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at the last moment even partially swallowed her stiff-necked New England pride by begging us to at least stay on until after supper.
    She was still standing there in the chilly afternoon breeze as we drove away, a tiny, bent relic from a bygone age when the universally accepted wisdom of one’s elders allowed and even encouraged them to lecture their foolish young folk when and as they pleased.
    â€œYou sure you don’t want to go back and give the old girl another chance?” Bobby was looking at me with genuine concern as we drove slowly down the charming, sundappled street.
    I turned then and glanced back at the frail, white-haired figure standing there small and alone on her big old-fashioned porch. I could feel the hot tears of frustration and anger welling up in my throat as I shook my head and fumbled in the bottom of my purse for a crumpled cigarette, even though I’d quit months earlier. “Oh, to hell with her,” I sobbed, punching the lighter on the dashboard. “Just drive.”
    That was the last time I saw Aunt Ellen alive.
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    A few weeks later I received a call from the town constable, informing me that my aunt had suffered a massive stroke and passed away in her sleep. She had been discovered dead in her giant four-poster bed, by her cleaning lady.
    When the news came, Bobby was somewhere far out in the North Sea on a mysterious, monthlong assignment for the oil company. So, overwhelmed with guilt at the horrible way that Aunt Ellen and I had parted, I drove up to Freedman’s Cove alone and made the arrangements for her funeral.
    Nobody else was at the gloomy service but the cleaning lady, a few other old people that I didn’t know and my aunt’s elderly lawyer. Following the burial in the little cemetery behind the stern whitewashed Unitarian Church, the lawyer took me aside and informed me that my Aunt Ellen had left me her entire estate, which consisted mainly of the house and all its contents.
    Feeling absolutely rotten, for, despite our last ugly encounter, Aunt Ellen had for most of my life been like a mother to me, I had called and asked Damon to come up and stay with me while I dealt with the house. And though he loathed flying, my dear partner had bravely caught the first commuter flight to Newport.
    Surprisingly, Tom Barnwell, the boyish real estate agent I had called, mostly because we’d dated for part of one breathless, hormone-charged summer right after high school, also immediately came to my rescue. Driving a new BMW convertible and looking far better in faded jeans and crew-neck sweater than he had any right to, he had arrived at the house bright and early the next morning.
    Touring the cluttered rooms with Damon and me, Tom had suggested I brighten up the old place, whether I wished to sell or turn it into a summer rental: Aunt Ellen’s house, with its secluded private beach and spectacular sea views was the last of the Freedman’s Cove Victorians that had not yet been converted to a summer rental. And, according to Tom, it would command a handsome weekly rate.
    Later, as we lunched together in a window booth at Krabb’s, Tom had offered to find reliable workmen to do the necessary remodeling, and said he’d personally take charge of the house after I returned to New York.
    Initially I was baffled at the extraordinary attention Tom Barnwell was lavishing on a potential realty client. Then Damon had excused himself to go to the restroom and my old beau’s motivation suddenly became clear.
    â€œSue, I’ve never forgotten that night we spent together on Dad’s boat,” he said huskily.
    I felt myself flushing bright crimson as he suddenly leaned across the table and squeezed my hand.
    â€œWell, Tom,” I replied, patting his big, capable hand and injecting what I hoped was a carefree tone into my voice, “we were a couple of wild and crazy kids, weren’t we?”
    In fact, I had never forgotten that