But there is something that Sharon has dreamed of doing, something we never would have guessed.

It has been Blond Sharon’s secret lifelong desire to become an author.

Well, we think, she’s certainly demonstrated her keen interest in other people’s stories, the seedier and more salacious, the better. Since beloved local novelist Vivian Howe died a few years ago, there has been no one to write about the dramas that occur every summer on Nantucket. Could Blond Sharon take her place? Does she know the first thing about writing fiction?

Summer is a prime time to embark on a self-improvement project, Sharon thinks—and she signs up for a virtual creative-writing workshop. The instructor’s name is Lucky Zambrano, which makes it sound like he’s a Mob boss, but in fact, he’s a recently retired Florida Atlantic University English professor. He tells his students that he’s teaching this online class to keep busy because his wife passed away last year.

Lucky is a widower, Sharon thinks. She sits up straighter and yanks at the bottom of her blouse to show a bit more cleavage. There are two other students in the Zoom class, both of them women and both about Sharon’s age, though neither quite as well preserved as she is. One is named Willow, the other Nancy.

“Oh,” Lucky says. “Nancy was my wife’s name.”

Does this give Nancy an advantage with Lucky? Sharon wonders. Nancy has one of those short, no-nonsense haircuts that means she’s probably already married. Willow is wearing long feather earrings and has never seen a Botox needle.

“Let’s get to your first assignment,” Lucky says. “Character. What I’d like you to do is venture out into the world somewhere, could be your local farmers’ market, your office building—Nancy, I see you work at the RMV, that’s a fertile environment—and choose two individuals to observe. Then I’d like you to dramatize a scene between the two with an eye toward developing this scene into a story. The late great novelist John Gardner famously said that there are only two plots: One, a person goes on a journey, and two, a stranger comes to town.” Lucky pauses and Sharon furiously scribbles on her legal pad. Sharon is hopelessly old-school; both Nancy and Willow type on their laptops. “Go forth and observe, then, my friends. We’ll meet again next week and you can share what you’ve written with the group.”

When Sharon clicks Leave Meeting, she’s energized and, dare she say, inspired. She won’t be one of those orange divorcées on a cruise ship; she’s going to create a dazzling second act for herself as a published author. She snatches up her legal pad, ready to venture out into the world to observe. In a way, this has always been Sharon’s mission—to find out what’s really going on. But now she has a more noble mission. Now she’s going to write about it.

Sharon plops herself down on a bench at the Steamship Authority ferry terminal. Where better to observe a person going on a journey or a stranger coming to town? Sharon wears her enormous Céline sunglasses and a white tennis visor, though those of us who are waiting for the ferry to arrive—notably Bob from Old Salt Taxi and Romeo, who works for the Steamship Authority—notice Sharon right away.

Why, Romeo wonders, does Blond Sharon have a notebook and pen at the ready? He can’t think of a single reason, but Romeo loves a mystery… especially one that involves a beautiful woman.

As soon as Sharon gets settled, the boat pulls in. She scans the people coming down the ramp. Does anyone look promising? No, no, no; it’s all day-trippers, the women in roomy sundresses, the men in cargo shorts, everyone in ugly sensible shoes. Fanny packs, backpacks. Why is the casual traveler in America so decidedly unstylish?

Her eyes latch onto a young woman over by the luggage cart. She has a look not seen often on Nantucket—she’s like a human piece of art. Her black hair is short and cut in angles and spikes. She’s wearing a tight black tank that leaves an inch of her midriff bare. She has a tattoo of a flamingo on her left shoulder and another that looks like a gecko just above her ankle. Sharon sees a gemstone sparkling in the girl’s nose as she lifts a lumpy army-green duffel off the luggage cart. This person is more than a casual tourist; this is someone arriving for the summer.

A stranger comes to town! Sharon thinks. She abandons her spot on the bench and creeps over to get a closer look. Should she offer this girl a ride to wherever she’s going? Sharon is about to tap the girl on the shoulder when a second young woman appears. This young woman has honey-colored hair cut in a neat, sassy bob and she’s wearing slim white jeans and a fitted navy blazer. She hoists a brightly patterned Vera Bradley bag off the cart. Sharon has the exact same bag at home.

“Here, take my number, Coco,” the second woman says. “Keep in touch, okay? Let me know where you end up staying.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Coco says. “I always do. And hey, Kacy, thanks for the chowder—it meant a lot.”

The second woman, Kacy, waves a hand as if to say It was nothing. She walks into the snarl of traffic in the parking lot. Coco’s shoulders sag as she pulls out her phone. The poor girl has come to Nantucket with a giant duffel bag and doesn’t have a place to stay? Sharon is about to offer to walk her over to Visitor Services to see about available hotel rooms—but then a couple of things happen in rapid succession. One is that a black Suburban pulls up, and Romeo from the Steamship opens the tailgate door and slides Kacy’s suitcases into the back. It isn’t Romeo’s job to help with luggage, so Kacy must be some kind of VIP. A second later, Sharon realizes the person driving the Suburban is the chief of police, Ed Kapenash. The young woman must be his daughter. Yes! Kacy Kapenash! Last Sharon heard, she was working as a nurse out in San Francisco. She must be back for a visit.

The second thing that happens is that Sharon’s phone rings. Inwardly, she groans. Before Walker left, Sharon’s phone was attached to her ear; this had been one of Walker’s major complaints (but how was Sharon supposed to get any news if she didn’t chat?). In a few short months, Sharon has turned into a full-blown Millennial when it comes to talking on the phone—she’ll do anything to avoid it.

The display says Fast Eddie. Eddie Pancik is Nantucket real estate royalty and Sharon’s male counterpart in the gossip department. He’s one of six people she’ll answer her phone for.

“Eddie,” Sharon says.

“Hey there, beautiful,” Eddie says. Eddie has, of course, heard the news about Walker trading Blond Sharon in for a younger model but he won’t mention it. “I just closed on Triple Eight Pocomo Road. A couple appeared out of nowhere and offered the full asking price. Twenty-two mil.”

What? Sharon thinks. The house at 888 Pocomo Road has been something of an albatross for Eddie. It’s famous for its octagonal deck, and Jennifer Quinn recently gave the interior a complete cosmetic refresh (it was the last project she took on before Real-Life Rehab, her HGTV show, took off). But… Triple Eight sits right on the water, and, thanks to climate change, harbor levels have been rising each year, eating away at the property’s small private beach. The forensic geologist reported that the first floor of the house would be underwater in eighty to a hundred years. Unfortunately, there’s not enough land behind the house to move it back, and neighborhood bylaws prohibit lifting it up.

Who pays twenty-two million for a doomed house? Sharon wonders. Someone either stupid or crazy.

“I want to introduce you to the wife,” Eddie says. “She’s a self-described ‘party animal.’”

Sharon cringes. Party animal brings to mind someone like Keith Richards in the 1970s, Rob Lowe in the 1980s. But Sharon could use a new friend, even a shortsighted one. A stranger comes to town, part deux! she thinks. “Great, feel free to give her my number.”

“Already did,” Eddie says. “She wants to join the Field and Oar Club.”

There’s no chance of that happening, as Eddie well knows, but instead of reminding him about the lengthy wait list and the nominating and seconding letters, Sharon says, “Proud of you, honey.”

“Thanks, bae,” Eddie says and he hangs up because he needs to get to the bank with his commission check. He’s glad he called Sharon with this news before going. If Blond Sharon doesn’t know about it, has it even happened?

During the short time that Sharon was on the phone, Kacy Kapenash has reappeared at the luggage cart; it seems she isn’t finished with Coco. “I just talked to my dad, and he says it’s fine if you stay in our guest room for a few days.”

“You’re kidding!” Coco says. “That’s amazing—thank you, you’re such a lifesaver.” Coco follows Kacy to the waiting Suburban.

Sharon returns to her spot on the bench and scribbles down all the details she can remember, including the flamingo tattoo, the army-green duffel, the “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” haircut.

As she’s describing the heartwarming scene between the two women, Romeo approaches; his large form casts a shadow on her page. “Hey, Sharon, what’s up?”

Sharon glances at him. Is Romeo single? she wonders. “I’m writing a short story.”

Romeo grins. How has Sharon never noticed how attractive he is? “Cool, can I be in it?”

“I’ll have to think about that,” Sharon says. “It’s going to be pretty scandalous.”

“Scandalous is my middle name,” Romeo says.

Sharon writes in her notebook: Romantic hero—Romeo Scandalous Steamship Guy? It feels a little unlikely, but then she reminds herself that it’s fiction—anything can happen.

2. “Sherry’s Living in Paradise”

One month earlier

The song is playing when the couple sit down at the bar. Each track on the Banana Deck’s Spotify playlist has paradise in the title; Coco is weary of all of them but especially this one. What that really means is that Coco is tired of St. John. It’s nearly Memorial Day weekend, which marks the end of high season here in the Virgin Islands.

“I have a question for you,” the gentleman says in a broad Australian accent. The guy is overdressed for the Banana Deck—he’s in a linen blazer the color of wheat bread and a crisp white shirt. His wife has long chestnut-brown hair styled in sumptuous barrel curls; her silk bias-cut dress is giving Academy Awards–presenter vibes.

Coco sighs and sets down her book. She’s reading The Secret History by Donna Tartt. She can’t believe it’s never been made into a movie.

“No, this song isn’t about me,” Coco says, though most of the lyrics apply. She is living in paradise, she is slinging drinks at a bar down by the beach. She’s both chasing something and running from something; she’s had a lot of lovers who were good for nothing. As for thinking about leaving—well, these days Coco does nothing but.

“That wasn’t my question,” the gentleman says. “I want to know if—”

“Yes, Kenny Chesney does sometimes come in here,” Coco says. “Though not usually this late in the season.”

“Shoot. We were hoping we could buy him a drink,” the wife says. She sounds American.

You and everyone else, Coco thinks. Wow, she’s in a foul mood. She slaps down a couple of Cruzan Rum coasters. “What can I get you?”

“A bottle of very cold Veuve Clicquot, please,” the gentleman says.

Coco nearly laughs. “We don’t have Veuve Clicquot.”

“Moët?” he says. “Taittinger?”