Number three: Angie. Angie had, apparently, plopped herself in the middle of someone else’s marriage. However, instead of breaking up the marriage, Angie had ended up getting broken. This came in addition to losing her father and the house. In some ways, Angie was very strong. She was smart, talented, mentally tough. She kept getting more and more beautiful—her skin was creamy, her eyes were bright, her hair was wild in its bushy ponytail, her body was lean and sculpted. She had full lips and long, graceful fingers and a little sexy rasp to her voice. But Angie wasn’t confident the way other girls her age were. She didn’t care about clothes or shoes or makeup or how to make a man do what she wanted. She was easy to hurt because she loved with her whole heart. She held nothing back.
Number four: Bob. Buck had said to Belinda yesterday, I thought you were married. Yes, Belinda was married. To Bob Percil, who was widely held to be the finest Thoroughbred trainer in the country, if not the world. Belinda had met him at the Breeders’ Cup the October after she’d separated from Deacon. Bob was a ruggedly handsome, bourbon-drinking, cigar-smoking, Kentucky-born-and-bred good ol’ boy who handled horses better than humans. He was gruff and occasionally humorless and intensely focused on his work, immune to most of Belinda’s Hollywood charms and intolerant of her theatrics—and for all these reasons, Belinda had fallen in love with him. For years, Deacon Thorpe had served as the epitome of manhood for Belinda, but upon meeting Bob, Belinda realized that Deacon was as needy as a teenage girl.
Belinda had been happy to marry Bob and leave the emotionally fraught nonsense with Deacon behind. She moved to Louisville, Kentucky, and then she got pregnant, something she had thought was physiologically impossible. She took a year off filming, sat tight on the horse farm, and nursed her baby, Mary. Her very own baby! Belinda hired Mrs. Greene, and she got pregnant again. It was only after giving birth to Laura that Belinda realized Bob couldn’t control himself around his young, female stable hands.
The first girl Belinda caught him with in the tack room was Carrie. That, when Mary was two and Laura nine months old. Since then, there had been Jules and now Stella. Were Bob and Stella screwing in the master bedroom? Belinda wondered. She hadn’t spoken to Bob once since leaving L.A.
No reception.
Belinda saw a vehicle approaching, a faded forest-green Jeep Wagoneer with woody sides and a row of colorful stickers on its bumper, a car Belinda recognized. It was Mrs. Glass. Was it possible the woman was still alive? Still driving? She had been an old lady back when Belinda used to come to Nantucket, years and years ago. The Wagoneer slowed down from ten miles an hour to five, then came to a rolling stop in front of Belinda.
Mrs. Glass cranked down her window. She was wearing cataract sunglasses.
“Excuse me,” the woman said. “Who are you?”
Belinda offered Mrs. Glass her most winning smile. “Mrs. Glass? It’s me, Belinda Rowe.”
“I’m sure I don’t know you,” Mrs. Glass said.
“I’m Belinda Rowe,” Belinda said in a louder, clearer voice.
“You’re trespassing, is what you are,” Mrs. Glass said. “I’m Mrs. Dustin Glass of Twenty-One Hoicks Hollow Road, and my husband, I’ll have you know, was president of the association for eighteen years. This road is private. It’s for residents only.”
“I know your husband,” Belinda said. “Dusty. I used to be married to—”
“I certainly don’t recognize you,” Mrs. Dustin Glass said. “I’ve lived on this private way since 1945, and before that I summered with my parents on Baxter Road in Sconset.”
“I know,” Belinda said. “I used to be married to Deacon, Deacon Thorpe, the chef…?” She paused, searching Mrs. Glass’s face for signs of recognition, but her expression was immutable, her watery blue eyes defiant. “We live at number thirty-three. American Paradise?”
“American Paradise?” Mrs. Dustin Glass said. “That house belongs to the Innsleys.”
Belinda smiled. “It did a long time ago,” she said. “Then my husband bought it. I lived here with him in the nineteen nineties. I’m Belinda Rowe.”
“I don’t care if you’re the queen of Sheba,” Mrs. Glass said. “You are trespassing on a private way. I intend to get to the bottom of this.” She cranked her window back up with purpose.
Belinda watched the Wagoneer until it turned into the driveway for number twenty-one. She couldn’t believe Mrs. Glass didn’t remember her. Hadn’t Belinda signed autographs for her granddaughters once upon a time? Hadn’t Deacon baked her and Dusty a triple-berry pie with a lemon-rosemary crust? But she supposed Mrs. Glass was right—Belinda didn’t belong here. Not anymore. She belonged in Los Angeles, or in Louisville, Kentucky, with her daughters and her unfaithful husband.
She passed the Sankaty Head Beach Club, PRIVATE, and rolled her eyes. She and Deacon had sat on the waiting list for a membership throughout the entirety of their marriage, and by the time they were up for consideration, they had split. Belinda had forgotten about the way Nantucket was one big private, Yankee blue-blooded club where people drove old clunkers—even though they probably had enough money in the bank to buy a Shelby Cobra with a Lamborghini chaser—just to prove some kind of point about their frugality and restraint.
But maybe—maybe the beach club had something as newfangled as a booster. Because suddenly, Belinda had reception! She stopped dead in her tracks and dialed Bob.
“Bob Percil here,” he said.
Belinda knew that Bob answered the phone this way regardless of who was calling, but still, Belinda longed for the day when he would actually check his display and greet her with a “Hey, baby.” He didn’t even have to be faithful as long as he gave her the tender, sexy attention she deserved as his wife.
“Bob,” she said. “It’s Belinda.”
No response.
“Bob?”
“I’m here.”
“I’m on Nantucket,” Belinda said.
“Oh yes,” Bob said. “I know.”
Belinda could hear the horses on the track—hooves on dirt, whinnying, whistles blowing. Bob was busy with his life. Belinda had thought marrying someone who had nothing to do with show business was a good idea—it had worked for Meryl Streep—but what, really, did she and Bob have in common?
“How are the girls?” she asked.
“They finished school Friday,” Bob said. “And they’ve been trail riding with Stella ever since. They were out until dark last night and up at it first thing this morning.”
Stella, Belinda thought. She knew she should be happy the girls were outside riding their very expensive horses. Girls who rode became interested in boys and makeup and cigarettes much later than their nonriding counterparts.
“Poor Stella,” Belinda said. “That’s not in her job description. You’ll have to pay her extra.”
“Nah,” Bob said. “She’s happy to do it. She loves the girls.”
Great, Belinda thought. What Bob was probably saying was that Stella would someday become the girls’ stepmother. She wondered if Mrs. Greene was turning a blind eye. Mrs. Greene didn’t like it when Belinda went away—for work or any other reason. She was a firm believer in family meals and bedtime reading. Mrs. Greene was happy to prepare the meals—she was a traditional Southern cook, and Belinda had to constantly watch herself around the fried chicken, macaroni salad, collard greens, corn bread, and lemon chess pie—but she wanted both Belinda and Bob to sit down at the table in the formal dining room with the girls, who were to have their hair brushed and their hands washed. And Mrs. Greene wouldn’t stay at the house past eight p.m., which meant that either Belinda or Bob was in charge of what Mrs. Greene called “stories and tuck-in,” which she deemed vital to the girls’ development.
When Belinda was away, she was pretty sure Bob let the girls eat chips and salsa and watch Dance Moms on Netflix until they fell asleep.
Belinda saw a dust cloud down the road; another car was approaching. Probably someone else to tell Belinda she didn’t belong. She closed her eyes.