WAS NOT THE WALLOWING type. No, I was much more the work till three in the morning type, and so, for the rest of the weekend, I sentenced myself to hard physical labor. I cleaned. Furiously. Bleach and ammonia cleaning (not combined…I wasn’t suicidal). When my house was free from every grain of sand, every speck of dust and every spore of mold, I decided (at 9:30 p.m.) that the deck could use sanding and got to work on that, too.

Coco watched, her eyes bright, head cocked. “Just doing a little repair work,” I called from the roof on Sunday afternoon. “All good.”

Kim came over to grill me about Nick, but I told her I was fine. “You know what?” I said from my perch on the ladder as I polished the ceiling fan. “Sometimes I think people want more than other people are capable of giving. And you know, Nick…he’s…I…” My breath started to hitch. “Just because you have feelings for someone doesn’t mean you get to live happily ever after.” That made sense. That was true, wasn’t it? Not the stuff of romantic movies, but valid.

“I don’t know. I think if you love each other…”

“We tend to go down in flames, Nick and I,” I blurted. “I don’t like burning. Burning hurts. Burning is painful. I’d rather…just…I’d rather just stay here and clean. Crotch! These lightbulbs are a crime against humanity. Have you ever seen such filthy lightbulbs?”

“You want dirty, I can bring the boys over. Then you will know dirt, and you and dirt will be one.”

Relieved that she was letting me off the hook, I continued on my Windex tour, and when I ran out of house to clean, I went over to Kim’s and tackled her kitchen as thanks.

The image of Nick getting into the cab kept flashing across my brain like a razor cut, fast and sharp and painless, at least for a second, right before all the blood tried to gush out. Then a rogue wave of…something…would threaten to knock me down and my heart rattled and clattered, my hands shook, and I backed away from that thought as fast as I could. Found something else to clean or wax or iron or nail. Turned on the TV. The radio, too.

But memories kept head-butting the door of my resolve. Nick with his head in my lap after we’d found his father…his smile as we lay in bed talking…the way his face lit up when I walked out of the Bismarck airport and over to his car…and the wave of despair and love threatened to knock me down and keep me underwater. So when those memories knocked and clattered, I shoved them away. I had to. And I was practiced at that sort of locking away. I’d been doing that most of my life, and at least this way, I was safe. Besides, I wasn’t capable of giving real, lasting, wholehearted love. I’d proven that, hadn’t I? I was my mother’s girl, after all. Stunted.

On Monday, I kissed Coco, made sure she had her bunny and enough chew toys to occupy her and drove to work. No bike today. Though I’d missed the Vineyard during time away, I barely saw the bayberry bushes and rock walls as I drove toward Edgartown. The sun beat down, the breeze was gentle, the smell of coffee wafted down the street from the bustling little café. It was a beautiful day, I noted automatically. Just wasted on me.

“Well, well, well, look who’s back!” Theo thundered as I walked into the old captain’s house that housed Bain-brook, Bainbrook & Howe. “Wonderful to see you. Did you really have that much vacation time coming? Don’t ever leave us again. Did you know I had to talk to a client last week? I haven’t done that for years!” He gripped me by the shoulders and gazed happily into my face. “Well. Nice chat. Back to work!” He did a little soft-shoe back into his office and his beloved indoor putting green.

“You good?” Carol asked, handing me a sheaf of messages.

“So good,” I lied. “You?”

“Never better.”

“Great.” So much for all the gushing and catching up. “Carol, see if you can get Judge McMurtry’s new clerk on the phone, okay? I’ll also need the Denver file. “

“Yes, master,” Carol replied. “Anything else I can do? Wipe your ass? Chew your food and regurgitate it so you don’t have to work so hard?”

“That’d be super,” I said. “But first the call and the file, Carol.” I went into my office, and the fake good cheer I’d summoned slipped away.

My office was very pleasant. Diplomas on the wall. Flowers delivered each Monday. A landscape by a local artist in soothing colors, meant to ease the battered hearts whose owners sat here, weeping or furious or numb…the walking wounded who chose poorly, or couldn’t figure out how to compromise, or how to commit to a relationship, or how to accept love…or give it.

Well. Back to work, helping once-happy couples split up. Speaking of, I needed to check in with Willa and see if she wanted to file for divorce. Crap. Maybe I should let her tough this one out on her own.

I also had to see BeverLee. I’d called her twice over the weekend, but my father had been present both times—I could tell because Bev was overly chipper, booming her colloquialisms into the phone. Willa was staying there for the time being, and Bev had her hands full comforting her daughter. So Bev and I hadn’t really talked, and we needed to. But the same swell of panic that thoughts of Nick inspired…it happened when I thought of BeverLee leaving the island, too.

IT TOOK ME A COUPLE of days to really get back in the swing of things. I had lunch with Father Bruce one rainy afternoon, back at Offshore Ale, since the good father liked to have a beer with his burger. He mercifully stayed silent when I told him Dennis and I had parted ways; just nodded, patted my hand, then went on to tell me about the seven couples he had in the pre-Cana class.

“Maybe I could swing by,” I found myself offering.

“Like the angel of death?” the priest suggested, taking a sip of his pale ale.

“Voice of wisdom, I was thinking.” I paused, toying with my straw. “You know. Give them a little insight into why so many couples…don’t make it.”

“And why do you think that is?” he asked gently.

To my surprise, there were tears in my eyes. “I have no idea,” I whispered. “Really?”

“Well, I thought it sounded better than ‘People are fucked up,’ you being a priest and all.”

He smiled. “Everyone’s messed up,” he said. “Note my editing, as I am a man of the cloth and only swear on special occasions. Speaking of that, I have to run. Giving a talk on the priesthood as a vocation.”

“And best of luck with that,” I said. “I’ll get the check, since you’re facing Mission Impossible and despite the fact that the Catholic church is the wealthiest—”

“Oh, stop. I’ve heard it all before,” he said, patting my shoulder as he slid out of the booth. “Thanks for lunch, Harper. Let’s talk soon.”

When I got back to work, where I’d been logging some serious hours since my return (much to Theo’s unadulterated delight), Tommy was standing in front of my desk like a kid about to be caned by the headmaster.

“Hey,” I said, hanging up my trench coat. “How’s it going?”

Tommy didn’t look at me. “I’d like you to handle my divorce,” he said.

I froze. “But—”

“She’s still sleeping with that guy. The night I came to your party, she hooked up with him. I’m an idiot, and I’m tired of it. So handle my divorce, okay, Harper? Because I just can’t take this anymore.”

And even though I knew this had been coming, even though I never had any faith in Meggie, even though I knew Tommy would learn from this and grow and hopefully find someone who deserved him…even so, my heart broke.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. I hesitated for just a second, then went over to him and hugged him. “I’m so sorry, Tom.”

For a long time, I patted his back as he cried, as if he were a little baby, even if he was six-foot-four and I was anything but maternal. All my lines—the heart needing time, the head knowing, the euthanization of a dying relationship—they just weren’t enough. Tommy had loved his wife, and she didn’t love him back the same way, and all the logic in the world didn’t make that feel better.

Later that day, I went into Theo’s office and closed the door behind me. “I need a word, Boss,” I said.

“Of course, my dear,” he said, glancing at his watch. “You have four minutes.” He was dressed in a lime-green polo shirt and eye-numbing plaid shorts.

“Hitting the links, are we?”

Theo smiled smugly. “Yes. Senator Lewis is in town, dodging the press.”

“What did he do this time?”

“Apparently he found his soul mate.”

“Oh, dear,” I said.

“Mmm-hmm. And she posted their special moments on the Internet. Over three million hits in two hours alone. A proud day.”

“Young love,” I said, though Senator Lewis was well into his seventies. Made one wonder just who those three million were and why they wanted to burn their souls by watching the withered shanks of a fat white dude getting it on with his former cleaning lady.

“So what is it, dear? Three minutes, twenty seconds.”

“Right. Theo, I’d like to branch out.”

“From what, Harper?” Theo took a club out of his golf bag and mimicked a putt.

“From divorce law.”

He looked up, horrified. “What? Why? No!”

“I’m a little burned out, Theo. I’d still do some, but…it’s taking a toll.”

“Not you! I thought you were different! You really get it! Sometimes our hearts just need time to accept what our heads already know. “

I inhaled slowly. “Right. But sometimes our heads are just full of crap, Theo.”

He looked at me, puzzled. “Well, of course, Harper. What’s your point?”

“I need to branch out. Or quit.”

He recoiled, dropping his putter or driver or whatever it was. “Don’t even speak the words! Oh, you evil blackmailer! Fine. Whatever you want.”

“Partner,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“I want to be partner, too.”

Theo sank into his chair. “Well, well. Would a raise suffice?”

I smiled, the first genuine smile in ages. “No.”

JUST BEFORE CAROL LEFT for the day, she popped into my office. “This came for you. Sorry. It was in with some other papers.” She handed me an envelope.

“Thanks,” I said, taking it absentmindedly while I clicked through my computer. “Have a good evening, Carol.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” She closed the door behind her.

I finished with my email, then took a look at what Carol had given me. Hand-addressed, care of the law firm. No return address.

The postmark was from South Dakota.

All the air suddenly seemed sucked from the room.

Slowly, slowly, my hands shaking impressively, I slid the letter opener under the envelope flap and cut it open. Unfolded the letter very carefully, smoothing it out. A one hundred dollar bill fell onto my lap. I took a deep breath, held it, then let it out and looked at the letter. The handwriting was round and loopy, and despite not having seen it for so long, I recognized it immediately.

Dear Harper,

Well, I’m not sure what to say. You really surprised me the other day. I did recognize you, since of course you always did look just like me. I wish you’d given me a little warning—I wasn’t ready for a big scene, know what I mean? It was a shock to see you—how can I be old enough to have a grown daughter? Anyway, I looked up your name on Google and found you out there, still on that godforsaken island. At any rate, looks like you turned out great! A lawyer. You were always smart, I guess.

I suppose you want to know why I left. First, let me say that I’m great! Life has been one wild ride for me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I never wanted to be tied down and really wasn’t cut out for motherhood or island life and all that. I toughed it out as long as I could, but in the end, I had to do what was right for me. I had a lot of plans back before you came along, and it didn’t seem fair that I had to stay stuck for the rest of my life. Sorry you got caught in the middle, but we had some good times, didn’t we?

Anyway, if you’re ever back this way, drop in and say hi. Just call first. By the way, I just didn’t feel right taking the money…I’m not the type who likes to be beholden, if you know what I mean. Buy yourself something nice and think of me when you wear it, okay? Take care.

Linda

I read the letter seven times. Each time, it became more repugnant.

Had to do what was right for me. Toughed it out. Wasn’t cut out for motherhood.

Holy testicle Tuesday.

Buy myself something nice and think of her? The woman who abandoned me, the woman who pretended not to recognize me after twenty-oneyears of being apart?

Looks like you turned out great.

“Actually, I’m quite a pathetic mess, Mom,” I said. My voice seemed overly loud in the quiet.

For a long time, I sat there in the lengthening shadows, the rain pattering against the windows like a thought wanting to be let in. And then something did creep into my consciousness, carefully, as if testing the waters to see if it was safe. Slowly, very slowly, a new possibility came into my mind.

I’d had enough.

My mother’s actions—her one action, really…leaving me—had been a choke chain on my heart…on my whole life…since I was thirteen years old. Enough.

Looks like you turned out great.

“You know what? Strike the previous comment, Ma,” I said. “You’re right. I am great, no thanks to you.”

Before I was even aware of moving, my raincoat was in my hand and I was running down the stairs, out into the small lot behind our building, into my little yellow car. I pulled out so fast the wheels flung gravel, but I didn’t care. Breaking every speed limit from Edgartown to Tisbury, I think I touched the brakes only when I veered into my father’s driveway. There it was—the house where I’d grown up, the place I’d avoided as much as possible my entire adult life since the second I left for college. I dashed out of the car and inside.

She was here. Looking older and worn out, no makeup today, which made her look oddly blank. She held a ciggie in one hand, and her hair was a couple of inches lower than her usual “closer to God” bouffant. When she saw me, she gave a tired smile.

“Here’s a sight for sore eyes,” she said. “How’s by you, Harper darlin’?”

“Hey, BeverLee,” I panted. The radio played some country-and-western ballad; static crackled the reception, but Bev didn’t seem to mind. She stubbed out her cigarette, knowing I hated her smoking.

“Have a seat, take a load off. Want something to eat?” She made a move to stand.

“No, no, don’t get up. I’m good,” I said, pulling out a chair. “Is Willa here?”

“Well now, she was, but she and your daddy are out in the woodshop, I think.”

Now that I was here, I wasn’t exactly sure what to say. I bit a cuticle, then put my hands in my lap.

“So how you been after seein’ Nick and all?”

I looked up sharply, getting a small smile in response. No one else had asked that question. “Um…I’m doing okay, Bev,” I said. “But I don’t…well, I’m not…How are you, Bev? How are you doing?”

“Well, now, I guess I’m doing all right.” She straightened the napkins in the holder, a hideous plastic molded thing depicting a royal flush, then looked back at me. “I heard you and Dennis split up, and I have to say, I was sorry to hear it. But I guess if y’all weren’t married after all this time, that said something. Your daddy and me, we only knew each other a week—Well. Maybe not the best example, since we’re partin’ ways and all.” She gave me a halfhearted smile and shrugged.

“Bev, about that. I have to tell you something,” I said. “I…” Well, crap. I had no idea what to say. I swallowed; Bev waited; the static crackled and rain hissed against the windows. Some familiar chords were discernible from the radio. “Sweet Home Alabama,” the famous Southern rock anthem.

“Oh, I just love this song,” Bev said, her eyes taking on a far-off look. “I got this cassette stuck in the tape player in my car, remember? This here was the only song that played all the way through.”

A memory drifted to the surface…me watching as Bev pulled into or out of the driveway, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s song like a soundtrack for her comings and goings.

“You never wanted to come with me if you could avoid it,” Bev said with a faint smile. “But there you’d be, standin’ at the window, makin’ damn sure I came back. Then you’d run off and hide in your room and stick your nose in a book and pretend you didn’t know I was home. Poor little mite. Always so afraid of someone leavin’ that you never let anyone get close.”

There it was, my emotional failings in a nutshell.

Enough. “Bev,” I said again. I reached out and gripped her hands in mine. “BeverLee, listen. I…” The lump in my throat choked off the words.

“What is it, sugarplum?” She tilted her head and frowned. “Oh, my Lord, are you crying?”

I just clutched her hand more tightly. BeverLee had loved me from the first day she saw me, a wretched, sullen teenager who viewed her as a joke. She thought I was brilliant, beautiful…she thought I was lovable. She thought I was the best, despite the fact that I’d done everything I could to keep her at arm’s length.

But twelve years ago, when I was a huddled mess on a kitchen floor in New York City, she was the one I called. And I’d known without a whisper of doubt that Bever-Lee Roberta Dupres McKnight Lupinski James would come through for me. And she had. Without hesitation, she’d driven five hours straight, through Massachusetts, Connecticut and New York, found her way to my apartment, taken me in her arms without one single question or recrimination and brought me home.

“BeverLee,” I whispered, because my throat was locked. “Bev…you’ve been more of a mother to me than my own mother ever was.” Her eyes widened. “You didn’t have to love me, and God knows I didn’t give you much to love, but you did. You’ve always been there for me, always taken care of me, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to see it. And I want you to know that even if you and Dad get a divorce…” I broke off and squeezed her hand harder. “I will always be your daughter.” Because this woman was my real mother. For twenty years now, she’d loved me despite myself, and that was what real mothers did. That was what unconditional love meant.

Bev’s mouth opened in shock. “Oh, baby,” she whispered. “Oh, my baby, I love you, too.”

Then we were hugging, Bev’s massive chest oddly comforting, the smell of Jhirmack Extra Hold and Virginia Slims the smell of home. She wept and stroked my hair, and I let her, and discovered that it felt pretty damn wonderful.

AN HOUR LATER, AFTER a cup of tea and a quart of tears, I hugged BeverLee once more. It was a little awkward, all this physical affection…but it was worth it. I could get used to it. I wanted to get used to it.

With a promise to call tomorrow, I went out the back to my father’s workshop, a place that smelled of wood and oiled power tools. He was talking to Willa in a low voice, arms folded, face serious. I felt a little pang of envy—Dad had always gotten on better with Willa. She was, of course, much more likable than yours truly, but still.

At the sight of his biological child, Dad broke off, and both of them looked at me.

“Can I have a word?” I asked.

“With me?” Dad asked.

“Um…actually, with both of you,” I said, taking a breath. “Okay. Um, Willa. Listen.” I bit my lip. “I’m not going to handle your divorce this time. In fact, uh, I don’t mean to sound too harsh here, but I can’t really bail you out on anything anymore. You’re twenty-seven, not seventeen. No more loans, no more credit cards. And I’ll just…shut up on the advice front, how’s that? You never take it anyway.”

“Well, I—” Willa began.

“Actually, one more bit of advice,” I interrupted. “Commit to something. Whether it’s Christopher or a job or a place or school…stick to it, Wills. You don’t want to end up just drifting around like milkweed seed, with a bunch of stupid relationships behind you and a whole lot of nothing in front of you. That’s what my mother did, and now she’s a waitress in South Dakota, with nothing and no one. You don’t want that, Willa. Trust me.”

There was a heavy silence. My father had frozen at the mention of my mother. Willa just looked at me for a long second. Then she smiled.

“Funny you should say that,” she said. “Chris and I are back together. He’s gonna work for Dad. So…we’re moving here.”

My mouth opened. “Really? What about the… Thumbie?”

She shrugged. “I called him that day…the day Nick showed up. He’s not going to give up on his inventing, but he sees the upside of regular work, too.”

“Oh. Well, that’s…great. Good for you, Willa.”

She raised a silky eyebrow. “Maybe I don’t need your advice quite as much as you think.”

I took a breath, then nodded. “Maybe not. Which is a really good thing, Willa. Sorry if I sounded like a pompous ass.”

“Why would today be any different?” she asked, mugging to our dad.

“Very funny. Cut me some slack,” I muttered. “I’ve had a rough week.”

With that, Willa bounded over and wrapped her arms around me. “So I hear. If you want to talk, I’m around.” She smooched my cheek. “Thanks for all the loans and advice and free divorces. I hope I’ll never need any again.”

“Ditto,” I said.

“Gotta run! Thanks, Dad!” Willa blew him a kiss, which he dutifully pretended to catch, and bounded out the door, leaving my father and me alone, twenty feet of wood and machinery between us, the smell of sawdust thick in the air. Rain pattered on the tin roof and the wind gusted outside.

“Crazy weather, huh?” I said, though it was nothing more than a typical rainstorm. “Yeah.”

The silence stretched between us. Now or never, Harper. “I saw Linda last week,” I said.

“So you said. How was that?”

“It wasn’t good, Dad. Not good.” I took a deep breath. “She pretended not to recognize me, and I let her.”

Dad looked at the floor and said nothing.

“Dad,” I said slowly, “listen. I—I always blamed you for not keeping Mom happy enough to stay, or not fighting to get her back when she left. And I hated that you married BeverLee and just stuck her in my life.”

Dad nodded in acknowledgment, his eyes still on the sawdust-covered floor.

“I want to thank you for that now.”

He looked up.

“My mother is obviously a self-centered, shallow, heartless person. And BeverLee is not.”

“No,” he said. The wind gusted, rattling a shop window.

“I’ve never asked you for much, have I, Dad?” I asked gently. “Never asked for money, went through college and law school on scholarships and student loans. Never lived with you after college, never asked for advice.”

“No,” he agreed. “You’ve never asked for a thing.” A flash of regret crossed his perpetually neutral face.

“I’m asking for something now, Daddy. Don’t leave BeverLee. Get some counseling and figure things out. You’ve got twenty years invested here, and Dad…She loves you. And she…believes in you. I don’t think it gets better than that.”

He didn’t move or say anything for a long moment. “You know BeverLee’s fifteen years younger than I am, of course,” he said slowly. I nodded.

He paused, weighing his next words. “Harper, I had a heart attack in July.”

My knees gave a dangerous buckle. “What?” I squeaked.

He shrugged. “Doctor said it was minor. But it got me thinking about…the future. I don’t want Bev to have to take care of me.”

“She doesn’t know, Dad?”

He shook his head. “I told her I was fishing with Phil Santos.”

“Dad…” My voice cracked. If my father died…

“I don’t want her saddled with a sickly old man.”

“She loves you, Dad! If she got sick, would you feel saddled with her?”

“Of course not. But…well. I see your point.” He didn’t say any more. “Still. She deserves someone who can keep up with her. Not a sick old man.”

“Are you doing okay now?” I asked.

“Oh, I guess. I take a pill every day. My cholesterol’s way down. It’s just…you look at your life and wonder what you can do for your family. Seemed like cutting Bev loose was the right thing. If I’m gonna die in the next year or so…”

“God, you men. You’re all so melodramatic,” I said, though my legs were still shaking at the thought of my dad being sick. “If you take care of yourself, you’ll outlive us all. But Dad, cutting Bev loose is not the right thing to do! Nor is keeping your children out of the loop!”

He gave a half shrug. “Well. You’re probably right.”

“So will you talk to Bev?” I asked. “Because I’m not keeping this a secret from her, Dad.”

He nodded once. “Yeah. I’ll talk to her. Been dragging my feet on moving out. Guess that says something.”

“It says you love her and don’t want a divorce.”

He looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “Your day to fix lives?” he asked, a hint of humor in his voice.

“Everyone’s except mine, I guess,” I said. We looked at each other a long minute.

“Harper, I…You know…well, here it is. I know I haven’t been the best father.” He sighed. “With Willa, it’s easy…she…She’s always making mistakes or needs something I can help her with…money, a place to live, whatever. But you…you never needed anything.” He paused. “Except a mother. A real mother, that is. The truth was, I was glad when Linda left. I was afraid she’d ruin you.”

“Is that why you married BeverLee? To give me a mother?”

“That was part of it. A big part.”

God. The past was never what it seemed to be. “Dad,” I said after another few beats, “can I ask you something?”

“Is there any stopping you?”

I grinned a little at that. Dad, making a joke. To me. “Well…no. But I always wondered about something. Did Mom name me after Harper Lee?”

“Who’s that?”

“She wrote To Kill A Mockingbird.”

Dad frowned. “Far as I know, you were named after some fashion magazine.”

Oh, crikey. Harper’s Bazaar. Well, hell. I guess that made more sense. And for some reason, it was oddly comforting—my mother had never had hidden depths.

“Can I ask you something else, Dad?” I asked.

“Go ahead.”

“Well…” This one was harder. “Dad, if I’d asked for advice all those years ago, what would you have said about me marrying Nick?”

He didn’t say anything for a minute, just looked at me as if judging whether or not I wanted the truth. “I guess I would’ve said I thought that boy was the best thing that ever happened to you.”

My heart clenched. “Really?” I whispered.

“Yes.”

“You never said anything. I wasn’t even sure you approved.”

Dad gave a half shrug and looked at the floor once more. “Actions were supposed to speak louder than words,” he replied gruffly. “I let him marry you, didn’t I? Wasn’t about to give my daughter to just anyone.”

Then my father looked up, held out his arms, hesitantly, self-consciously. “Come on,” he said. “Give your old man a hug.”