A triumph.

The kids poured off the stage and into the arms of their parents, who'd been determined to be pleased by anything they saw but were genuinely delighted at this. Robert began to pack up the music. He looked for Caroline but could not find her in the crowd. A few of the islanders he knew gave him a pat on the back and said, "Good job." He waited for Caroline to come over and tell him he had been magnificent, that he had saved the show, that they made a great duo, but when he did spot her, she was surrounded by kids who wanted a group selfie, so she was not about to notice him.

He gave her a few minutes, just to be sure she'd have a chance to find him if she was looking. Then she went backstage and he was forgotten.

Figures.

Ah well, the walk back to the cottage might be restorative. He turned off the lights as he walked out of the assembly room and turned onto a shortcut to Hopewell. The air had that almost-fall chill; there was the sharp tang of woodsmoke on the breeze; the crickets were deafening; the sky was cloudless. The high, brilliant moon was in its full glory. The path was wide enough for two. He was one.

"Robert!"

Was that the voice? A flashlight wavered on the path behind him. It must be in the hands of someone who didn't know the path well. Someone who needed another person to walk with. Someone who had recently been a pirate?

He turned and shaded his eyes against the light. "Um, can you put that down a little?" He hated to ask, but she was practically blinding him. "Caroline." The thrill of saying this new name.

She lowered the flashlight and he could see her outlined by the moonlight, which made her luminous, which even he recognized was a cliche.

"You saved the show," said Caroline. "Thank you. I'm Caroline Dester."

"You saved the show, I think." The more he heard that name, the more he thought he knew her from somewhere. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

"I don't think so," she said. "Every time you're at the cottage, I'm not. Does this path lead back home?"

Home! A thrum of possibilities shot through his body.

"Straight to Hopewell. I don't think we even need the flashlight, do we? The moon is so bright."

They could see their shadows as they walked. "I thought you played guitar," said Caroline.

"I mostly play guitar, but I can noodle around on the piano if absolutely necessary. My own instrument is the lute." So nerdy! Would she run away?

"I'd like to hear a lute sometime," she said.

"Anytime." He hoped he sounded nonchalant.

They walked in silence for a while, the soft tones of the buoy bells in the distance. There was the tiniest trace of a mustache still on her face.

"Do we have to go straight back?" asked Caroline. "It's such a pretty night. I haven't seen the island in moonlight. Where does this path go?"

She was leading them along a dirt path that would take them to the east side of the island if they followed it all the way. "We'll be able to see the moon on Horseshoe Beach if we take that one," he said.

"Then let's take that one."

Even Robert could not have predicted this. Just a couple of hours ago he was gutted by the appearance of Rose's husband. Now he was in the moonlight, on his island, with this exquisite woman, who wanted to keep walking with him and who called his cottage home.

She stumbled. Take care of her, you fool! "Careful, there are a lot of roots to watch out for here. Do you want the flashlight?"

"No, my eyes are used to the dark now. It's quieter this way."

He knew exactly what she meant.

"Watch out on the rocks here too. It's a couple of steps onto the beach. There."

Neither of them spoke as they regarded the moonlight on the water, a wide swath of silver white light on the sleepy waves. It was cold down here on the water's edge. Caroline rubbed her hands over her arms. Why hadn't he thought to bring her a sweater?

"Cold?" he asked.

"No." She was looking out to sea. "I'm good."

Robert wanted to take her hand and almost reached for it. But she didn't need his help to steady herself on a flat beach, so there was no excuse. As he was wondering what kind of excuse he could make up, Caroline said, "You made this all possible."

"What?" he asked.

"Not the moon and the beach. But the cottage. And the sign. The whole month of August. It was all your idea, and it's working. Every one of us is happy here."

They stood in silence till he saw her shiver. "I can't stand that you're cold," he said. "Shall we go back to the cottage?"

"Okay," said Caroline. "But let's take the long way."

They found a lot to talk about as they wound back along the path on the island's periphery to Hopewell. Robert's image of Caroline Dester as an out-of-work actress evaporated when she used the phrases "talk-show appearances" and "my favorite assistant director." He was glad he never read People magazine or looked at celebrity websites. He would have been far too intimidated by Caroline Dester to play piano for her island production.

"I hope you don't mind me pushing around the furniture in the cottage," she said. "It just needed a fresh eye, I think."

"Absolutely," he said. He wanted to say, I not only like your eye, I am blown away by every single thing about you, from the top of your moonlit hair to your crooked little toe. Can I kiss you, please?

"You haven't even seen what Beverly and I did in the little garden off the kitchen," said Caroline. They weren't far from Hopewell now and Robert wanted to delay going in for as long as he could.

"Show it to me now," he said.

"It's dark."

"Show it to me in the moonlight, and then again tomorrow, in the sun. How about that?"

They walked over to where Caroline and Beverly had begun working. "We thought Hopewell Cottage needed a kitchen garden," she told him, "so we planted herbs."

He closed his eyes and breathed in their scent. "I'm getting something," he said. "Basil?"

"Basil for one." She leaned down and picked a few leaves off one of the plants. She rubbed them together right under his nose.

"Oh! Lavender," he said.

"I love lavender."

I'll bathe you in it, he thought.

She plucked another. "How about this one?"

"Easy. Thyme." Could he lick her finger?

"Try again." She stepped even closer. He could smell the thyme but more powerfully he could smell her own scent: roses, honey, lime.

"Thyme," he said again. "Oh, but you're right, there's something else in there. Lemon thyme," he said.

"Got it," she said. "Here's a tricky one." She crushed some leaves between the palms of her hands, then opened them in front of Robert's face.

I love you, he thought. "Isn't that oregano?" he said.

"Marjoram," said Caroline. "Beverly prefers it to oregano. More subtle, he says. He was so bossy about what we could put in this garden and what we couldn't." She looked up at the cottage. Robert saw her take notice of the light on in one of the turret rooms. "I don't want Beverly worrying about me. We should go in."

She turned toward the back stairs of the cottage and he followed. The Hopewell kitchen, with its pile of lobster crackers, dirty silverware, and wineglasses in the sink, was spectacularly unromantic. He should have made his move out there in the herb garden.

"That was really fun," said Caroline. "Really beautiful, actually. Thanks, Robert."

"Oh. Yes. Thanks."

She hesitated for a moment. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Right. See you in the morning."

Robert went up to the boys' dorm room, where he had been staying since he'd got here. What an idiot not to have offered her a drink or made a fire or done something. The lost moment of all time.

He ran the water hard in the bathroom as he brushed his teeth con brio. Who cared if he woke up the place? He climbed unhappily into bed but after two minutes he knew he wouldn't sleep, and not because of the light of the moon. He needed to be in his own space to think about everything that had gone on tonight. This dorm room was not home for him.

Carefully, quietly, he moved the trunk away from the door to the third floor. If he could just look out his own windows onto the sea he could maybe straighten out his head. Were any of his feelings genuine? Or did he just fall in love with every single woman who liked this island, this house?

He crept up the stairs to his own beloved room. No need for the brash overhead light; not with this moon.

There was Caroline, sitting on the old horsehair couch, a lute in her arms.

"That's not how you hold it," he told her.

"Then show me," she said.

The End of August.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

Fred's heart was pounding from climbing this cliff. At the top were Rose and the kids, and he had to get there before school started. The cliff kept getting higher and garbage trucks were rolling by, which meant they'd all be late for school. He was almost there in time to rescue them when he looked up and saw Caroline Dester pushing Bea's stroller. He shouted and shouted, "Where's Rose?" and then he lost his footing and he started to fall- He awoke with a jolt, pulse racing. He sat up and oriented himself in the room. Thin gray light was coming in from the window. Rose was asleep beside him. He was at the cottage where Rose was staying for the month of August. And, in the light of day, to his complete horror and distress, he realized that Caroline Dester might be staying here too.

He tried to piece it all together. Rose was sharing the cottage with the other woman from Park Slope, Lottie. Fine. Lottie's husband was here, and their kid. The guy who owned this place was named Robert. And there was an older man with a woman's name.

But Caroline Dester had specifically said she was on Little Lost Island. Was Caroline here too? His mind exploded a little.

He got up as quietly as he could but the bed creaked and the floorboards creaked. Rose turned to him and half-opened her eyes.

"I have to pee," Fred whispered.

He grabbed a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around his waist. It gave him enough yardage to conceal his jeans, which he swept up on the way out of the room. In his jeans was his phone. And in his phone were the messages from Caroline. He could scroll through them again to see if she'd said the name of the place she was staying. And then delete them all. Permanently. If I have any luck at all, he thought, she will be at some other massive cottage on this island and I will never see her. Just do not be staying here. Please.

His phone was dead. Shit.

He thought it through as he peed. If she's here, I find her, tell her it was all a gigantic mistake, and beg her not to tell Rose. What a pussy. Or I just deny it all. If he told Rose the truth now it would crush the fragile thing they'd just built up again last night. And he wanted to rebuild it. The Caroline thing-which wasn't even a thing-was what a teenager did, not a grown man with a wife he loved. It wasn't worthy of him and it wasn't worthy of Rose.

He would get to Caroline Dester before she got to Rose. He had no idea how. He just hoped the fates were with him.

Rose was out of bed when he got back to the room. Her skin was so pretty in this early light. "Rose, can I tell you something?"

"I know. You love me," Rose said, and kissed him. "You have made that amply clear. But now I'm starving and I think all that noise from the kitchen means somebody is making us breakfast. Let's go see. And then back to bed."

Fred followed Rose down the hall to the kitchen. The source of the clattering was the older man. What was his name?

"Good morning, Beverly," said Rose.

"Hello, Rose," said Beverly. "I'm cleaning up. The kitchen was left a shambles last night but I've still managed to produce some lemon muffins. They're in the oven."

"I thought I smelled something baking," she said. "You're the best." She smiled at Fred. "I make the downstairs coffee," she told him. "Beverly keeps taking his pot upstairs so he doesn't have to share with anyone."

"You're lucky I'm going deaf, or I would have heard that," said Beverly.

Fred laughed, a little too hard.

"Rose, can you set the table?" asked Beverly. "We all had a late night last night and I suspect many of you young people have worked up an appetite." He looked in the oven, the homey smell of the baking almost putting Fred at ease. Nothing truly bad could happen here. "The muffins will be out of the oven soon. I'm just about to put the bacon on. And perhaps it won't tax you too much to scramble some eggs?"

"I can scramble eggs," said Fred. It would give him something to do. But first he had to find out if Caroline Dester was here. He went to the base of the stairs and looked up.

"They're in the refrigerator," Beverly said. "But did you want a tour first?"

"Nope, no," said Fred. Better not act too jumpy. "Just getting my bearings." Take the plunge. "Where does everyone sleep in this place?"

Rose started the coffee and got out a couple of mugs. "This can be yours," she said, holding one out to him. "The jokey lobster pot one. And here are the eggs." She handed him the container. "They're from the market boat."

"Great. So, how did you divide up the rooms?"

"Oh, right," Rose said. "Lottie and Jon sleep down here on this floor. Ethan, too. Beverly chose one of the turret rooms, didn't you, Beverly?"

"And a lovely room it is, too," he said.

"Robert's in the dorm room."

"We think," said Beverly. "I suspect there were some shenanigans last night."