Kacy privately feels Rondo might be too soft for Isla—he has no edges; he doesn’t swear; he doesn’t lose his temper. What Kacy resents most about him is that she can’t point to any obvious flaws. The other male docs at Children’s tend to be mansplainers or total bros who think nothing of talking over women. But not Rondo. He’s a gem.

“But she said you happily agreed,” he says. “Which is so great. We finally picked out invitations last night, and her mother is flying in from Mexico City at the end of the month to go dress shopping.”

Invitations, Kacy thinks. Dress shopping.

Rondo’s phone buzzes. He looks genuinely apologetic as he checks it. “Shoot, I have to go. But thank you, Kace. Truly.” He squeezes her shoulder and rushes for the elevator bank, then seems to think better of it and goes dashing up the stairs, taking them two at a time, like a superhero off to save the world.

On Tuesday, when Isla sneaks over to Kacy’s apartment, Kacy tells her she’s made a decision.

“What do you mean, you’re leaving?” Isla says. “Leave of absence? A week, two weeks, you’re burned out, you want to drive down to Big Sur? You want to go to Ojai or LA and sit by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel?”

All of those options sound lovely and Kacy wishes that a short break was all she needed. But her father’s health, Isla’s impending nuptials, and tragically losing Little G (why had she let herself grow so attached when she knew better?) have brought her to a crossroads.

“I’m leaving for the summer,” Kacy says. “I’ll reassess in September.”

“Reassess?” Isla says. Her cheeks flare pink; her normally unflappable composure cracks. “Are you breaking up with me?”

“I’m going to Nantucket,” Kacy says. “My dad… I want to spend some time with my family.”

“You promised the next time you went home, you’d bring me,” Isla says.

“Isla, you’re engaged,” Kacy says. “I saw Rondo the other day. He told me you’ve chosen invitations. He said you’re going dress shopping.” She laughs unhappily. “He thanked me for agreeing to be your maid of honor. You’re getting married, Isla. How can I break up with you when you aren’t mine to begin with?”

Kacy realizes she’s issuing an ultimatum. Isla can save their relationship now. She can choose Kacy now.

But instead, Isla drops her head into her hands. “When are you leaving?”

“Two weeks,” Kacy says.

On their final night together, as Kacy packs, Isla lies across Kacy’s bed, as lush and naked as an odalisque in an Ingres painting. “Leaving on a Jet Plane”—Kacy’s choice—is playing over the speaker.

“You’re taking all your cute clothes,” Isla says.

“That I am.”

“I love your style,” Isla says. “Have I ever told you that?”

“Yes.”

“Even in scrubs, you look like Grace Kelly.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I want you to stay, Bun. I’m afraid you’re going to meet someone on Nantucket and I will have lost the only person I’ve ever really loved.”

“So kiss me,” Kacy sings along, “and smile for me.” She folds her silky camisole tops, her white jeans, her floral sundresses. There’s only one thing Isla can do to get Kacy to stay, and she knows it. “Hold me like you’ll never let me go,” Kacy sings.

Isla is crying, and Kacy won’t lie, the moment is gratifying, but an hour later, after Isla has dressed and gone, Kacy wonders if she’s made the right decision or a rash one.

She crawls into bed and checks Instagram. Isla doesn’t have an account but Rondo does; if the man has a fault, it’s that he overshares on social media. Only three minutes earlier, Rondo posted a picture of two glasses of wine side by side on their coffee table with the flames of their gas fireplace flickering in the background. The caption reads Unwinding with my love.

Yes, Kacy thinks, I made the right decision. She’s going home.

4. Meet-Cute I

As soon as Coco’s plane touches down in Boston, she texts Bull Richardson: I’ve landed.

There’s no response and Coco wonders if now is the time to panic. Her previous three texts—one sent yesterday afternoon from the St. Thomas airport, one sent last night from the Orlando airport (where she shoplifted the new Kristin Hannah book from Hudson News because she’d finished her Jesmyn Ward novel on the plane), and one this morning before takeoff—have gone unanswered. She checks her email. There’s nothing new from Bull Richardson but she’s at least able to reread his previous correspondence: We’d love to offer you the job of personal concierge… Errands, light housekeeping, party prep (Leslee throws a lot of parties)… Thirty-five an hour plus room and board… We’re scheduled to close on the house June 11… From Boston, take the Plymouth-Brockton bus line to Hyannis, then the fast ferry to Nantucket… Let us know your travel plans.

Coco had written back that she would be arriving on Nantucket on June 11, and she included her flight itinerary. There had been no response to this, which Coco assumed meant it was fine. Now, however, it feels like she missed a crucial step, which was getting Bull’s confirmation. Was something wrong? Did Leslee change her mind about having another woman around? Did Bull suspect that Coco’s intent was to worm her way into his good graces, make herself indispensable, then use him to get her screenplay produced?

Or is she just paranoid because she’s tired? When she’s off the plane and in the terminal at Logan, she calls Bull; she is jettisoned to his voice mail.

“Hey, Mr. Richardson, it’s Coco. I’m taking the nine o’clock bus, then the eleven o’clock ferry, arriving on the island at noon. I can get a taxi to your house. I just need the address? Looking forward to hearing from you and excited about the summer. Thanks!”

It’s not until Coco has boarded the bus that her phone buzzes with a text from Bull: We closed on the house this morning. Leslee says we need some time to move in and get the place ready, etc. If you could just hang tight, that would be great. We’ll let you know about a start date. Thx!

What? Coco thinks. He does realize she’s in Massachusetts, right? On the bus, headed to the ferry. By noon, she’ll be on Nantucket, where she knows no one but them.

She texts back: Where should I stay in the meantime?

Bull says, We thought you had someone on the island? The librarian?

I said my librarian introduced me to Nantucket, Coco thinks. I never said she lived there.

Bull texts again: We’re at the Hotel Nantucket, which is fully booked, but I think the White Elephant has rooms? Or you could try a B and B?

Coco types, Will you be paying for my room?—but then deletes it, because it’s clear that the answer will be no. She’s on her own until they get the house ready. How long will that take? A few days? A week? Longer? Are they having it painted? Has their furniture arrived?

Coco has to figure on a week. Unfortunately, she couldn’t find anyone to sublet her room in her St. John house-share, so she has to eat three grand in rent and utilities, leaving her with a little over eleven hundred in savings. She owes sixteen hundred bucks on her Visa, which she wants to pay off; she will not be like her mother and Kemp, perpetually living in debt.

Deep breath.

Thirty-five dollars an hour means a gross of fourteen hundred for a forty-hour week, and she won’t have to worry about rent or meals. Then, once she sells her screenplay…

She runs a hand through her hair. She’s getting ahead of herself.

She checks out the White Elephant’s website on her phone. The cheapest room is $1,095 a night. Seriously? The bed-and-breakfasts start at $310 per night. There are no motels, there’s no Holiday Inn Express; there used to be a hostel, but not any longer. Looks like I’m camping, Coco thinks, which is fine; she grew up camping with her mother and Kemp, and she can rough it without a tent or even a sleeping bag. But it turns out Nantucket doesn’t have a campground.

Where do poor people stay? she wonders.

At the ferry terminal, Coco begins to understand what going to Nantucket means. Everyone is preppy and wealthy-looking; the clothes are tasteful; there’s a lot of navy blue and white. One woman carries a woven basket purse on her forearm and holds the leash of a yellow Lab in her opposite hand. Her silver-haired husband wears pinkish pants and loafers with no socks. He bellows, “Larry!” and another gentleman turns around and exclaims in delight. “Ha-ha-ha, Talbot, old pal! How was your winter—Vero, was it? Let’s get a drink at the Field and Oar next week—my first order of business is getting my boat in the water.”

Coco has a recurring nightmare where she’s onstage at the Rosebush Middle School spelling bee and all the words are in a nonsense language. She feels that way now. Can I have the definition for Field and Oar, please?

Coco had had a steep learning curve when she moved to St. John—driving on the left, respecting West Indian culture, realizing that painkiller was a drink, not a pill. But St. John was so low-key it was almost no-key; it was populated by outlaws and renegades, pirates and mermaids. You could go to the grocery store in bare feet.

Nantucket is something completely different. There isn’t a tattoo in sight.