Caroline was now getting pissed at Little Lost Island and its Little Lost denizens. What was wrong with them? She shouldn't be that much of a pariah. Especially in Maine.

She pulled off her stupid cloche and threw it into the woods. Let the raccoons get it, she thought. It'll look better on them than it does on me, anyway.

She passed a couple of women in large straw hats who smiled at her and said, "Evening." Caroline did not reply. Everyone was having fun here except her. It was time to go.

She pulled out her phone and started texting her pilot. He could be here in two hours. But the texts did not send. Which meant there was no phone signal. Why is there never any fucking signal on this fucking island?

She would drive home in the Mini.

Caroline couldn't remember the ferry schedule and she thought she might already have missed the last one. She was almost tempted to row across in somebody's boat but she didn't much want blisters or the humiliation of getting halfway over and collapsing of exhaustion and having to be pulled the rest of the way by some grinning motorboater. Who would sell his story to Hello!

She remembered that the schedule was tacked on the bulletin board at the island post office, which was pretty nearby, wasn't it? She turned off the main boardwalk onto a side path through the woods. The post office was right in front of her.

The sight of the low building, with its spindly columns and wide porch, its sweet wooden sign with the island's zip code and its altogether hopeful aspect, cheered Caroline slightly. This is the post office that Isadora must have gone to when she was roaming the island in her long white pin-tucked linen dresses, Caroline thought. She mailed letters to the handsome buck her parents wanted her to marry and hid among them postcards to the young, earnest, bespectacled scholar she actually loved. Caroline had heard about the current postmaster from Lottie-he was an elderly former waterskiing champion who took the job very seriously and couldn't hear very well. He took an outboard to the mainland every day to pick up the mail and sort it into the heavy brass boxes with tiny windows, one for each cottage. Maybe he was a descendant of the first postmaster on Little Lost, the one who must have brought Isadora her mail. She would come down here early every morning to see if her scholar had written her again, hiding his elegant penmanship from her parents. Only the postmaster knew what was going on between them.

"Jesus," said Caroline. Where is my mind going? It's turning into mush on this island. The post office was closed for the day but the building was open. Nobody locked anything here. She checked the schedule on the wall. If she ran down to the dock she could get on the five-thirty. She'd drive to Boston and take a shuttle if they were still running. She'd be home by midnight if luck was with her.

She ran down toward the dock.

On the Eleventh Hour Max had already started the engine; she could hear it from the boardwalk path. She knew he would pull out if she wasn't on board at the stroke of the half hour, so she turned on the speed. One thing about movies: they keep you in good shape. She was barely out of breath as Max untied the boat. She walked calmly on and went upstairs to the upper level. Barely anyone was going over to the mainland on such a gorgeous evening. Why would they?

Caroline looked down at the shimmering water as the boat turned toward the shore. The lobster buoys were like confetti on the surface of the water. Max could pilot a boat, that's for sure. They skimmed over the channel to the landing.

This was kind of a foolish thing to do, now that she thought about it. She'd have to send someone to pack up her stuff. She didn't even have her license in the clutch she had brought to the hat party-a clutch that she had taken from the third floor of Hopewell, in fact. At least she had some cash in the pocket of her linen sundress, surely enough to get home by car. Just don't get into any accidents on 95, Caroline. Not the press you want right now.

A waterbird made a sudden dive into the water as they passed. Caroline still didn't know its name. She did know that she wouldn't learn it in New York.

The one she felt worst about leaving was Beverly. Naked Jon was pretty funny too, and Lottie, so annoyingly jolly. And she believed she and thoughtful Rose might have been friends.

Too bad.

The ferry pulled in to the dock on Big Lost. Max tied up. Caroline alighted from the boat. "Thank you," she said. She wanted to tell him that she was leaving and not coming back. She wanted to give him another chance. To give them all another chance.

"See you," he said.

Crushed, Caroline tried to get a signal again before she got in the car. There was nothing. She opened the door to the oven that was the Mini and started on the long road back to New York.

The city would be dead. No one is there in August. She could go out to the Hamptons to that richer-than-thou scenario, but after this it did not appeal. She could take the plane somewhere else, somewhere where no one knew her and she could figure out who she was meant to be. That was exactly what she had wanted to do on Little Lost. I am a little lost soul, she thought, aware she was full of self-pity. Wherever I go, there I am.

The road back to Route 1 followed the bend of the river into town. Caroline hadn't even known exactly what an estuary was till she got here and Rose explained. "It's a salt river we're on, not the ocean itself. A river with tides, a river that runs into the sea."

Rose could make anything sound like a poem. Their river was called the Dorset. Everything around here had an English name if it didn't have an Indian name. Penobscot, again courtesy of Rose.

Would it be easier to get the others out of the cottage than for her to leave? If she were all alone, no one to intrude, no one to say she was beautiful or luminous and no one to imply she was not, possibly then this exquisite place would be bearable.

Her phone dinged. She was back on the grid.

She was right in front of the Dorset library. She would text her mother and say she'd be out in the wretched Hamptons tonight and to leave the alarm off.

Before she could swipe open her phone, she saw what had come in when it dinged.

It's Mike McGowan. . . .

Who's Mike McGowan? she thought as she slid open the phone and scrolled.

The writer of the movie you're considering. One of the movies.

A screenwriter was texting her on her private phone? Where the fuck had he gotten the number? And the gall?

Caroline did not respond. Her phone dinged again.

Mike McGowan. I wrote The Benghazi Contraction. The book.

Oh, this was the author of the book. The secret genius. Why was he texting her?

How did you get my number?

Danny Lowenstein's office.

I'll kill him. Why are you texting me?

I want to see you. I need to see you.

Ah, this kind of message she recognized.

Give me one reason you need to see me. Half a beat. Was he hesitating?

Mon triste coeur bave a la poupe. :) Ha! Texting in French! He's done his homework, I'll give him that. What does it mean, though-my sad heart dribbles on the poop deck? She knew it was a quote from something but she couldn't remember what. Caroline thought back to the short time she was at Brown. French lit was going to be her concentration till she took that eighteenth-century English novel class with that teacher she loved so much. Professor Phelan. Tweedy, bearded, though not pipe smoking, he was her vision of a college professor come to life. They read Clarissa, with which she struggled, The Monk for a laugh, and Tom Jones, which she adored. After Phelan, she was going to change her concentration to English, but she dropped out when she got the call for the Oliver Stone movie (which ended up not getting made).

Which was why her French was rustier than the publicists said it was.

Where are you?

I'm in New York but I could be there tonight.

Do not come tonight.

A gawper. Back away. Although, on reflection, a little admiration from a genius would not go amiss here. She was not going to regret toying with Mike McGowan.

Don't come unless you're prepared to tell me who you are. Who you REALLY are.

There was a pause then. Caroline had been told by asshole Danny Lowenstein how carefully the Mike McGowan myth was preserved. To learn who was behind the name would be a coup, like finding out that Dan Brown was really Philip Roth.

She tapped the screen away to text her mother. Mike McGowan came back strong.

I can tell you in person.

He was persistent.

Not till I say so.

Please say so.

This guy had it bad. She looked up from her screen and smiled at a couple of little girls who were heading into the library. It was their late night tonight.

We'll see.

Caroline followed the girls inside. They peeled off toward the children's room, a festive-looking place that she'd go into another time. She went instead over to the fiction shelves. Patterson, O'Brian, O'Connor, McMurtry, McGowan. The Pentagon Conscription was there, but not the newest one. Or the one with a part for her, of course. He was still writing that one.

She looked back at her phone. No message from Mike McGowan, which was good; any more after her last would have been too much.

She went to the desk, where a tattooed librarian looked over chic glasses, waiting for her to make an overture. If you want something, ask for it, was the message in Dorset.

"Good evening." She used her most embracing voice. That good evening implied not only do I respect and truly understand librarians, but I also like your eyewear choice, which she actually did. The librarian smiled. "I was hoping to get a book by Mike McGowan."

"Oh, he's very popular," she replied. "We have a waiting list for his newest."

Caroline's face fell. She knew how to do bravely overcoming disappointment.

"It's not long. Three or four more weeks. I would order more copies if we had the budget." The librarian was almost too Yankee to glance in the direction of the Capital Improvement Fund donation can.

"Oh, I had so wanted to read it today," Caroline said. She didn't even realize she had used her own, genuine voice. Maybe the librarian recognized her. Maybe she just thought Caroline was an unusually needy book patron. But she reached under the counter and rooted out her bag, another chic little number, vintage alligator.

"Here, take mine," the librarian said. "I'm a blogger. The publishers give me advance copies for free. Mind you, give it back to the library's secondhand book sale, though." She withheld it until Caroline gave her assent.

"I will. How kind you are." She made a mental note to make a generous donation to the Dorset Harbor Library fund.

"Not at all," said the librarian. A-tall. "It's not very good."

"I'm sure you're right," said Caroline. "Thank you."

She studied the flashy jacket as she left the room. She ran her index finger over the raised letters of the author's name. MIKE MCGOWAN.

A genius? A gawper? A conquest? A diversion?

True love?

She took out her phone.

Little lost island, maine. She could still get out of this. But not till I say so.

An immediate swoosh back.

Please say so.

The Blue Moon.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

There was no excuse, really, for Robert to visit Little Lost. He had never, ever disturbed a tenant before. He'd waited for an invitation from his various renters for lo these many years but had not received one. This year he needed to make a visit, invited or not. He didn't want to spoil the magic of the house by arriving unannounced, but at the same time he had a sense that the island wasn't working its magic for this year's guests. For Rose, actually. Just for Rose.

It was enough, mostly, to have peace at his own place as well as time and money to play his music. But she needed magic, and frankly so did he.

Don't be pathetic, Robert.

The pursuit of love had driven people to schemes far more mad than driving up to Maine on a lovely August morning. He actually enjoyed bombing up through Massachusetts and the corner of New Hampshire and over the Piscataqua River Bridge to Maine. Even though it was a summer Friday, he hadn't encountered much traffic. He'd gotten in the car just a little after six thirty a.m. and it was only eleven thirty when he stopped for a stretch at the welcome post at the start of the Maine Turnpike. He'd do as he'd said he would when he wrote to Rose: visit a guitar maker he was friends with in Brooklin for a few days. Then if his ardor was still pricked, he'd go up to Little Lost.

The engine ticked as he turned off the ignition. He opened the door and took his first deep breath of Maine air. Sharp and thin and fresh, even in the dead of August, it woke up his body every time. He stretched his legs out of the car and made use of the facilities. He didn't spend long at the place, but took note of the pleasant-faced retiree behind the information counter and nodded as a longtime visitor to a real Mainer. He knew his place.

Robert indulged himself in a long reverie on the next leg of the journey. He imagined showing Rose the whole island, walking the periphery at low tide. He'd will a seal into view as they gazed out over the water at sunset. He'd look at her in the light of every room in the house. And he'd take her up to the third floor, the part of the cottage that was truly his home.

The traffic still wasn't bad, so when he got to Brunswick he decided to go up Route 1 instead of pounding up 95. He was only going to Brooklin tonight, not all the way to Little Lost. He thought about what it would be like to introduce Rose to the other islanders. They always liked couples more than single people there. Especially single people who hadn't grown up on the island.

Red's Eats traffic held up everything outside Wiscasset, as usual. He didn't mind, though. It was a pretty day, and the water, when he could see it, gleamed. If things with Rose didn't work out, maybe he would rent out in July next year and save August for himself. You really can't beat August in Maine.

The traffic was at a standstill, so he checked his phone as inconspicuously as he could while he still had a signal. He'd take a break before Brooklin at the Farnsworth Art Museum. Perfect idea. He could go see some Andrew Wyeths. He'd visit the paintings of Rose before he saw Rose herself. If they had any there. He couldn't remember.

He typed in "Wyeth Helga Maine Farnsworth Museum" and was surprised to see they didn't have Helga paintings in their collection. But among the search results appeared one from the Colby College Museum of Art: Currently on View: Andrew Wyeth: Helga on Paper.

He just caught the turn for 27 North. Waterville was practically on the way.

Over the next few days after the hat party, Lottie made more friends on the tennis courts and was the first to be invited to tea in the Little Lost Tearoom. "It's like being in a village in eighteen eighty-two," she said, "but with teeth whitening."

"I don't even think they whiten their teeth here," Jon said. "They're just born with those genes. And then they're out in the sun all the time getting tan, so no wonder their teeth look so white. Lots of wrinkles, though. Unlike you." He squeezed her from behind again.

"My mom!" cried Ethan.

"Mine, too!" said Jon.

"Mommy is not your mommy," said Ethan. "Mommy is my mommy."

"Who's my mommy?" asked Jon.

"Grandma?" Ethan answered.

"Yes, Grandma! Let's call her, Ethie," Jon said. He really should phone in to see how his stepdad was doing. "Want to take the fast ferry into town with Dad? That way you can have some time to yourself, Lottie. You've earned it. And I," he said, picking Ethan up and lifting him overhead, "can call in to the office to see what happened at the meeting this morning, if they remember who I am." It had been a full week since he gave them the fake pneumonia excuse and now he was going to miss the client meeting. Time was hard to calculate here.