“By hand?” Coco says, thinking, How very Edith Wharton. Coco will knock on doors in her uniform and hand the envelope to the lady of the house or someone on the staff. “All of them?” There must be a hundred envelopes in the box.

“Yes, all of them,” Leslee says. “The party is on Saturday and I don’t trust the U.S. Postal Service to get them anywhere in a timely fashion. People need to clear their calendars. So I’d like it done this morning.” She stands up and Coco follows suit, picking up the box of invitations. “Come with me. I’ll show you your apartment and your car, then you can get going.”

My apartment. My car. This job is like a seesaw, Coco thinks. The lows: no days off, wearing a freaking uniform, and delivering a hundred invitations by hand like she’s a character in The Age of Innocence. The highs: cash money (as long as she doesn’t get in trouble with the IRS; do they bother with poor folks like her?) and the view.

Coco’s new apartment—which is located above a separate two-car garage—is also a high. It’s not as grand as the main house, but it is light and bright and has a coastal-grandmother vibe. The kitchen appliances are stainless steel, and there’s a fresh bouquet of cosmos and black-eyed Susans on the counter. In the living room, there’s a deep sofa in front of a huge television, and Coco has her choice of bedrooms. She takes the one with the water views instead of the one with the walk-in closet. Both rooms have a king-size bed (Coco has only slept in a king-size bed during one-night stands). They’re sheathed in white linens and have a million pillows, like beds in a Nancy Meyers film.

“Who will be in the other bedroom?” Coco asks. A part of her wills Leslee to say “Lamont,” but she’s even happier when Leslee says, “Nobody. This place is all yours.”

Coco can’t believe her luck. She can spread out; stay up all night fine-tuning her script and watching Housewives; no one will bogart her hummus or finish her bag of pita chips; she won’t be subjected to anyone else’s stink in the bathroom or cooking smells or lovemaking noises. Coco has never lived alone. This, she thinks, is the definition of luxury.

She follows Leslee downstairs to the white-shell driveway. Off to the left, a backhoe is clearing out scrub brush. That must be the new garden where the hot tub will go. Leslee presses a button on a remote control; the door to the right garage bay opens, and honestly, it’s like one of the reruns of Let’s Make a Deal that Coco’s mother used to watch on her days off. What’s behind door number one?

In this case, it’s a Land Rover Defender, probably early 1980s, baby blue with a tan top. Coco peers in the open driver-side window. The steering wheel is wood and chrome, the seats are buff leather, and in the back are two sets of jump seats facing each other. It’s the most beautiful vehicle Coco has ever seen.

“Do you drive stick?” Leslee asks.

“I do,” Coco says. She’s afraid to ask if this is her car because this could be a fake-out like the boat ride and lunch.

“In that case,” Leslee says, “meet your new baby.”

If Coco is on a seesaw, this is the highest of highs. She knows all about vintage cars from living with Kemp. He kept issues of Classic Motorsports and Auto and Design the way other men did Playhouse and Penthouse. Coco wants to take a picture of the Rover and send it to him: Look what I’m driving this summer! He’d think she was bluffing or that she had a sugar daddy or that she’d stolen it.

“Hello, Baby,” Coco says, and Leslee laughs.

“Bull told me we had to buy an ‘island car,’ but I didn’t realize it would be so… basic.”

Basic? Well, it’s over forty years old and has a canvas top and the back seat is impractical unless you’re looking for cheetahs on the Serengeti, but the vehicle is in pristine condition, and Coco wonders where Bull found it. He must have an auto broker with outstanding taste. This car is best in class, which should reflect on its owners, but it’s clear Leslee doesn’t get it. Coco turns around to check out the other car in the garage, a flashy black G-Wagon, brand-new.

“The keys are in the console,” Leslee says. “Can I count on you to get those invitations delivered?”

“You can count on me,” Coco says with new enthusiasm.

“Please change into your uniform before you go,” Leslee says. “Oh, and there is one more thing.”

Of course there is. Coco steels herself. “Yes?”

“Bull and I have a strict rule about our staff dating one another. We don’t allow it. Work romances don’t always end well, and a bad breakup will make it disruptive for everyone in the household, as I’m sure you understand.”

“Yes,” Coco says. “Who else is—”

“It’s just you and Lamont, officially. Lamont has hired two part-time crew members, but they’re teenagers.”

So… Leslee is telling Coco she can’t date Lamont. Which is why he pretended not to know who she was.

“Okay,” Coco says. “I get it.”

“Do you?” Leslee holds Coco’s gaze and Coco tries not to let her disappointment show.

“I do.”

“Good, great, perfect. Because we’re strict about it. You’d both be replaced”—she snaps her fingers—“like that.” She waits a beat for these consequences to sink in. “Have fun with the invitations. I’ll check in with you later.”

Coco heads back upstairs, her elation about the room of her own and the Rover popping like an overinflated balloon. The only person on Nantucket she’s not allowed to date is the only person she might want to date. Is she bothered enough by this to quit? No—she’s here for a reason, and it’s not to find a boyfriend.

Coco changes into her uniform; she tucks her shirt into the high-waisted shorts that make her look like Steve Urkel. Through the window, she watches Leslee wade out to the speedboat holding a striped beach bag over her head. Lamont reaches out a hand and helps her aboard. He guns the engines and the boat careens away in a huge sweeping arc. It’s almost like he knows I’m watching, Coco thinks. He’s showing off.

She eyes the box of invites and calls Kacy, thinking that Kacy will at least know where all these addresses are.

Kacy answers on the first ring. “Is everything okay?”

“You busy?” Coco says.

13. Special Delivery

Blond Sharon is at home preparing ham and cheese sandwiches on an assembly line for her son, Robert, and the friends he’s invited over to swim in the pool when there’s a knock at the door. Sharon peers through the window and sees a gorgeous vintage Land Rover idling in the driveway. Even Sharon’s soon-to-be ex, who likes to snark about all the Land Rovers on Nantucket (“Explain what a car designed to be driven on the African savanna is doing on an island thirty miles offshore”), would have to admit it’s a good-looking car.

Standing on the porch is a young woman holding out a pink envelope. “My employers, the Richardsons, are hosting a party on Saturday, and they’d love for you to join them.”

Gah! Sharon thinks. The Richardsons? She accepts the invitation thinking, These Richardsons are certainly shaking up the status quo. Who hand-delivers invitations? Sharon can think of no one but the royal family. And yet it’s a nice touch and, in Sharon’s case, a welcome one. She and Walker used to find their mailbox stuffed with invitations to cocktail parties and benefits; in more recent years, invitations came via Paperless Post or Mint. But so far this summer, even those have been lacking. Sharon has tried not to wonder if she’s been taken off people’s lists because of her impending divorce. Are her married friends gathering without telling her, rationalizing it as “giving her space” when really they’re just afraid that divorce is a contagious disease?

At least the Richardsons aren’t put off by her newly single status.

“Thank you,” Sharon says to the young woman. “I’ll check my calendar and RSVP.” She notices the woman’s short, punk-rock haircut. It’s the girl from her character study, Sharon thinks. Coco!

When Coco strides back to the Rover, Sharon notices someone riding shotgun—Kacy Kapenash. Ha-ha-ha! They’ve become friends! That story had a happy ending, but of course no one in Sharon’s creative-writing class wants a happy ending; they want conflict, drama, nuance.

A second later, Sharon’s kitchen is invaded by half a dozen thirteen-year-old boys. One notorious troublemaker, Baxter Morse, walks right into Sharon’s pantry and emerges with a bag of Fritos. Sharon wants to snatch the bag away. Baxter is Sharon’s least favorite of Robert’s friends; his mother, Celadon Morse, is insufferable.

“I’m making lunch for all of you right now,” Sharon says. “I’ll bring it out to the pool.”

“Do you have any sodas?” Baxter asks.

“Robert isn’t allowed soda because of his diabetes,” Sharon says. “Now, shoo, all of you. You’re dripping all over my kitchen.”

“Your mom is mean,” Baxter says to Robert on the way out. “And I can’t believe you aren’t allowed to have soda.”

I’m not mean! Sharon wants to shout. You’re rude! And thanks very little for your diabetes-shaming!

She turns her attention back to the envelope. The invitation is on heavy, cream linen stock with a pink border and pink print.

Pink and White Party at Triple Eight Pocomo

Saturday, June 22, 7:00 p.m.

Cocktails, Dinner, and Dancing

Regrets Only