“Look,” he told Marguerite, another woman who deserved this much and more, “it’s been a rough trip. I couldn’t have done it without you. Any of it.” By which he meant not just today, not just yesterday, but indeed the long months since his mother’s death. “We’re going to have a nice time tonight, and tomorrow we’re going to get on a plane and fly back home to L.A. ”

Home to L.A. He’d meant to say something simple, clear and true, but a minor falsehood had somehow slipped in, because of course L.A. wasn’t home. “You and me, okay?” he continued, a nameless panic rising. “No discussion.”

Though here his voice faltered, because he knew as well as she did what came next, what words came next. If he could speak them, he might even convince her they were true, as his father had convinced his mother that Browning summer. It was the worst lie there was, imprisoning and ultimately embittering the hearer, playing upon her terrible need to believe. He could feel the I love you forming on his lips. Would he have said it if she hadn’t interrupted?

“See?” she said, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand and smearing her makeup. “Right there. That’s what I’m going to miss.”

He slept. It was after nine the next morning when he finally woke up, and perhaps because the last time he’d slept so long and so well it was in this same bed almost exactly a year ago, his first drowsy thought was that the preceding twelve months had been a dream. The door to the balcony was partly open, just as it had been the morning after Kelsey’s wedding, and on the other side of it a woman was talking on a cell phone, her voice low. Joy, he thought sleepily, talking to their daughter about her engagement to Andy, discussing the possibility of a wedding next spring. Later in the morning-there was no hurry-they’d drive to Truro and see if they could find the inn where they’d honeymooned. Which in turn meant that his mother was still alive in Indiana and that he’d not spent the last nine months in L.A. It meant he was a happily married man, that his wife had never accused him of being otherwise, that she’d never been other than happy herself. It was a fine narrative, plausible and coherent. He found himself smiling.

He heard her say goodbye outside, heard the cell phone’s cover slap shut, saw the door to the balcony swing inward. In another split second Joy would appear, and he’d beckon her back to their bed. But of course it was Marguerite who stepped into the room, trailing cruel reality in her wake. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she touched his forehead with the back of her fingers. “Your hair’s always funny after you sleep,” she informed him. He was about to ask whom she’d been talking to when she said, “Tommy says thanks for being so predictable.”

“Tommy,” he repeated. Why was it that every time a woman who was supposedly with him made a secret phone call, it was always to the same guy? “Predictable how?”

She was now running her fingers through his hair like a comb, apparently trying to make it look less ridiculous. “We had a friendly wager. I had this dumb idea we’d be stopping off in Vegas to get married. He bet you’d end up back with your wife.”

“What does he win?”

She smiled ruefully. “He gets to take me out to dinner. He said the way he looked at it, he’d come out of this with a good woman no matter what. He just wasn’t sure which one.”

“Tell him I said he doesn’t deserve a good woman.” As if any man ever did.

“I also called the airline and got them to change my flight.”

“Why?” Griffin said, suddenly alarmed. Had he hallucinated the proposal he’d reluctantly agreed to last night in the Olde Cape Lounge after it became clear that Marguerite’s mind was made up? They’d have a leisurely breakfast at the B and B, after which he’d drive her to Logan in plenty of time for her flight back to L.A. After that he’d drive down to Connecticut, to what had once been home and might be again. There, if possible, he’d reconcile with the woman he apparently still loved. If he failed, if it was too late to fix the mess he’d made, he still had his plane ticket.

“Well, the next few days are supposed to be beautiful here,” Marguerite explained, “and Beth says the store will survive a couple more days without me, so…”

“Uh-”

“Oh, don’t look so mortified. None of this involves you.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I made one other call, too.”

Griffin nodded, finally understanding. No need to ask who the other call was to.

“I better not hear you been mean to her,” Harold warned him an hour later. He was studying Griffin ’s still-swollen, now-yellow-green eye with interest. “If I do, I’ll make it so that’s your good eye.”

He’d pulled into the B and B’s driveway just as they emerged with their luggage.

“Harold,” Marguerite said, handing him her suitcase before Griffin could say a word in his own defense. “Quit. He wasn’t mean to me. Pay no attention,” she added to Griffin, who these days was paying close attention when anyone offered violence.

“Because this woman and I go back a long way,” Harold went on.

“On his worst day,” Marguerite elaborated, “he was nicer to me than you were on your best.”

“And when her mouth’s not running like a whip-poor-will’s ass, I have strong, serious feelings for her.”

“Go put the suitcase in the trunk, Harold, so we can say our goodbyes. Now, there’s a good man.”

He consulted his watch. “Will these goodbyes be concluded in a timely manner?”

“Are we on a schedule?”

“Yeah, after here, we’re driving down to Westerly,” he told her, forgetting Griffin entirely. “I’ve invested in a condo on the water there. Practically on the water. I thought you might like to see. There’s a couple of spots we could skinny-dip and nobody would mind. Take some dirty pictures with our cell phones. Plus they got good fried calamari with hot peppers.”

“Okay, fine, but go away for a minute.”

Harold reluctantly did as he was told, but, remembering Griffin, he stopped halfway to his car. “Did I mention I better not hear you were mean to her?”

“Ignore him,” Marguerite advised when Harold’s car door shut behind him. “It’s just how he is.” After she scrunched up her shoulders, they embraced one last time. “Write a movie with a girl like me in it sometime,” she suggested when they separated. “With Susan Sarandon. She’d make a good me.”

In Falmouth he gassed up at a 7-Eleven and he bought himself a sticky bun and a coffee for the road. He’d had no appetite back at the B and B, but after saying goodbye to Marguerite he was suddenly hungry and ate the pastry right there in the parking lot. It was ten-thirty, and normally it would’ve made the most sense to head straight up Route 28, cross the canal at the Bourne Bridge, then shoot across 195 to 95, but if he left now he’d almost certainly get home before Joy. The last of her family was flying out of Portland this morning, and there was no way she’d head back to Connecticut before they all were airborne. If he arrived before she did, he’d have an unpleasant decision to make: sit in his own driveway and wait for her or just use his key and go inside. The former would make him feel like the fool he was, but having walked away from that house last June he really had no right to enter it now without invitation.

He needed to kill an hour or two and was too antsy to just sit around. If he got going now and crossed the canal at the Sagamore instead of the Bourne, he could head up Route 3 toward Boston for a while, then loop back down I-95. The idea of crossing the bridge of his unhappy childhood one last time was appealing. Now that he’d finally scattered his parents’ ashes, he doubted he’d be returning to the Cape again. He felt finished with both the place and its false promises. Also, on the Sagamore he’d likely find out if his mother was really through haunting him or was just waiting for Marguerite, his guardian angel, to depart. When he knew for certain that she was at rest, he’d be able to think about what he’d say when he arrived home without fear of her sarcastic comments.