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drunk and arguing about rugby. The girls were pretty and mean and made jokes that Evelyn couldn’t follow. Nick Geary, whom Evelyn had met several times by then, kept calling her Sarah. There was a regatta that Preston’s mother shanghaied Evelyn into helping with, and Evelyn had rigged one of the boats incorrectly and was publicly chastised by Mrs. Hacking, and then it was one dinner on the lake followed by another dinner on the lake where Evelyn was clearly the dud guest. Everyone had worn embroidered whale belts; everyone but Evelyn.
    This time, she had a whale belt—a never-worn birthday gift from Babs—and she was prepared. She could see the edge of the main house down a stone path to her left. Evelyn opened the car door and hopped out, removed her duffel from the back, and set off on the wide stone stairs toward the house’s kitchen entrance.
    The Hackings’ Scottish deerhound, Hamilton, after Alexander, who was always having to be fetched from neighbors’ houses after he paddled up to their shores on long and unauthorized swims, nosed open the screen door from the kitchen and greeted Evelyn with a welcoming snout jab. Evelyn followed Hamilton inside, where Preston sat on a stool next to the kitchen’s central island, holding a bunch of grapes up to the light.
    â€œAh. Greetings to you, Evelyn Beegan,” Preston said, rising. He wore an extremely old pink oxford, dark khakis, and monogrammed velvet driving slippers with a giant moth hole over his left little toe. He shook the cluster of fruit in front of her. “Would you care for a grape?”
    â€œI’m good, thanks.” Evelyn swung herself onto a stool. There wasn’t a dish, clean or dirty, visible in the entire kitchen, just the photo-shoot-ready bowl of fruit.
    â€œWhere are your travel companions? And what is happening with your hair?” Preston asked.
    â€œComing down in a second, I think. And I straightened it. Thanks for letting me crash. The People Like Us recruitment continues.”
    â€œThe drama continues here this weekend, too,” Preston said, tossing a grape into his mouth and looking amused. “You remember Bing.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œHe’s now divorced.”
    â€œYou told me. I’m so sorry.”
    â€œDon’t be. Better all around. He made the rather ill-advised decision to bring his girlfriend up this weekend. She works at”—Preston stopped and chewed the grape deliberately—“an advertising agency. Promoting canned tomatoes, at the moment. And went to, I’m not sure. DePaul? DePauw? Somewhere decidedly third tier.”
    â€œDoesn’t DePaul have really good soccer?”
    Preston fixed her with a look. “Soccer? Evelyn.”
    â€œIt’s a sport.”
    â€œBarely. Here, take a grape. They’re very good. Seeds, though. Be careful. She calls herself Chrissie.”
    â€œIs that because it’s her name?”
    Preston smiled. “Perhaps. Perhaps. Chrissie is up for the weekend, and I cannot say it is going swimmingly.”
    â€œHow long have they been dating?”
    Preston considered this. “Three months. Four. But she’s no spring chicken, clearly eager to reproduce, and currently she’s showing off her maternal skills with Pip—you remember my niece? They’re racing together in the Fruit Stripe on Sunday. Pip is not pleased.”
    â€œThe Fruit Stripe? The regatta? That’s this weekend? I don’t have to race, do I?”
    â€œThere’s always a chance. If Mother recruits you, you do know you can’t turn her down.”
    â€œPres, when I was here before, your mother almost deported me because I got a knot wrong on the rigging.”
    â€œYou’re from the Eastern Shore. You’re supposed to know these things.”
    â€œYes. So says my own mother, but I managed to avoid sailing camp summer after summer. So Chrissie sails?”
    â€œWell. The Fruit