Ann was told to drive the boys in Maureen’s silver Jaguar to the Chequessett yacht club for sailing lessons, to Highland Links golf course in Truro, to the tutor’s house in Orleans, all the way to Plimoth Plantation for classes, and again and again to their friends’ fancy houses in Chatham on Fox Hill Road. She’d never spent so much time in a car and, after only a few days, was already tired of driving around rotaries, and getting stuck behind lost tourists, or cars slowing down to admire the occasional water view.

Once, Ann drove past the driveway that led to her house, and pointed it out to the boys. “That’s where I live,” she said.

Toby sounded surprised. “I thought you said you live in Wellfleet.”

“I do. This is South Wellfleet.”

“I thought there was only Wellfleet Wellfleet.” He sounded disapproving.

Brooks, who was awkward and sweet, and addicted to his Rubik’s Cube, looked away from his toy and out the window. He said, “You mean you live right on Route 6?”

He said it with such disdain that Ann was embarrassed she’d mentioned it in the first place. After that, every time she drove past her family’s home the rest of that summer—and she drove past it at least twice a day, it was unavoidable—she could hear his words in her head.

Ann’s parents had old-fashioned ideas of summer fun that involved walking across Uncle Tim’s Bridge, flying kites, making grave rubbings on the old tombstones with charcoal and tracing paper, catching frogs, picking wild blueberries, going for hikes, reading library books, and whittling the sticks they found in the yard with a Swiss Army knife. They’d introduced all these things to Michael the previous summer, and he’d loved every second of it. Once, when they were standing in line for ice cream at P.J.’s, Michael had said, out of the blue, “I’m having the best time ever.”

These boys knew nothing of that sort of best time. They didn’t ride rusty, ill-fitting bikes or eat sandy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on the beach. Maureen was so panicked about her sons’ schedules and fearful of their boredom, it was as if she feared that a single idle moment would cause them to grow listless and die.

It would be great to be rich, Ann thought, but also exhausting.

Maureen signed the boys up for an afternoon sailing camp the second week Ann worked for them. She didn’t really need Ann to hang around the house while they were gone, but Ann didn’t feel she could leave.

Alone and bored in the Shaws’ silent, sterile home, Ann missed the fun she’d had with Michael and Poppy the previous summer. If only Poppy and Michael had jobs, too, maybe she wouldn’t feel like she was missing out so much.