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Ashenbach, it seemed, was the lone holdout of the islanders, the only one who had not helped him rebuild. It was as if he were trying to underline the fact that he did not want Ben—or the museum—as his neighbor.
    “At least this won’t be in the papers,” John continued. “Fitzpatrick said your name and the incident won’t be released because the island protects itself from each other. Whatever that means. Anyway, he assured me there’s a gag order on the proceedings because the little girl is a minor. It will be kept from the people as well as the press.”
    Ben wanted to ask when—and why—John had talked to his attorney, but he couldn’t make his brain go past John’s words:
    the little girl
.
    He might have challenged his son-in-law’s placement of sympathy if he weren’t so tired. And so damn numb.
    “So what happens next?” Ben’s son-in-law, the concerned family member, asked.
    Ben glanced over at John and tried to determine if he’dlike him if he were not the husband of his daughter, father of his grandchildren. “You take me home,” he said. “I go to bed.” Hugh Talbot had already agreed to hang a sign on Menemsha House saying the museum would be closed until further notice. If anyone asked, Ben could give a vague excuse about closing for the season, about wanting to spend more time with Jill.
    Jill
.
    He asked himself for the thousandth time how he was going to tell her. And for the thousandth time, he wondered how she was going to react.
    Her husband the child molester.
    Her husband the sex offender.
    He turned and looked out at the oak trees that lined the street. Many had already dropped their rusty red leaves on the brick sidewalk, a sure sign that winter would be early and winter would be rough.
    “What about legally?” John asked, interrupting Ben’s thoughts. “What happens next?”
    “You talked to Fitzpatrick. Didn’t he tell you?”
    “Well, no. I only needed to find out where to bring your bail.”
    Ben sighed. He felt twenty years older than he had yesterday at this time, which was now two-thirty-six. He was in no mental shape to reason with John, or to argue. “I pleaded not guilty. Now it goes to trial,” he said, repeating the few words he remembered the judge saying. Those and the part about
the little girl
.
    “When?”
    “We don’t know yet. Not for months.”
    “Well, you might want to think about hiring someone other than Rick Fitzpatrick. Someone with, you know, criminal experience.”
    Criminal?
Ben kept his eyes fixed on the trees. John was, of course, right, but hearing him say it—as if he were the goddamn lawyer—pissed Ben off. “Rick’s fine for now.”
    They drove the rest of the way in silence. Ben suspected that John was trying to assess what other legal and/or moral judgments lay in wait. When they reached the house, John didn’t even pretend to park.
    “Well, keep me posted,” he said.
    Ben got out of the van, gave a half-hearted wave, and realized that John had not asked how Ben was doing, or if he could handle this. John had not asked, not once.
    As he walked up the walk, it occurred to Ben that John did not believe he was innocent.
    If his own son-in-law didn’t believe him—who the hell would?
    Rita had had her urine tested, her finger pricked, and her blood pressure practically squeezed from her upper arm. Now she paced the hospital waiting room, waiting for Doc Hastings’s nurse to call her in for her personal-and-private consultation, as if Rita would care if the whole world learned she was in menopause.
    There was a time, of course, it might have mattered. Back in the days when her ongoing goal was to impress the rich and preferably famous, she might have cared. If anyone had thought she was menopausally crazed, they might have been less likely to list their summer houses with her. It certainly would have reduced her “other” activities, which included bedding down those same rich and preferably famous for a few doggie bags