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not quite, matched the salary he was leaving behind and, most important, neither of them wanted to bring up a child in the city.
    Carol went to work for Laura Capstone in the coral-pink building at the corner of Pacific and Main, and seven months later Kelly was born.
    It never occurred to Carol to stop working. For one thing, they simply couldn't afford it. For another, she was really good at selling real estate; better, perhaps than she had ever been at anything in her life—even being a mother. She closed a half-million-dollar deal when Kelly was five days old, with the baby sleeping quietly in an infant seat on the floor of the lawyer's office. In fact, Kelly spent most of her preschool life playing on a quilt in the corner of the office, being passed from Laura to Carol, depending on which one of them had a free hand; or strapped in her car seat in the back of one of their cars while they inspected property or showed a house. Carol was helping to build a business, a community, and a future for them all. She didn't think in terms of sacrifices, not then.
    They lived in eight houses before Kelly started first grade, always trading up until finally ending up in the rambling cedar three-story on a bluff overlooking the ocean where Carol still lived and in which Kelly had lived until the day Carol came home to find nothing left of her daughter except an angry note.
    She had no need for the house now, of course. It was far too large for her and difficult to maintain. The taxes were murder and her money could certainly be more wisely invested elsewhere. But she couldn't leave the last home Kelly had known. Not when there was a chance her daughter might come back someday, needing her mother, or might call.
    During the off season, the society of St. T. was divided into three distinct castes: the local working class, like fishermen and carpenters; the merchants, business owners and other full-time residents; and the real estate people, who were a breed apart. The bars and restaurants of the area inevitably catered to separate segments of society. Captain Jack's Seafood Shack, with its raucous music, dartboard, and pool room—also the best fried shrimp on the island, which was served on a paper plate to absorb the grease— was preferred by the working class. Bay Breezes, with its varied menu and peaceful bay views, was a favorite of families. Michael's Grille, centrally located oceanside and tastefully decorated, with its stunning views and restrained menu, was the perfect place for realtors to take their clients for lunch, and to gather after a long day's work to brag about successes and catch up on industry gossip.
    Carol was by no means a regular at Michael's. If she didn't have a late appointment or a rental house to check on, dinner was generally a salad and a glass of wine, and she was happy to be in bed by nine o'clock. But Laura had insisted on dinner at Michael's tonight, no doubt because she didn't want Carol to sit at home alone and brood about the phone call from last night.
    Carol was not the kind of person to sit by the phone and brood, but that phone call had opened the door to a lot of painful memories. She thought Laura was probably right: This was not a good time to be alone.
    On a Wednesday night in early March the restaurant was less than half full, mostly with people they knew by name. They seated themselves before the big cathedral window that overlooked the ocean, where, for about ten minutes, they had a spectacular view of purple-shadowed surf tumbling against the shore while the last of the daylight faded away. Now the only view they had was of the dancing flames from the central freestanding fireplace reflected in the dark window glass, and a corner of the bar that angled off in the room next door.
    “Things are looking up,” said Laura with a firm approving nod of her head. “Porpoise Watch is rented for the season, and we've got somebody coming tomorrow to look at Pelican Perch—another full-season