Tracy is leading the way, which is different. Mom follows. We get our usual maitre d’, but he doesn’t take us to the table that’s always been ours, below the sea of harpooned whales and unlucky sailors. Instead he leads us to a smaller corner table.

“I’m very sorry,” he tells Mom. “You haven’t been here in a while, and we’ve become accustomed to giving this table to Mr. Lamont—he comes in every Friday.”

Mom looks down at her hands, then abruptly back up at him. “Of course. Naturally. This is fine. Better. More privacy.”

She sinks into the chair that doesn’t face the rest of the room, shaking out her napkin.

“We were very sorry to hear that you won’t be representing us again, Senator Reed,” he adds gently.

“Ah. Well. Time to move on.” Mom reaches for the bread basket, and butters a roll with enormous concentration. Then she eats it as though it’s her last meal. Tracy raises her eyebrows at me. We do a lot of that these days. Our house is a quiet minefield. Trace can’t wait to escape to Middlebury, and I can’t blame her.

“Speaking of which,” Tracy says, “I’m changing up some college plans.”

Mom puts down the last bite of her roll. “No,” she says faintly.

Tracy just looks at her. Like Mom has lost her right to say no or yes to anything, which has pretty much been her stance since she returned from the Vineyard. And Mom looks away.

“Flip’s transferring up to Vermont. To be with me. He’s got a great job as a manny for some professors in the English department. We’re going to get an apartment together.”

Mom doesn’t seem to know where to start with this. Finally, she says, “A manny?”

“That’s right, Mom.” Tracy closes her menu. “And an apartment together.”

At first glance, you could mistake this for their old battle: Tracy reserving her right to rebel, and Mom refusing to let her. But these days my mother always blinks first. She looks down at the napkin in her lap now, takes a careful sip of water, then says, “Oh. Well. That is news.”

Pause while the waiter takes our orders. We are still too well bred or well trained to show visible emotion in front of the waitstaff. When he departs, though, Mom reaches for the silk cardigan sweater she’s draped over the back of her seat, fumbling in the pocket.

“I guess, then, it’s a good time to show you this.” She carefully unfolds a sheet of paper, smoothes it with her hand, and positions it between Tracy and me.

“For sale. Your house of dreams. Nestled on a quiet cul-de-sac in one of Connecticut’s most exclusive towns, this jewel of a home features the best of everything—top-of-the-line amenities, prime location near the boardwalk and beach, hardwood floors, everything of the highest quality. For price, please inquire of Postscript Realty.”

I’m staring, not really getting it, but Tracy does, immediately.

“You’re selling our house? We’re moving?”

“Samantha and I will be moving. You will already be gone,” Mom says, with a ghost of her old sharp tone.

It’s only then that I actually recognize our house in the picture, caught from a slant, a view I rarely see anymore—the opposite side from the Garretts.

“It makes sense,” Mom says briskly as the waiter soundlessly slides her plate of field greens in front of her. “Too much house for two people. Too much…” Her voice fades and she stabs at a piece of dried cranberry. “They give it a month to sell, tops,” she says.

“A month!” Tracy explodes. “In Samantha’s last year of high school? Where are you going to go?”

Mom finishes chewing her forkful of salad, dabs at her lips. “Oh, maybe those new condominiums over by the inlet. Just until we get our bearings. It won’t change anything for Samantha. She’ll still go to Hodges.”

“Right,” Tracy mutters. “God, Mom. Hasn’t enough changed for Samantha already?”

I don’t say anything, but in a way Tracy’s right. Who was that girl who trailed in here at the beginning of the summer, with Nan, her best friend, fretting about Tim, baffled by Clay, keeping secret her crush?

But then, that’s exactly it, isn’t it? Everything big has already changed.

Our house was Mom’s work of art, her testament to the fact that she deserved the best of everything. But what I loved was the view. And for so long, that was who I was. The girl who watched the Garretts. My life next door.

But I’m not that watcher anymore. What Jase and I have is real and alive. It has nothing to do with how things look from far away and everything to do with how they are up close. That won’t change.

Chapter Fifty-three

Now it’s early dawn, Labor Day weekend. School starts tomorrow, with its cavalcade of homework and AP classes and expectations. When I open my eyes I can already feel the change, the lazy air deepened now, New England’s summer days yielding to the crispness of fall. I bike to the ocean for a predawn swim, focusing on my strokes, then floating in the waves, looking up at the stars fading in the sky. I will make swim team this fall.

I’m back home before the sun has fully risen and just out of the shower when I hear him.

“Samantha! Sam!” I rub my towel over my hair and walk to the window. It’s still dark but lightening up enough that I can see Jase standing below by the trellis, something in his hand.

“Step aside for a sec,” he calls up to me.

When I do, a newspaper swings up and in the window, in a perfect arc.

I pop my head back out. “What an arm! But I don’t subscribe to the Stony Bay Bugle.”

“Look inside.”

Snapping off the rubber band, I unroll the paper. Inside is a perfect puff of Queen Anne’s lace, fragile and blooming around a center as green as spring, with a note around the stem. Come next door. Your chariot awaits.

I climb down the trellis. There, in the Garretts’ driveway, is the Mustang, the shredded seats replaced by smooth brown leather, the front part painted a dazzling racing green.

“She’s beautiful,” I say.

“I wanted to wait till it was perfect, new paint job everywhere. Then I realized perfect could be too long.”

“No dancing hula girls yet,” I note.

“If you feel like dancing—or doing the hula—be my guest. Although the front seat is kinda cramped. You might have to go for the hood.”

I laugh. “And scratch that paint job? No way.”

“Come on.” He opens the side door with a flourish, ushering me in, then jumps in himself, vaulting easily over the driver’s-side door.

“Suave,” I say, laughing.

“Right, huh? I practiced. Key to avoid landing on the stick shift.”

I’m still laughing as he turns the key in the ignition and the car roars to life.

“She runs!”

“Of course,” Jase says smugly. “Buckle up. I’ve got something else to show you.”

The town is still and quiet as we ride through the streets, too early for stores to open, too early for Breakfast Ahoy to unfurl its awning. But the paper boys have already done their job.

We drive down the long shore road and wind up in the beach parking lot, near the Clam Shack, where we had our first date.

“Come on, Sam.”

I take Jase’s hand and we walk on the beach. The sand is cool, firm, and damp from the receding tide, but there is that shimmer of heat in the air that tells you it’s going to be a scorching day.

We walk out on the rocky path to the lighthouse. It’s still fairly dark, and Jase holds a steadying hand to my waist as we clamber over the huge crooked stones. When we get to the lighthouse, he pulls me toward the black enameled pipes that form the ladder that takes you to the roof.

“You first,” he says. “I’m right behind you.”

At the top, we duck into the room where the huge light faces the ocean, then climb out on the gently slanted roof. Jase looks at his watch. “In ten, nine, eight…”

“Is something going to blow up?” I ask.