ND THERE WE HAVE GRAYHURST, the lovely home of the Welles family,” Captain Bob says, suppressing a belch. He’s pinker than usual today, making me glad I’m the one steering past Parker’s dock. “The house was built in 1904 as a gift to Lancaster Welles’s second wife, who found her husband in the sack with a maid. She would be the first in a long line of wives who got a home as a pay-off for Lancaster’s infidelity,” Captain Bob continues, taking a pull from his doctored up coffee. This, at least, is the correct version of the past.

“It’s gorgeous,” says a lady from Nebraska. Her sweatshirt sports a Siamese kitten with sequined green eyes. The rest of the charter is similarly dressed…one lady is clad all in pink sweats, looking like she fell into a vat of Pepto-Bismol. Another wears elastic-waisted clam diggers and a sweatshirt proclaiming her World’s Best Gramma. My mother would die if she saw them. Or murder them as a group.

“Oh, look,” Pepto-Bismol cries. “A rich person!”

Captain Bob, who has eyes sharper than an eagle’s no matter how many ounces of alcohol he’s consumed, nods. “That would be Lancaster’s great-granddaughter, the lovely Parker Welles,” Captain Bob comments.

Sure enough, Parker, Nicky and Ethan are out on the lawn for a picturesque family romp. The Nebraskans leap to the side of the boat to snap photos of the three against the impressive backdrop of the back patio, which is about as big as a football field and bordered with animal-shaped topiary bushes. I give three short blasts from the horn. Nicky runs to the edge of the patio and waves, as do Parker and Ethan. I think, as I so often do, what a good-looking couple they make, Ethan’s dark hair and nice way of dressing a good match for Parker’s stylish looks and blond hair.

When this tour ends, I’m heading over to Grayhurst myself for a little family dinner. Ethan, Parker, their son and me. One of these things is not like the other, I mentally sing. One of these things just doesn’t belong.

“Beautiful ladies, if you’ll turn your attention to that cluster of rock out there,” Captain Bob says, “you’ll see the site of Mackerly’s famed pirate attack of 1868. Many were the maids who lost their hearts—and their virtue—to Captain Jack Sparrow in the weeks that ensued.”

I roll my eyes, but apparently, the Nebraskan ladies haven’t seen Pirates of the Caribbean, because they sigh with wide-eyed wonder. Bob gives me a wink, and I grin and shake my head.

An hour later, I’m standing in the wine cellar of Grayhurst, shivering.

“What looks good to you?” Parker asks.

“Anything not too expensive,” I answer, imagining her father discovering his prize bottle of Château Lafite (reportedly once owned by Thomas Jefferson) missing, swilled by the Hungarian baker who is his daughter’s friend. From upstairs, we can hear the muffled thump of Ethan and Nick, who are engaged in a rowdy game of Star Wars. “Release your anger and feel the power of the Dark Side!” Ethan booms, causing Nicky to burst into peals of laughter.

“Fruity? Dry? Oaken undertones with a hint of vanilla and a peachy-mango finish?” Parker asks, grinning.

“Um, gosh,” I say.

My friend, well aware of my discomfort around such displays of her wealth, surveys the rows and rows of bottles, the dim light making them gleam. “Well, here. This one only sells for about a hundred bucks a bottle,” she says, pretending to ignore my grimace, and studies the label. “So? How are things going with Ethan?” she asks, not looking up.

“Oh, you know. Not…not bad.”

“That sounds discouraging,” she says. “What’s wrong?”

I glance over at the stairs. “Nothing. We’re trying. It’s a little weird.”

She just looks at me, sighs with exaggerated patience. “Are you guys sleeping together again?” she asks.

“Um…not exactly,” I mutter, darting a glance around the wine cellar. No one to rescue me from this conversation down here, unless there’s a ghost or two.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “It’s like our mojo is gone or something.”

Following my giggle fest the other night, I’d fled back to my apartment after an appropriate amount of apology time. Then last night, we’d had gone to see the latest Matt Damon explosion flick in South Kingstown. When he walked me to my door, Ethan had kissed me. Nicely. Very nicely. So nicely, so wonderfully, that perfect mouth, the scrape of his beard, his body so warm and close, and I’d felt myself slipping into that vortex where all I could think of was what Ethan was doing and how it felt.

Then I’d heard Corinne inside, and I’d seized on the excuse. “I’d better go,” I whispered against his mouth. “Corinne…she and Chris still haven’t worked things out.”

He hesitated for a second, and my toes clenched. “Okay,” he finally said, but I could see the disappointment in his eyes.

“So why aren’t things working?” Parker asks. I get the impression I don’t get to leave the cellar until she’s gotten her answers, and I glance around, half expecting to see Fortunato, the guy who was walled up in that creepy Edgar Allen Poe story. Unfortunato, if you ask me, left to die behind the bricks.

“It’s just…a little awkward,” I answer. “Can we go upstairs?”

Like Ethan, she has mastered the art of the disappointed gaze. They must teach it in parenting school. “Sure,” she says, then turns on her heel and leads the way past the racks of red, the undiluted barrels of single malt scotch, the tasting room where Mr. Welles enjoys showing off to his friends on the rare occasions he returns to Rhode Island.

We head up the frigid stone stairs, almost in the clear, when Parker stops. “You should give him a chance, Lucy,” she says.

“I am giving him a chance,” I return. “I am, Parker.”

“A real chance. Not just a token.”

“Well, you know, I’m trying. But maybe I’m just not ready.”

“It’s been almost six years, Lucy,” she reminds me. “Don’t you think you should be ready by now?”

My blood pressure surges. Folks, unless you’ve walked the walk, never tell a widow it’s time she moved on. Never before has Parker crossed the line, but she sure did just now.

“I don’t need you to tell me how long it’s been since my husband died, okay?” I bite out. “You’ve never been widowed, and I hope you never are, Parker, but given that you have no idea what it’s like, you might want to keep your advice to yourself.”

She sighs. “I’m just saying—”

“And it’s ironic that you’re so keen on me being with Ethan,” I say, a decided edge to my voice now, “since you passed on him first. Maybe you should be the one sleeping with him.”

And because my luck just bites, that’s when Ethan opens the door, his son on his shoulders. From the expression on his face, I know he heard me.

THANK GOODNESS ETHAN AND I CAME separately, I think a couple of eons later, watching him get on his motorcycle. His helmet is on the back of the bike. He doesn’t put it on.

“Your helmet!” I yell as he starts up the engine. Mercifully his motorcycle is a BMW with a quietly purring engine, not one of those deafening midlife crisis Harleys.

Ethan glances at me, then reaches back for the helmet and puts it on. He gently revs the engine and heads down the long gravel driveway to the road.

Dinner was—what’s the word I’m looking for?—a nightmare. Ethan barely spoke to me, which was completely understandable. Parker, perhaps trying to apologize for forcing the conversation in the wine cellar, did her best to be übernice and funny, telling us about her latest manuscript (The Holy Rollers and the Crippled Puppy). Ethan didn’t talk a lot. At least Nicky was there to distract his father, but as soon as the boy was tucked in, requesting a multiple kisses and songs from each of the three adults present, Ethan headed out.

“Really fucked that up, didn’t you?” Parker says mildly from behind me.

I turn and look at her. “See, I was thinking this was your fault.”

She grins. “Time to kiss and make up, I guess. Go. Get out of here. Rock his world. You hurt him, he’s wounded, you love that crap. Go.”

“I don’t love hurting Ethan!” I protest. “Jeez, that’s the last thing I want.”

“Mmm,” she murmurs. “Yet you’ve been hurting him for years.”

“I have not! Crikey, Parker, you’re a pain in the butt, you know that?” I take a huffy breath. “Please thank your chef for dinner, thank your dad for the wine. And thank you, Parker, for your lovely hospitality.”

“Ciao.” She laughs.

With a sigh, I climb into my faithful little Mazda and head down the road. Ethan is not in sight, and as if by rote, I scan the side of the road for his twisted body every ten yards or so. His helmet cracked, unable to protect him. His unmoving, broken legs, pointing in impossible directions. Fun hobby, really.

Ethan’s motorcycle is parked in its usual spot when I get home, and my shoulders lower a notch. He’s not dead. Not hurt. Just wounded, as Parker said. I’ll just drop in to feed Fat Mikey, then go upstairs and make things right with Ethan.

But when I open the door, I see my sister, sniffling as she nurses Emma. My TV is on—dang. Corinne’s watching my wedding DVD. It’s the part when Jimmy’s dancing with his mom. Obviously I’d had to forego the father-daughter dance, but Jimmy danced with his mom to the tune of the sappy tear-fest that was Celine Dion’s “Because You Loved Me.” Not a dry eye in the house, ladies and gentlemen. Tall, strong Jimmy towered over the happily sobbing Marie. Despite her low center of gravity and rather rotund figure, Jimmy had dipped her at the end, making her scream a little, which nicely undercut the wonderfully saccharine lyrics.

“Hi,” I say to my sister.

“I don’t know how you can even get out of bed,” she sobs.

“Um…well. How are you?”

“Christopher hasn’t called,” she says, tears raining down on Emma’s soft head. She pops the baby off the left breast and shifts her into burp position.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Anything I can do?” Other than stare at her naked, enormous boob, that is. Gosh, is that nipple still cracked? Jeepers.

“No,” she answers. “You’ve been great.” Fat Mikey puts his front paws against her knees, and she smiles. “Animals sense when you’re sad,” she says, and I opt not to correct her by saying that Fat Mikey is probably about to make a move on Emma’s dinner if Corinne doesn’t cover up soon. Instead I pick up my cat and pet him, earning a disgruntled meow for interrupting his plans to nurse. He startles as my niece barks out a burp that would put the Fenway Faithful to shame.

My door opens. “Corinne?”

We both turn away from the TV. Christopher stands uncertainly in the doorway, looking rather awful. Cory gets up, seemingly unaware that her right breast is still completely uncovered, bobbing there like the marker buoy at the head of the channel.

“Chris!” she breathes. “How are you?” Emma makes a little grunting sound and starts rooting around on Corinne’s neck, looking for her next round.

Christopher holds out a bouquet of red roses. A good sign, I think with a little smile. “I’m an idiot,” he says. “Oh, Corinne, I love you. I do, and I’m so sorry I never said anything about how I was feeling.”

“No, baby, I’m the one who’s sorry,” my sister whispers, her eyes spilling tears. “I just want you to be okay. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I don’t want to end up like Mom or Lucy.”

I roll my eyes. “Why don’t I take Emma and go into the kitchen?” I suggest, but they’re already hugging, around both Emma and the breast.

“You’re the love of my life, Corinne,” Chris whispers, and a voyeuristic lump rises in my throat. “But, honey, you’re going to have to back off and just trust in the universe that we’re going to have a long, long time together.”

“I love you, too,” she weeps. “I never meant to send you to the hospital.” Fat Mikey once again puts his paws against her leg, sniffing the air.

Ten minutes later, Corinne hugs me, her boob finally covered. “Thank you for everything,” she whispers.

“Oh, sure,” I say, hugging her back. “Let him eat bacon once in a while. It makes life happier.”

“I’ll try,” she says.

“Thank you, Lucy,” Christopher says, adjusting his daughter’s hat.

“No problem,” I say, and with that, they’re gone, lugging about a thousand dollars’ worth of baby gear down the hall. In another second, I hear the ding that marks the elevator’s arrival, and then it’s completely quiet, except for the wedding video, which now shows everyone about to sit down for dinner. There’s Ethan, looking considerably younger without his beard, talking to the DJ as the guy apparently explains how to use the mic for the best man speech.

I turn it off. Sigh deeply. Wonder what to do about Ethan Mirabelli.

For one tiny second, I have the urge to call Jimmy, so strong that my hand twitches as I almost reach for the phone. For just that flash, I can’t believe I haven’t called him already, since he’s the only one who would understand how terrifying it is to be where I am.

Fat Mikey butts his head against my shoe. I look down gratefully, and there, on the carpet, is a dime.

My breath catches. I haven’t found a dime in a while. A couple of years, in fact. With fingers that shake just a little, I pick it up and examine it. A perfectly ordinary dime that could have, of course, dropped from a pocket or a purse or Corinne’s gigantic diaper bag.

Or not.

Back when Jimmy first died, it took me a while to notice the strange phenomenon of the dimes, but once I caught on, I started keeping them in a jar in my bedroom. I go there now and lean on the bureau, looking at them.

I don’t know if they’re from Jimmy or not, but it seems a stretch to think that I formed a habit of dropping rogue dimes. Not nickels, not quarters, not pennies…just dimes. I have no idea what they might signify, but I know that I believe—and want to continue believing—that they’re a sign that Jimmy’s spirit is still involved in my life.

I give the dime a kiss, then drop it in the jar with its eleven brothers and sisters. A minute later, I’m knocking on Ethan’s door, not quite sure what I plan to say.

He answers, not opening the door all the way or standing aside to let me in.

“Ethan, I’m so sorry for what I said,” I blurt.

He sighs, looks at the floor and folds his arms, Italian sign language for We got a situation here.

“Take me sailing tomorrow,” I say, surprising myself completely. And Ethan, too, it appears, since his head jerks up and his eyebrows raise. “Let’s get out of town for the day.”

“Really?” he asks, his eyes questioning. And hopeful. You’ve been hurting him for years, Parker said. That can’t be true, but my throat still tightens under the familiar clamp of tears.

“Really,” I answer thickly.

“Okay,” he says, as I knew he would.

Still, he doesn’t exactly look overjoyed that I’m proposing this little venture, so I stand on tiptoe and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

“It’s all right,” he says, making me feel worse.

“Ethan, it’s not all right. If we’re going to have a real relationship, you have to let yourself be mad at me,” I say. “Especially when I’m a jerk.”

“I’m fairly helpless where you’re concerned, Lucy,” he says quietly.

That one takes my breath away. “Well, stand up for yourself, laddie,” I say after a minute, my voice squeaking a little.

He looks at me, his arms still folded. “Fine. You’re the one I want to be with, Lucy. Not Parker. Don’t try to get us together anymore.”

“Okay, fine, I do understand, and I am sorry.” I hesitate, then continue. “It’s just that, you know, when you guys were—”

“Lucy. Shut up.”

I obey. “Sorry.”

His smile starts at his eyes, like a candle being lit on a dark night, and sure enough, the corner of his mouth curls up. “Ten o’clock at the marina?” he suggests.

“Sounds great. I’ll bring lunch, okay?”

“Okay.”

We stand there another second or two, just looking at each other. “Well, good night, then,” I say a trifle awkwardly.

“Good night,” he echoes. But he stays in the doorway, looking at the floor, until I turn the corner.