On the fifth day after my husband’s daughter was born, we saw a lawyer. Her name was Nancy Willfollow—her office a renovated heritage home on the edge of town. She had been a customer at my store on occasion, breezing into the shop in her shapeless black Eileen Fisher togs. Despite the slow pace of island life, she exuded an air of frazzled efficiency. She had three sons away at boarding school and a retired landscape architect husband who devoted himself to the care of their home and garden. Perhaps the townspeople of Hawking had more pressing legal issues than I thought?

My cheeks burned as Brian told the fiftyish woman about the night he bedded Freya upstairs while I was in the basement guest room with Max. It was entirely possible that Nancy and her landscaping husband were swingers. They might have moved to the island specifically for its open-minded, sexually adventurous culture. The attorney’s features remained blank, unreadable, but I was mortified, nonetheless. It could have been worse, I told myself. It’s not like we were using whips or chains or animal costumes. But still . . . the conception of Brian’s child sounded tawdry and sleazy.

My husband slid a print-out of the news story about Max’s paternity case across the polished walnut desk. “Maxime Beausoleil said, in court, that he’s sterile.”

We waited as the lawyer’s eyes roamed over the article. She read slowly, thoroughly, taking in every word, as Brian and I fidgeted in our seats, glancing at each other and back at her.

Finally, Brian said, “The baby has to be mine. The dates line up. And Max is infertile.”

“But we need to prove it,” I added. “Can we make them do a paternity test?”

Nancy finally looked up from the page. “You could take this to court. If there’s enough evidence, the judge might compel them to test the baby. But there’s still no guarantee you’d get custody rights or even visitation.”

Brian said, “Even if we prove she’s my daughter?”

I winced inwardly at my husband’s words. He didn’t mean to exclude me, but this was his fight.

“That would be a separate trial. The judge would want to determine the best interests of the child.”

“Freya and Max aren’t meant to be parents,” I interjected. “They never wanted kids. They’re . . . superficial and self-absorbed.” As soon as I said it, I realized how benign it sounded. Superficial and self-absorbed people reproduced all the time.

“Is the child in danger with them? Do they abuse substances? Is there violence in the home?”

We couldn’t mention the magic mushrooms without implicating ourselves. But Brian took another tack.

“Max has a violent history. He broke a man’s neck during a hockey game. The guy later overdosed on opioids.”