I’m lying in the front yard, shoulder straps pulled down for tan line elimination, reading the antics of the pirate and the princess, when I see Mom and her current cohorts coming out of the Tucker house across the street. Buckets and mops in hands signals that they’re done. Which means that the Robinsons’ stay on the island is done. So long, Alex. I get up to walk over. Spotting me, Mom gives a cheery wave, and then fans her hands over her face in a gesture of exasperation meant to convey that her exist-ing cleaning team hasn’t gotten any better. Angela Castle, who is Dad’s cousin’s daughter, is hauling the vacuum cleaner down the stairs, wearing a sour expression and a shirt cut down to her navel. According to Mom, Angela only consented to this job in hopes of winning the hand of some Seashell summer guy. “As if,” Mom said, “we haven’t all outgrown Cinderella. Yuh, that’ll happen. Because nothing says sexy like mopping your floor.”

Angela drags the equipment to the back of the Bronco, while Mom reaches into the Igloo cooler stationed there and extracts a Diet Coke.

Then, to me, under her breath, Mom says, “I hope we did okay. Those Robinsons are so particular. They always give it the white glove treatment after I leave and there’s always some-270

thing we left undone, so ‘in all good conscience we couldn’t pay you the full rate.’ Good riddance, I say.”

I think I hear Mrs. E. calling me, but all is still when I creep up the stairs and press my ear to her door. Just as I get back down, Henry Ellington comes in, wearing a beige cashmere cable-knit sweater tied around his neck, carrying a briefcase, and accompanied by a scholarly-looking man with thinning red hair, whom he introduces as Gavin Gage, “a business part-ner.” Mr. Gage is one of those people who don’t look at you when they shake your hand, glancing everywhere around the room instead.

Henry fishes a list of out of his pocket, written on the back of a bank deposit envelope, directs me to go to Fillerman’s Fish Market after the grocery store because they have the “freshest salmon.” Grandpa is always ragging on Fillerman’s, saying they soak their fish in milk to get rid of the fishy smell from being sold too old. For a second, treacherously, as if Dad’s words on Sandy Claw let loose a snake in my mind, I look at the one-hundred-dollar bill Henry has handed me and wonder how much of it I could keep if I hit up Grandpa or one of his cohorts for salmon instead. It’d be a service— the salmon would definitely be better.

“I’ll bring you all the receipts,” I say hastily, cutting off that train of thought.

“Of course.” Henry loosens the sweater, draping it over the kitchen chair. “A shot of bourbon, Gavin? Gwen, take Mother’s car.” He slides me the keys, anchored by a carved wooden seagull.

I should not be intimidated by Mrs. Ellington’s car, but even after our market drives and sightseeing tours, I still am.

The interior is cream-colored leather, the outside shiny ivory paint. It’s like it’s just left the showroom. I start to edge uneasily out of the driveway, tires crunching on clamshells. I feel as though I’m driving a gigantic marshmallow on wheels.

Just then the dark green Seashell Services truck wheels up, parking with a squeal. Tony gets out the front and Cass hops out the back, which is already heaped with hedge clippings. Tony shouts some words I can’t hear, jerking his chin to the passen-ger seat of the truck, and Cass ducks in and emerges with a weed-whacker. Tony leans over, cupping his hand around Cass’s ear to say something, jerking his head toward the Robinson/

Tucker house. Probably he’s passing on the same information that Mom did. That they are demanding and high-maintenance.

It strikes me how funny it is that Cass is no doubt as rich as the Robinsons, if not more so. But, in just about a month, Tony and Marco have accepted him as an island guy. They didn’t see him last night, though, piling into the Porsche, careless, laughing, comfortable, every inch the aristocrat.

Cass waves the whacker, pumps it in the air, and Tony claps him on the back. Then they both burrow into the boxwood bushes, no doubt looking for electrical outlets. As I start to drive away, I allow my glance to stray to the rearview mir-ror, linger on Cass’s backside. Tony’s plumber butt is much less appealing.

He wasn’t wearing gloves. Cass!

I hurry through the shopping list, frustrated because Henry has specified on the list that all these things need to be bought in particular places all over town. For God’s sake. In addition to the fish at Fillerman’s, there are rolls that can only be bought at a bakery in White Bay, then all this other stuff from Stop & Shop. Then Garrett’s Hardware for some kind of cedar plank for grilling the salmon. Which takes forever, because I can’t find it, the store is a bit of a mess, and the cute redheaded guy behind the counter gets totally distracted when some chick walks in wearing cut-off shorts. Plus I find myself lingering in front of the work-glove display. Should I? No, that would be weird. Very weird. Then sorbet and meringues at Homelyke, and then the liquor store, where Henry wants Prosecco. I don’t even know what that is, except that I’m not old enough to buy it, and Dom D’Ofrio, who works there, knows that all too well. I tell him it’s for my boss and he just rolls his eyes. “Never heard that one before.”

An hour and a half later, sweating, I loop the Cadillac back into the driveway, where Henry’s Subaru is still blocking the circular drive. I’m hauling the various bags into the kitchen when I hear his distinctive voice from the front hall. “This, obviously, is an Audubon. Great-Grandfather Howard, my mother’s side, invested heavily in art. We have several more at the Park Avenue house.”

“A print,” Gage’s voice says firmly. “Have you had the others authenticated?”

“No, naturally I came to you with this first. How can this not be an original?”

There’s a scraping sound, as though Mr. Gage is taking it off the wall. “Here. See. Henry, I assure you, you aren’t the first generation in any family to find your finances in arrears. Just yesterday I was sent to White Bay to take a look at a Tiffany necklace that had supposedly been handed down in the family since the 1840s. All the stones were paste. Useless. It happens more often than you’d think. By nature, my business is very discreet, so you don’t hear a thing. I have a client in Westwood who had copies painted of all the fine art in the house. His parents had been famous collectors. Told his wife he was nervous about theft and was putting the paintings in storage and displaying the copies. Sold the originals to me.”