“I guess I missed that part,” Eric says. “I thought Coco was my sister’s girlfriend.”

Avalon sighs and goes to the bar for another round. She loves Eric, but he’s completely clueless.

It’s the end of the night, and Avalon is in the ladies’ room when Leslee pops out of a stall.

“Oh, good, I found you,” Leslee says. She steps in very close, as though she and Avalon are the best of friends, and whispers, “Why don’t you and your boyfriend come back to the hotel with us?”

Avalon puts a hand to her abdomen. “I’m actually not feeling well, but thanks for the invite.”

“Aww, come on,” Leslee says. She fingers a strand of Avalon’s hair. “It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“So nice to see you again,” Avalon says, darting into a stall. “Have a good night!” Then she locks the door, her heart pounding. No wonder everyone is talking about the Richardsons.

7. Work It, Sell It, Own It

There’s a knock on the bedroom door and Coco jolts awake, unsure of where she is. Fluffy white duvet, the scent of lavender, stripes of light through a slatted shade, birdsong.

Nantucket.

She climbs out of bed and opens the door to find Kacy holding a hot cappuccino and a mason jar filled with flowers.

“Good morning,” Kacy says. “I wanted to let you sleep, but it’s ten o’clock!”

Only ten? Coco thinks. On a normal day in St. John, she wouldn’t wake up before noon. She usually bartended at the Banana Deck until close, then hit the Quiet Mon for last call, then went home and worked on her screenplay until three or four in the morning. She can tell, however, that sleeping into the double digits probably breaks some kind of house rule here. Kacy looks like she woke at dawn, ran five miles, whipped up an acai bowl or an egg-white omelet, and now is ready to conquer the day. Her hair is pulled back in a banana clip but it’s still somehow shiny and sleek, with strands framing her face. She’s wearing a white linen blouse, a patchwork madras mini, a collection of thin gold necklaces—real gold, Coco can tell—and gold hoop earrings. Kacy has a way about her, that’s for damn sure.

“Go get ready,” Kacy says. “Today is your proper introduction to Nantucket.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Coco says. “You’ve done too much already just by letting me stay here.”

Kacy blinks. “Don’t be silly. I’ll see you downstairs in ten. Put on something cute.”

Coco closes the door, then rummages through her duffel bag. Put on something cute? She chooses a pair of faded jeans with rips at the knees and a navy tank top from Shambles in St. John. The back of the tank says DAY-DRINKING DONE RIGHT. Will the Nantucket fashion police write Coco a ticket? Her wardrobe staples include a lot of black, a lot of denim, and T-shirts emblazoned with the logos of her favorite bands: Tame Impala, Grouplove, the Killers.

Coco gazes into the bathroom mirror. When she was fifteen, she pierced each ear eight times using a needle, a tray of ice cubes, and a bottle of Wild Turkey. Her mother hadn’t blinked an eye except to ask how she was going to afford sixteen earrings. Good question. Coco keeps silver studs in a couple of holes and a silver hoop at the top of her cartilage; she could do better. She has a diamond (by which she means “cubic zirconia”) stud in her nose.

Once Coco got to St. John, she’d added tattoos. The first was the flamingo on her left shoulder; she had seen flamingos at Salt Pond, and it had blown her mind. Then she got a gecko just above her ankle, small and cute, head down like it was going to disappear into Coco’s Chuck Taylor. She’d added a manta ray to the upper part of her left buttock and a tattoo of one of the wild white donkeys that roamed St. John on her right hip bone. When she swam at Maho Bay or Hawksnest, tourists would sometimes ask to take her picture.

She washes her face with the bathroom soap and applies her drugstore moisturizer, then rubs some moisturizer through her hair in an attempt to make it do something. (She cuts her hair herself with kitchen scissors; the style is best described as pixie-cut-meets-electric-socket.) She pulls a bandanna from her bag, fashions it into a headband, and pushes her hair off her face. She looks like Rosie the Riveter. All set.

“Coco?” Kacy calls from downstairs.

“Coming!” Coco says.

They climb into Kacy’s Jeep, which has sat idle in the years since Kacy left but which her parents kept in perfect working condition. It’s white with a sunset painted across the bottom parts of the doors. Kacy lowers the tan soft-top because today is nothing but blue skies. Coco puts on the hot-pink plastic sunglasses that some chick who’d drunk too many Bushwackers left on the bar at the Banana Deck. Kacy wears Ray-Ban aviators. Of course she does.

Kacy turns the key in the ignition. “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” is playing on the radio. It’s too much, Coco thinks—but not for Kacy. She turns it up and peels out of the driveway. They’re off.

Kacy goes into tour-guide mode, telling Coco how the streets were paved with cobblestones sourced from Gloucester, Massachusetts, in the 1830s. (“People like to say the cobblestones were brought over as ballast on ships, but that’s a myth.”) She points out the Civil War monument, then the Three Bricks—three homes built by the whaling captain Joseph Starbuck for his three sons. Coco hopes there won’t be a quiz later; she’s just trying to process how damn quaint the place is. The homes are stately, the fences and gates and gardens impeccable. They pass an inn called 76 Main that’s basically a mansion—no wonder rooms on this island cost so much—then a place called Murray’s Toggery. Toggery? Coco thinks. Can you use that in a sentence, please? From the looks of things, it’s a store that sells cardigans and men’s trousers with whales embroidered on them.

They get to the main part of town, where the shops all have tasteful wooden signs—LEMON PRESS, MITCHELL’S BOOK CORNER, NANTUCKET LOOMS—and people are strolling around with their ten-dollar coffees, swinging shopping bags, taking selfies, living their best lives.

“There is so much unique shopping,” Kacy says as though she works for the local chamber of commerce. “You’ll probably want some new clothes for the summer?”

Want, yes, Coco thinks. But she can’t afford even a new pair of underwear. “We can look,” she says. She’s pretty sure this is Kacy’s way of saying that Coco’s wardrobe needs an upgrade.

“I’ll take you to my go-to.” Kacy pulls up in front of a boutique called the Lovely. As soon as they’re inside among all the dainty, fluttery, summery things, Coco feels like a cat in a wineglass. What is she doing here?

The salesgirl flashes a brilliant smile. “Welcome, ladies! My name is Olivia. Let me know if you have any questions.”

This chick is straight out of central casting, Coco thinks. She has long dark hair, big brown eyes, and the kind of golden glow that can only be achieved by strolling through your family’s vineyard in Tuscany.

“Thanks, Olivia,” Kacy says. She slides dresses and tops along the rack, pulling out pieces she likes to get a better look. Meanwhile, Coco checks the price tags—a dress for $380, a simple cotton tank for $85.

Time to go, she thinks.

“This would be so cute on you,” Kacy says, holding up a white eyelet sundress. Well, yes, Coco loves it; it’s pretty enough to get married in. “And it’s on sale.”

Sale? Coco holds the dress up against herself in the mirror. The price tag shows it has been marked down from $385 to $168. “A hundred and sixty-eight dollars isn’t bad,” Coco says. (She is kidding. Coco has never spent that much on a dress, ever. She used to buy vintage dresses for six or eight bucks apiece at the Pansy and Petunia.)

“You have to try it on!” Kacy says.

Olivia floats over. “Would you like me to start you a room?”

“I’m not sure I’m ready for that kind of commitment,” Coco says, and both Kacy and Olivia laugh.

Kacy takes the dress, hands it to Olivia, and says, “Please start her a room.”

Coco steps into the curtained alcove and zips herself into the dress. Her panic escalates. The dress fits her perfectly; her boobs look a-maze-ing. When she steps out, Kacy and Olivia shriek.

Kacy says, “OMG, I have to take your picture.” She whips out her phone and Coco gives her a fake pout that is actually a real pout as she envisions her eleven hundred dollars becoming nine hundred thirty-two if she uses debit, which she should so that her credit card debt doesn’t get any heavier.

“Girl,” Olivia says as though they’re now the best of friends. “Made for you. As in, I wouldn’t even sell it to anyone else.”

It’s a good line (although Olivia probably uses it on everyone), but Coco is too anxious to be flattered. Back in the changing room, she removes the dress and spends one second low-key hating Kacy for bringing her here and Olivia for working here. But the next second, like a paper airplane aimed straight at her by the hand of Fate, she gets an alert on her phone. An email from Bull Richardson.

Coco hesitates before opening it. She has a sick feeling that Bull is going to pull the rug out from under her: He’s changed his mind; he’s hired someone else, or Leslee has. They want a personal concierge who knows the island (and can she blame them?). Coco will have no choice but to spend the summer back in sweltering St. John. This might not have been such a bad option yesterday, but now that Coco has seen Nantucket, she desperately wants to stay.

She clicks on the alert. The email says: We’ll be ready for you to start work on Monday. Our address is 888 Pocomo Road. Looking forward to seeing you again.—B.

Coco gets dressed and bursts from the changing room with Clark Kent–emerging–from–the–phone–booth–as–Superman energy.

She hands Olivia the dress. “I’ll take it,” she says.

Coco tells Kacy that she’s starting her job on Monday, and Kacy says, “Let’s celebrate! Lunch is on me.”

At the Nantucket Pharmacy, they perch on leather-and-chrome stools at the lunch counter. Kacy orders a grilled cheese with bacon and tomato, and Coco is thrilled to see they have ham and pickle salad, which was her favorite thing at Grumpy Garth’s Diner back in Rosebush. Coco asks what a frappe is and Kacy laughs and says it’s a milkshake and it’s pronounced “frap,” not “frappy.”

“Okay, sorry, at home we just call them milkshakes.” To the eager-beaver teenage boy behind the counter, Coco says, “And one chocolate frappe, please!” When it arrives, in a frosty glass and topped with whipped cream, Kacy says, “Let me take a picture of you happy with your frappy.” Coco purses her lips around the straw and bats her eyes while Kacy snaps a million photos. Then Kacy asks the eager beaver to take one of the two of them, a job he takes very seriously: “Get together. Closer. Okay, now work it, sell it, own it!” And they crack up, falling against each other like they’ve been friends forever.