The blood rushed back to his head. "Then she's on the island."

"Sounds like it," said Max.

Robert ended the call. Maybe I'm in with a chance.

Caroline couldn't figure out why she was still hanging around Little Lost. The day after the shit hit the fan she found herself on the seven-thirty ferry, heading back to the city.

"Untie if we're going," Max had said.

The engine was already running and her bags were packed and onboard. She'd unwound the rope from the cleat. She had gotten the hang of cleats, at least, if not of knots.

Max had steered the ferry away from the dock and opened up the throttle. She thought she'd heard him say something.

"What?" she'd asked.

"He's not a bad guy."

"Thanks, I'll figure this out on my own."

"Suit yourself."

Caroline knew Robert was not a bad guy. He was actually a great guy. She could already tell that he adored her, and not as a screen goddess. He'd barely seen her movies. When he took her to bed and kissed her so ardently, he was not kissing a movie star. He was kissing her.

When she'd gotten off the ferry and into the parking lot, she discovered she didn't have her keys.

She'd spent the day walking around Big Lost Island and trying to find houses she thought she'd like more than Hopewell. There were none. She'd taken the six o'clock back and had no supper, even though Beverly had made paella.

The next day she caught the early ferry again, and this time she left her wallet behind. Clearly Dr. Freud was trying to tell her something.

Now it was the day of Possum's life celebration, and she didn't want to let Beverly down by not showing up. She'd avoid Robert and Rose during the ceremony, stay just till it ended, and then she'd go. If she didn't have her wallet and keys, she'd hitchhike.

Caroline didn't want to be in the cottage, and she was sick of riding the ferry back and forth, so to kill time she wandered up to the assembly room, the scene of her triumph as Captain Hook. She hadn't even checked to see whether any photos had gotten out or if they were making fun of her online. She'd had a blast that night. Robert's music had really helped.

She sat down at the piano. Another beautiful piece of wood covered in old paint. But the yellow was cheery, and matched the notes' tinny sound, so it all seemed to work.

She had lost what little piano skills she'd been taught at St. Andrew's. Mostly she could play "Fur Elise," "Chopsticks," and a mean bass on "Heart and Soul." She started on that now. She gave it a bluesy beat that echoed around the room.

She heard the screen door slam and knew instantly who was there. It would have been a real movie moment if Robert hadn't sneezed to announce his entrance. For a slender guy, he had an enormous sneeze.

Caroline looked over her shoulder. "You," she said. He looked so utterly forlorn and crestfallen she almost forgave him right then. But let him say the first word.

"Oh my God, Caroline, I am so sorry."

She started playing again. This time with a lot of drama. Keep him on the line.

He came closer. "I was an utter fool and idiot."

She shrugged her shoulders.

He hovered next to the piano bench. "What I'm trying to tell you is I think I've fallen-"

"Say it with music," she said.

He put all he had into "Heart and Soul."

"Someone lead the way, before I lose my nerve." Jon, Lottie, and Ethan were neatly dressed and ready on the porch at three o'clock. Rose had also appeared, silent and gloomy. Beverly was mistrustful of this instant family, but they were doing what family does: rallying round.

They took the boardwalk that led past the chapel and up to Cathedral Woods. Ethan ran ahead with Jon. Beverly's legs had grown stronger from all this walking, but still, it was a long way and he took it slowly. Rose and Lottie kept pace with him. No one spoke.

"This will do, won't it, Beverly?" Lottie asked. They had come to a spot where the spruce trees were particularly high. It did look a little like a cathedral.

"Yes, this is where Robert thought we should be," Lottie said. They gathered around Beverly as Jon struggled to open the box. He took out his key chain and gingerly tore open the packing tape. He was mercifully gentle. Inside the box was a somber canvas bag, which Jon handed to Beverly.

"Poor old Possum," Beverly said. There was silence. They don't expect me to speak, I hope. I won't be speaking.

The silence hung.

Then Rose spoke up. At first he wasn't even sure what she was talking about or to whom she was speaking or why. All he registered was her saying that losing things was not a disaster. Ha!

Was this a eulogy or just an observation? Beverly couldn't tell, but at least Rose's sudden declaiming meant he didn't have to say anything. He spilled some of the ashes out of the sack and onto the ground. There was no wind, which was a mercy. He did not want to touch the ashes or to have them touch him. What if he felt fur? Or a bone?

Rose's voice, though not Caroline's, was strong and deep. It was poetry she was reciting, he was sure of it. He closed his eyes and let her words wash over him. On she went, about losing things. And people. And places.

Gorsch would have liked it up here in Maine. He would so have enjoyed those lads who sang, from the hat party. Doubtless he would have invited one of them back to bed with him-and the poor boy would have had to accept: an invitation from the great Sam Gorsch! Who would not take him up on it? Gorsch would have had a whale of a time showing the lad his member. Half of Gorsch's success, Beverly thought, could be laid at the feet of his enormous dick. He smiled. Then he started listening to Rose again.

Now she had moved on to losing houses and keys. As if keys mattered! At least Jon is now going to take over the upkeep of all those houses we have, he thought. Jon seems so eager to do all the things I don't want to do at all. What will I do with myself instead, though? Lottie says we'll all stay friends. I doubt it.

Rose had not stopped.

She keeps saying that one line, Beverly thought, about the art of losing. Is it really in the poem that many times? What a lazy writer. He hoped it was not Rose who had written the poem, though her voice, now raw, was having an effect on him. And on the others. Between the soaring trees and the slanting light and the ashes and the birds and the ragged circle they had formed it was hard to resist the waves of sentiment. Sentiment or real feeling.

I lost my husband, Beverly thought. It has been a disaster.

When Rose finished speaking at last, there was silence for a while. Jon may actually have been crying.

"Now can I get gelato?" asked Ethan. That helped.

Then Beverly saw two figures at the edge of the circle of trees. His darling Caroline, and Robert. Had they patched things up? Rose walked away.

"We stayed at the edges," said Caroline. "But we came. Robert is forgiven."

"Thank you," said Beverly.

"He must have been a very good companion," said Caroline. "Possum, I mean."

"They were both very good companions," said Beverly. "And now one of them is laid to rest. The other one, my darling Sammy"-there, he'd said his name now, his true name-"Lottie said you'd help me, Jon. Will you?" He was suddenly almost panic-stricken that Sam wasn't taken care of.

"Of course," said Jon. "Do you want to stay here and talk about Possum?"

"I have talked and talked about Possum," said Beverly. "I think we can talk about other things." He looked for Rose. "Did she write that poem herself, do you think?" he asked. "Rose, I mean. It was so repetitive, but it made sense. I wonder if she always writes that way, saying the same thing over and over."

"I actually don't think she wrote it," said Caroline.

"It's Elizabeth Bishop," said Caroline and Robert together.

Lottie turned to Caroline. "Now Beverly must come here all the time, every summer, to visit."

"I think that's up to Robert," said Caroline.

"I think that's up to you," said Robert. He took her arm.

"Everyone's coupling off," said Beverly. "Rose!" he called. "I need a little help getting back to the cottage. Could you possibly give me your arm?" He was making Rose and Caroline get near each other and they both knew it. He gave Caroline his left arm and offered Rose his right.

Rose reluctantly took it. "You're trying to get me back into the fold," she said. "Hi, Caroline."

"Bah," said Beverly. "In case it helps, what Gorsch and I did to each other over umpteen years was much worse than this little hiccup of yours."

"I don't think it will make a difference," said Rose, "but tell us about it anyway."

After the cat funeral, Ethan ran off with the island kids, what few were left. A lot of them had already headed back home for school. The adults watched as he played soccer in the field next to the tennis courts. Robert and Caroline had organized a picnic. It made for the perfect funeral repast.

"Happy?" said Jon, coming up next to Lottie, very close.

"I'm happy," she said, with a sigh.

"What's the matter?"

"I'm sorry about Rose and Fred. Otherwise I am perfectly happy."

"The magic will wear off, though, once we get home. It's not like this in real life."

"But we'll have had it. We'll know it's possible. That's a lot." She gave him a kiss. "Why are all those hot blazer boys clustering around Beverly?"

"Hot blazer boys?"

"They're all in blue blazers and they all are very cute. What are they up to?"

The clear note of a pitch pipe sounded. It was the singing group who had been at the hat party all that long time ago-at least it seemed a long time ago.

"You know what fans we are of Sam Gorsch," one of them said. He wore a lavender shirt. "So when we heard you were on the island, and we learned a little about you, we taught ourselves this song. Carl wrote the harmonies. They're a little different than you're probably used to. Plus, we made it a lot more upbeat. Times have changed."

Beverly looked over at Lottie. "You'll have to check with my musical executors," he said.

"Permission granted," said Jon. "And we'll waive the fee."

The lead singer blew the pitch pipe again, nodded to a snappy internal beat, mouthed, "One-two-three-four," and they began to sing.

Two lovers, Their flight of innocent grace.

One palace, A vast impregnable place.

Father, brothers All intent on breaking the pair.

Willow tree blows skyward As the birds float on air Blue willow . . .

When they were done, they held the last note a long time. Then they broke with a yelp. Everyone clapped. Beverly beamed. He turned to Caroline. "Say what you will about that dreadful world we'll go back to when all this is over," he said, "but times have changed indeed."

CHAPTER THIRTY.

Hopewell Cottage was to be filled to the rafters for the last week of August, quite literally. The stray cat at last found Beverly's saucer of goodies and was coming around regularly for leftover grilled swordfish. Fred arranged with Rose that he would fly up with the kids to Boston on the last Tuesday of the month, rent a car, and bring them over on the ferry.

Rose met them at the dock. The kids went wild when they saw her. "Mama! Mommyyyyyy!"

They threw themselves at her and she had to stop herself from toppling over.

"Mommy's crying!"

"I'm crying because I'm so happy to see you."

"That's crazy! You're crazy, Mom."

"I know. I know I'm crazy." She looked at Fred. "Thank you, Fred. Thanks for bringing them." She wiped her nose on Bea's shoulder. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Here take this." He gave her a bandanna. He always had a clean bandanna. It made her cry more. "I wanted them to see you up here. I'm sorry, too. I was a shit."

"Bad word! Bad word, Daddy!" Bea was thrilled to catch him.

Ben had already found the single scariest item on the dock. "Ben! Do not touch that hook!" Fred sprang after him. "Don't touch anything. And let's get out of the way of the other people."

Rose hadn't even noticed that their homecoming was blocking the gangway for the rest of the ferry passengers. "Come on, guys, let's move for a second. Bea, what did you do to your hair?"

"Aunt Isobel let me make it purple! But not all the way."

"Thank God for that. Are you taller than Ben now?"