Bill Keating was a type Lottie didn't see much in Park Slope. Tall and lean, lithe and leathery, he looked as if he spent no time indoors. He was probably twenty years older than she was, but he looked a lot healthier, despite the crinkles around his eyes (surely from squinting at the sun from the tennis court or a sailboat or a ski slope). He wore a faded baseball cap and a shirt with holes.

She took his hand and shook it. His grip was strong and certain.

"Lottie Wilkes," she said. "I'm at Hopewell Cottage."

"Guests?"

"Renters."

She expected his friendliness to wane when she told him she was a renter. Robert SanSouci's cottage book had said in not so many words that renters were on the bottom rung of the Little Lost social scale. "It's a tight-knit community," he had written. But Bill did not miss a beat.

"Do you play?" he asked.

"No, but I'm a good spectator," said Lottie. "Who's going to take the set here?"

Bill was a terrific tennis commentator. Lottie couldn't believe how much she found out about the island in about ten minutes of spectating. It was like that chapter of The Great Gatsby that's just names-Miss Gosnold of Great Neck and her rehabilitated sister and all that. Except here the only history was Little Lost history, and the only families were Little Lost families.

"How do you keep it all straight?" she asked. A ball flew over the fence into the tall grass.

"Sorry, partner," came the call from the tennis court. Lottie noticed that they all apologized for every shot, good or bad.

"The phone list is organized by island longevity," said Bill. "The first on the list was the first family here, the van Straatens, now ruled by their dreadful matriarch. We're twelfth on my mother's side and twenty-third on my father's. So not bad. Your SanSoucis are not so shabby either, though they're not the original builders. There was a lot of turnover in the twenties. Then people clung on."

"My fault, my fault!" Another blame-taking cry from the court.

"Those two are up here from May till October," said Bill, pointing to the handsome couple on the far side of the court. Lottie was charmed that they actually wore white to play. "The Wades. She once placed second in the Little Lost bathing suit competition, back when there was a Little Lost bathing suit competition. She's a van Straaten, originally."

"I bet she can still rock a maillot," said Lottie, pleased she knew the word.

"No, that was in. Your point!"

"Their partners are wife and wife, can you believe? A Boston marriage that turned into a legal one. She plays like a man so they're a match in mixed doubles."

"Do people like each other as much as they seem to?" Lottie asked. "Or is it show?"

"Show is as good as real after a while, don't you think?" Bill said. "It's a small island."

"Is that why everybody just walks across everyone else's property?" Her meandering walk had cut across many cottage lots this morning, yet no one had seemed to notice. "That's okay?"

"The cottages belong to their owners; the land belongs to everyone."

"This island is a co-op?"

"WASP communism," said Bill. "So we have to get along. Our parents were neighbors. Our grandparents were neighbors. Sometimes we marry each other. Sometimes we divorce each other. If we can't play together by this generation, we have only ourselves to blame."

Lottie considered all this. "So you've worked things out," she said.

"Most families have, even though a summer cottage tends to be a strain on the family finances. Your young Mr. SanSouci could use more family. The Ladies Association for Beautification wishes he would settle down and get married and populate that upstairs dorm room with Kinder, but he's not a real presence here. We have his renters instead. And not a bad bunch they turn out to be." He smiled.

"What association?" Lottie couldn't let that go by.

"The Little Lost LABs. They run the place. Beautify, socialize. Iron fist in a lace glove. They're the social committee. We're relentlessly social here."

"You should meet our cottagers," said Lottie, taking a chance. "Will you come over sometime? I make a very good old-fashioned." She had pegged him as a bourbon man.

"I'd be delighted. And you must come to the August cocktail party. It's at the Whyte Cottage. The twentieth, I think. Always the third Thursday of the month. The social calendar should be in the cottage somewhere."

"Yes, Robert left it for us."

"Bring a covered dish-recipes favored by the islanders are in the Little Lost cookbook at the library. Tons of calories. The theme is hats this year. Wear a hat."

"A hat!"

"There'll be plenty at the cottage, I'm sure. Look through all the closets! That's a renter's privilege."

"Will do."

"We dress for cocktails, so don't be surprised to see me in a jacket."

"Out!" The tennis players laughed, walked to the net, and shook hands, straight on, then diagonally.

"And that's a match. Want to watch another one?" he asked.

As friendly as Bill was, Lottie did not want to outstay her renter's welcome. She thought about how Caroline would exit this situation. "I won't trespass on your hospitality any further," she said, trying on a Caroline intonation. "I'll wander down another path and see what I find."

"If you head that way," he said, nodding toward a sloping path, "it will take you to the springhouse."

"That's where it is," said Lottie. "I couldn't figure it out from the map."

"The map is more fanciful than faithful," he said. "Your cottage should have a water jug somewhere."

"Yes-there's a cooler. It was filled when we got here."

"That's Max, I bet. Fill it up again before you run out. The tap water is drinkable but I try to avoid it. I still remember before we had any drinkable water. I used to cart two five-gallon jugs to the cottages for fifty cents a trip. Brutally heavy. Daylight robbery, and they knew it."

"I'd hire you if you were still doing it," said Lottie. "See you at the hat party!" She walked down the path. She'd check out the spring first and then if she could make it work, she'd top up the water cooler in the pantry. Springwater. For free.

Rose's skin burned easily, so she had to come in from her walk earlier than she'd wanted to, as she had forgotten to apply the sunscreen she had remembered to bring. The cottage was apparently empty. She could do whatever she wanted.

She unpacked for a while but there wasn't much to put into the drawers of the old painted-over mahogany dresser; a lot of her stuff was still in the car. She wasn't ready to break open her computer and she couldn't decide which of the many novels she'd brought with her she wanted to start. The sensation of not being needed by anyone was almost physical.

She looked around her little bedroom. It really was quite sweet, all white and airy and simple. And she'd slept like a rock last night. The view was . . . well, you might be able to improve on it, but you wouldn't need to. The big horse chestnut was filled with its barbed fruit. Orange daylilies tapped against the beveled glass of her window. Beyond the crest of the back lawn was the sparkling water. It wasn't the panoramic coastline view of the turret windows, but, truth be told, it suited her better.

Fred and the twins would be so happy here, she thought, especially now that Bea and Ben even had their own fairy houses. Rose was glad she had not lost her resolve to make the trip, in the early morning New York light, right before she'd gotten in the car. The twins had no clue how long a month was. She didn't either. Maybe she'd only stay two weeks. They could change so much in two weeks.

"Bye, Mommy!" She'd hugged Ben so tight that he emitted a surprised oomph. Then he'd hit her.

"The pediatrician's number is on the fridge," she'd said to Fred as she let Ben go and gave an even harder hug to Bea. "I love you, my sweetie pie."

"Don't go," Bea had replied, ripping Rose's heart.

"I gave my sister the number too," she continued to her husband. "And she has all my contact details." He hadn't asked which island she was going to, so she hadn't told him. "I left a signed letter of permission saying that she can take them to the hospital up in Greenwich if Ben breaks his arm or something. Not that he will." Rose hadn't wanted to think about what kinds of things might send Ben to the hospital. "You just need to get them in the car late in the afternoon after they've eaten, so hopefully they'll sleep and you won't feel like you have to entertain them the whole way up to Connecticut. The weather is much nicer today so you can take them to the tot lot right after I . . ." She'd checked her backpack: phone, credit card, some cash. "And I left a ton of food in the fridge and the freezer so you might not even need to get real groceries till I get back."

"I am capable," Fred had said.

"Watch me go up the stairs!" Ben had shouted. Stay-ohs. Should she stay and start him on speech therapy?

"Just give me one more hug." She'd kissed the top of his head fiercely. "I love you, sweetie Ben. You are a good, good boy."

"Where's my yogurt?"

"Daddy will get yogurt right now, lovie. You'll get him a YoKids, right? And Bea can have some too if she'll eat it. I think she's only eating strawberry banana this week-" She'd paused, her resolve wavering. She could run up and get the yogurt and then- "You should go if you're going." Fred had not moved to kiss her good-bye. So she kissed him.

"I'm going, I'm going," she'd said. She headed down the stoop. "Love you guys," she'd told them all. Then she got into the driver's seat and pulled out to pick up Lottie.

Thinking about Brooklyn was not doing her any good. Rose gathered up her bag and the car keys. She went into the kitchen to check the food supplies. She took a quick scan and saw that other than the items in the fridge, there was nothing to eat but popcorn and spaghetti. She made a mental grocery list, wondered where she'd find a coffeemaker for real coffee, checked the ferry schedule, saw that she could make the next one if she hurried, and ran out the door to the dock.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Beverly had brought the coffeemaker up to his room and set it to brew upon his usual waking time, ten thirty, but the blasted sun had risen so early he'd been up for ages and drunk the entire pot before ten.

He wrapped his cashmere dressing gown around his generous frame, more generous now that Possum had gone. It amused him that the robe-a gift from Gorsch-was made by Abercrombie & Fitch, once such a bastion of heterosexual rectitude, now advertised with gay soft porn. How times had changed. Gorsch and he could be married these days, if Gorsch had lasted. What kind of wedding would we have had? The blue-blazer "let's pass as real men" style they'd affected for so long? Or a drag queen blowout?

Beverly thought back to his countless High Teas in the Pines. No blue blazers there, God knows, even twenty years ago. Gorsch worked in the city most weekends but always provided a summer house for Beverly and Possum at the beach. Beverly didn't think too hard about what Gorsch got up to in the city, and Gorsch in turn drew a veil over what went on in the Pines. The place Gorsch rented was a shack, really, and in those days shacks were truly shacks. Back then, there was still more than enough rough trade on the beach to take the edge off. Beverly was lucky to have gotten away with so much.

He opened up his Vuitton valise and looked a bit sheepishly at the contents. Framed photos of Possum filled it to the brim. There was Possum as a kitten, Possum in L.A., Possum at the Grammys, Possum old and mean. Gorsch was in the background of almost all of them. Dear, sweet Gorsch.

Each frame was a testament to its own era: plastic and tacky in the early years; sterling at the end. Beverly picked out the first one, his favorite-he and Possum together on the terrace of the Eighty-third Street place-and put it on the painted wooden dresser on the side wall. It would take till dinner, at least, to arrange them all.

Rose spotted Lottie upstairs on the ferry when she herself jumped on. She considered not climbing the short ladder stairs to see her, but then she thought better of it. Having Lottie for company at the grocery store would not be so bad.

"I was just going over for the ride," said Lottie. "But now I can shop with you. There's a hat party on the twentieth. I said we'd bring something."

"Well, that gives us plenty of time to plan," said Rose. Lottie was the type who didn't mind being poked fun at.

"Maybe a casserole?"

That was a word Rose hadn't heard in a long time. It conjured up pictures of Campbell's soup cans and frozen vegetables. "How do you know about a hat party? Did you meet people?"

"I did!" Lottie told her about her success at the tennis courts. Rose would have found it hard to make friends as quickly. "They're not lost souls at all!"

"Maybe we can do better than a casserole." Rose thought of a summery ratatouille with lavender, if she could find it. "We don't want to let down the Hopewell Cottage side."

"Okay, but I've been told there's a whole section on casseroles in the Little Lost cookbook. It's at the library."

"There's a library?" Rose pictured a long table, a bay window, a place to write.

"It's beautiful, they say, except for the roof."

"What happened with the roof?"

"Too much rain this spring. I made other friends too," said Lottie, continuing. "The Beauchamps are here for two weeks. The Hamlins stay till October and commute to Belfast. There's an all-island work party on the fifteenth, if that's a Saturday, and a Ladies Association for Beautification picnic on Labor Day. I've never been to a Ladies Association for Beautification picnic," she said. "I wonder if we could stay another couple of days."

"Lottie, we're here for a month," said Rose. She still could not get her mind around that length of time. "Think of Ethan."

"Oh, Ethan will be here by then."

"What?"

"Ethan will be here by then," Lottie repeated. "And Jon, too. I can see it. Can't you?"

The ferry bumped the dock on the other side.

"I don't actually see it, Lottie. No."

"You'll have Fred here, and the twins. I see that, too."

They got off the ferry and walked over to the car, which had been washed of its mud and grime in last night's rain. The field of parked cars looked like a Subaru/Volvo dealership. Lottie deferred to Rose for the driver's seat, even though Lottie was the better driver. "Fred and the twins aren't coming here, Lottie," she said, to convince herself. She suddenly missed them so much it made her shake. The car started up right away, despite all the rain. "This is my time away from them. This is to give us all a little space. Can you read the directions, please?"

"We're going into Dorset Harbor, so it's left at the top of the hill, then second right," she told Rose, not even looking at Robert SanSouci's precise hand-drawn map, which Rose had remembered to grab from the kitchen. "I know you and I feel as if we need time away from the mess of our families, but I actually think what we need is to be together more. Bear right here."

Lottie seemed to have an unerring sense of direction.

"Straight on this road till the light. We passed through on our drive in. And I do see Fred and the twins here. They'll want to come. All of them."

"Please, Lottie. Stop saying that."

Lottie stopped talking, except for directions. Rose wanted to be angry at her, but she couldn't. The drive was just too beautiful in the daylight, and Lottie meant no harm.

They crossed the long, low causeway bridge, whose pavement hummed strangely-what was it made of?-and found themselves in Dorset Harbor, a touristy little town with the usual complement of businesses: an ice cream store; a fudge and taffy emporium; water-view restaurants; an alternative healing clinic; three T-shirt shops. But even these didn't seem too tacky: perched up on a hill above a harbor as the town was, every vista was glorious. Even the supermarket parking lot had a view.

The Dorset IGA was well stocked, and Rose felt they could all eat rather well for not too much more than she'd budgeted for food (she was used to Coop prices). Fred had told her not to be ridiculous about the money but this trip was still coming from her own account. There was a farm stand across the street, so they were able to get the zucchini and tomatoes for Rose's ratatouille, which she thought she might try tonight.

Before they left Dorset Harbor, Rose wanted to try to reach Fred and the twins. It was so hard to call them-she'd be interrupting whatever they'd be doing and reminding them that she was away. But if she didn't at least hear their voices, she'd be a wreck. Though if she called and they weren't interested in talking to Mommy- "We need to call home," said Lottie. "I do, at least, and I'm sure you want to. Let's see, it's still only Friday, so they just got to Jon's parents' last night." She pressed the number on her cell phone. "Hard to believe we haven't even been gone two days. Service!" she cried. "Three bars!"

Then Rose saw her face light up. Ethan must have answered. Lottie prattled on and on to him, standing stock-still on one side of the parking lot so as not to compromise reception. Rose stepped a few paces away, slowly took out her phone, and dialed home. She went straight through to voice mail.