on the decks. She was always speculating about them from the outside, looking in. Her mother had given her an annotated copy of The Great Gatsby to read, in case there was any question about the toxic effects of idle wealth.

Thanks, Mom.

The autumn weather was changeable, but tonight, Indian summer paid a visit, rendering the sky a hard, clear blue. Following the directions Trevor had sent to her phone, Natalie arrived at the yacht club and made her way to a gated entrance. As soon as she gave her name at the guardhouse, the pampering began. The offer of a cold beverage, a cocktail, perhaps? A hot towel? Directions to the ladies’ lounge? Wi-Fi password?

Although the red clay tiles of the race deck looked familiar, she felt like an imposter here. Women with Birkin bags and Hermès scarves and sunglasses strolled around in chatty groups, taking in the scenery. Empty-nester couples shared drinks at bar tables on one of the decks, looking like a layout for an idealized travel article. Watching them, Natalie remembered that as a kid, she’d tried to put her mother in a picture like this, certain her beautiful mom belonged here among the polished couples.

As Natalie had gotten older, she came to understand that most people found a lasting love. This realization made her wonder about her mother’s heart. She would see handsome, youthful couples together enjoying the good life, and it made her wish her mother could find—and keep—a great guy. When she was in junior high, she’d asked her mom if she was gay.

“Nope,” she had said simply. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you go out with guys, but nothing ever lasts. So I thought maybe you might be gay but trying to be straight.” Her frenemy at school, Kayla Cramer, had posited this theory.

“Please,” Mom said with a laugh. “This is San Francisco. If I was gay and I wanted a relationship, I’d have a girlfriend.”

Through the years, Natalie had brought up the subject from time to time. “You’ve met some wonderful men,” she’d said one summer when she was home from college and working in the bookstore. “You’re really pretty, Mom, and you’re a total catch—an independent woman with her own business? Guys love that.”