Exercise, Delilah thinks. Fresh air. Sunshine. It’s nice for the first twenty minutes or so; the game is evenly matched, Leslee doesn’t commit any egregious fouls, and at one point, the four of them have a spectacular rally, the kind you see on Instagram. It eventually ends with Delilah hitting a shot that gets past Leslee, but they’ve all played so brilliantly, they give a collective cheer.

Andrea’s right, Delilah thinks. It’s a game, it’s fun, and we’re all becoming better players, even Phoebe. We’re lucky we found a fourth. Delilah will stop complaining.

Delilah and Andrea win the next point, and the next. Delilah’s relaxed attitude is paying off—they might actually win!

The very next point, Leslee volleys from the kitchen; it could not be more blatant. Delilah looks at Andrea, but Andrea just wipes sweat off her brow with the bottom of her shirt. The serve goes to Leslee. It is annoying how perfect her hair is, Delilah thinks. It’s long and shiny with round barrel curls; her visor keeps the front pieces out of her face and the rest cascades down her back.

Leslee serves; Delilah returns; Leslee hits it to Andrea; Andrea hits it to Phoebe; Phoebe smacks it to Delilah; Delilah hits it to Leslee, who charges into the kitchen to volley it back. Delilah drops her racket to her side and lets the ball go.

“Our point,” Leslee says.

Finally, Andrea speaks up. “You know it’s a rule that you can’t volley from the kitchen, right?”

Leslee looks astonished. “Obviously. Why, was I in the kitchen when I returned that?”

Delilah waits for Andrea to say, You were, actually, yes. But Andrea says, “It doesn’t matter, it’s all in good fun,” and she returns the ball over the net so Phoebe can serve.

The next point, Leslee volleys with one foot squarely in the kitchen, and Delilah keeps playing because she realizes that protesting is useless; Leslee is never going to play by the rules. Delilah considers volleying from the kitchen herself—but no, she won’t sully the game that way. Instead, she’ll transform her fury and indignation into skill and power. She doesn’t care about exercise! She doesn’t give a rat’s ass about fresh air and sunshine! She and Andrea and Phoebe could easily find someone else to be their fourth. Why does it have to be this woman?

She has good hair, Delilah thinks. So what? She has the house, the boat; she throws parties, she’s fun. She is probably the most popular woman on Nantucket right now. In record time she has somehow become an integral part of the community.

It’s match point and Delilah doesn’t have to guess what will happen because she knows. Andrea serves; Phoebe returns; Delilah volleys from well behind the line, and Leslee charges into the kitchen and volleys back. Delilah lets the ball go and briefly closes her eyes.

“That’s game,” Leslee says.

Both Andrea and Phoebe are still, waiting for Delilah to react.

Delilah jogs to the net, smiling even though sweat is dripping into her eyes. “Good game!” she says, tapping Leslee’s racket.

“I think that was our best game yet,” Leslee says. “You played well, Delilah.”

“Thanks,” Delilah says. “You were incredible, as always.”

“And I sucked!” Phoebe says, which makes everyone laugh.

Delilah zips up her racket and drinks deeply from her water bottle, thinking, I’m not walking away empty-handed. “Hey, Leslee,” she says. “Are you free tomorrow at ten?”

“Free as a bird!” Leslee says. “What do you have in mind?”

“Do you remember I told you I sit on the board of the food pantry?”

“I do!” Leslee says. “I’ve been meaning to make a donation.”

“Well, you’re in luck. I’m meeting with the executive director tomorrow morning and I’d love for you to join me.”

“It’s a very important nonprofit,” Phoebe says. “There’s a lot of food insecurity on this island.”

“Forty-four percent of school-age children on Nantucket qualify for a school lunch,” Delilah says.

Andrea says, “That’s a lot of hungry children.”

“Say no more!” Leslee says. “I’ll be there tomorrow at ten. What’s the address?”

Delilah is curious to see what Leslee is like one-on-one. Leslee pulls in right next to Delilah on Main Street and Delilah feigns joy: What a coincidence, now they can walk to the food pantry together! Leslee has dressed simply in khaki capris, a white T-shirt, and, hmm, Chanel slingback flats that retail for more than it costs to feed a family of four for a month. But even so, Delilah grudgingly approves; at least there’s no ostentatious Hermès or Goyard bag.

Does Delilah catch the faintest whiff of cigarette smoke masked by the mint that Leslee is crunching and her usual miasma of exotic vanilla perfume? Delilah matches her steps to Leslee’s as they stroll down the brick sidewalk. Yes, definitely cigarettes. Delilah flashes back to her own era of secret smoking when she worked at the Scarlet Begonia. She was so overwhelmed back then with her late-night job and two little kids to entertain all day that she would smoke on her way home at two or three in the morning, blasting Amy Winehouse. She put the car windows down even in the winter, but Jeffrey could always tell and would bow his head, conveying his deep disappointment.

“Are you a smoker?” Delilah asks.

Leslee whips her head around and gives Delilah an incredulous look that melts into a conspiratorial smile. “I sneak one from time to time.”

“Me too,” Delilah says. “Or I used to, anyway.” This could be what bonds them, she thinks. Phoebe and Andrea put cigarettes in the same category as heroin and Miracle Whip: bad.

Delilah wonders why Leslee smokes—is it a habit left over from a misspent youth or is it to combat stress? What, Delilah would like to know, does Leslee have to stress about? Nothing, that’s what. Must be the misspent youth, then, Delilah thinks. But before Delilah can explore the topic further, Leslee changes the subject to… the weather. “It’s been beastly hot for the past ten days,” she says, plucking her T-shirt away from her body. “And yet it refuses to rain.”

Delilah says, “I have to pay more attention to my perennial bed than I do to my husband.”

“Oh, are you a gardener?” Leslee asks. “I’m having a circular garden installed on our property, but it’s taking forever. Benton promised it would be done by now, but it’s not even close to finished. The custom octagonal hot tub I ordered is collecting dust at the storage center. I want to have a crazy hot-tub party once the garden is completed, but Benton never shows up. It’s almost like he’s avoiding me.”

He wasn’t avoiding you on the Fourth of July sail, Delilah thinks.

They reach the food pantry, where the executive director, Corwin Moore—one of the kindest, most thoughtful human beings Delilah has ever known—is waiting for them.

There was a moment, right before Delilah left the house, when she wondered if this meetup was a good idea. Corwin does god’s work. Delilah imagined Leslee ignoring him—checking her phone, filing her nails—or making the organization seem cute or quaint. Or, worse, hitting on Corwin because he’s tall and quite attractive.

Delilah needn’t have worried. The second Leslee steps into the food pantry, she transforms into someone else. She greets Corwin warmly and listens earnestly as he explains that the need on Nantucket has increased from sixteen thousand bags of groceries per year to twenty thousand. Then he tells her about the food pantry’s relationships with local farms (“Delilah and her husband, Jeffrey, provide a farmers’ market bounty as well as fresh eggs to our clients”).

Leslee says, “I had no idea there was such a large underserved community here. I thought Nantucket was all rich people.”

“A common misperception,” Corwin says. “We have lots of families in need.” He pauses. “Lots of children in need.”

“I want to make a substantial donation,” Leslee says. “I’m thinking a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

Delilah and Corwin exchange a quick glance. In their text conversation, they had bandied about a five- or ten-thousand-dollar ask.

“That’s incredibly generous,” Corwin says. He passes Leslee the annual report and the information packet for donors.

“In fact, make it a hundred and seventy-five,” Leslee says. “Any more than that and my husband might curtail my shopping budget.”

“You’re an angel,” Corwin says. He takes Leslee’s hand. “How can I ever thank you?”

Leslee inspects his thick black wedding band. “I could think of some ways,” she says. “But it looks like you’re taken.”

Maybe Leslee isn’t a completely different person, Delilah thinks.

“I am,” Corwin says. “My husband, Nick, and I are celebrating our one-year anniversary tomorrow.”

“Well, Nick is a lucky man,” Leslee says. “I’ll drop off a check this week.”