one,” he said.

Will held the door as Gretchen stepped into the sunshine. She nodded her thanks-she was busy licking an escaping drip from her ice cream.

Three guys with sleek, tanned chests and low-slung shorts were fixing a broken awning in front of a new restaurant, Paz. Yay. Another pretentious restaurant. When he was a kid, the streets had been lined with cute little stores that were run by people from Walfang. There had been Penny’s Candy, Toys and More, Fitzgerald’s-which everyone had always called the dime store-and the “nice” restaurant, Delia Mater’s. All of those were gone now, except for Delia’s, which had been renovated beyond recognition by a couple of New York City investors. Now, boutique after boutique lined the streets. Most of them offered impossible-to-wear fashions at the kind of prices usually reserved for major appliances.

A scrawny kid with lank black hair watched the workers from a stoop. When he saw Gretchen, he turned his huge dark eyes to her face and stared. He was gawking, really, with a gaze that didn’t waver or blink. Will could tell the look made Gretchen uncomfortable, because she stiffened beside him. Will knew the kid. He wanted to tell Gretchen not to worry, that he was just a harmless dude who was a little crazy, but before Will could speak, she turned and asked, “Does that happen to you a lot?” She elbowed him in the ribs. “People just staring at you?”

Will gave her a wry smile. “What can I say? It ain’t easy being this sexy. Seriously, that’s just a sophomore kid-Kirk Worstler.”

Gretchen chuckled, her limbs loosening a little, and she let Will steer her across the street, away from the skinny kid’s piercing gaze. She seemed happy again, intent on her ice cream. Will was just starting to relax when Gretchen stopped suddenly and stood staring at a telephone pole. A vibrant green flyer blared that a local band- Minutia’s Cousin-would be playing at the Old Barn on Saturday night. Gretchen reached out and touched the paper as if it were an old relic or a fragment from a dream.

Will read the flyer over Gretchen’s shoulder. “Life goes on, I guess,” he said.

Gretchen’s eyes glowed, like paper that had caught fire. “I can’t believe they’d just-” She shook her head.

Will placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. He’d seen the flyers before, so it wasn’t such a shock that Tim’s band had somehow managed to go on without him. But Gretchen tensed, her fingers knotted into a tight fist. “Tim started that band,” she said. “That was Tim’s band.”

Will shrugged. He could practically hear Alan and Rob and Ginny saying, “Tim would have wanted it this way.” He was sure the band had gotten together and decided that keeping the name would be a tribute to their friend and the fulfillment of his wishes. Will thought it was interesting that everyone seemed to know what Tim would have wanted. He, personally, had no idea.

Will remembered the last time he and Gretchen had gone to hear Tim play. It had been an open-air concert on the lush green lawn in front of First Church. Minutia’s Cousin played a strange fusion of classical and rock. Tim played classical guitar, Alan played flute and piccolo, Rob played percussion, and Ginny played the electric guitar and sang. Tim had arranged most of their music, stealing phrases and snippets from classical and updating the melodies. They were just starting to become well known locally-even now, their Facebook fans were a strange mix of teens and grayhairs. Gretchen had loved their music. She insisted that Will accompany her to every single concert, and she sometimes even sat in on rehearsals. Will had liked Minutia’s Cousin, too-but mostly because it was Tim’s band. Personally, Will preferred hip-hop, and he liked it loud. Minutia’s Cousin sometimes sounded like glorified elevator music to him, but then again, he didn’t know much about music.

Gretchen stood for a moment with her head bowed like the curve of a candlewick. Finally she seemed to pull herself together. She straightened up and frowned at the gaudy flyer. “They’ll suck without him,” she said lightly. She let Will’s hand drop from her shoulder as she stepped away and tossed her ice cream cone into a garbage can.

Will could tell from the way she said it that he’d never see her at another Minutia’s Cousin concert again. She’d always been friendly with Alan and Ginny-not Rob so much, because he hardly ever spoke-but if she saw them in the street now, she probably wouldn’t even wave. That’s how she was.

Gretchen liked to pretend that nothing bothered her. But Will knew better. Almost everything bothered her. More than once, she had confronted Will about something insensitive he’d said weeks earlier, words that had created tiny wounds that refused to heal. Even worse was when Gretchen would obsess over some slight she feared that she had caused Will. She would return days, sometimes weeks later with an overwrought apology for something that Will couldn’t even recall. He didn’t understand the way her mind worked. Things that meant nothing to him meant everything to her. But that was also why she fell into raptures at the sight of a flower or burst into tears while reading a poster for a stray dog. She was like something flammable, and everything was fuel for her fire.

Gretchen flipped her blond hair and slipped her arm through Will’s. He put a warm hand on her bicep, but he didn’t look at her. They fell into step down the quiet street. Most of the stores weren’t open, but a few-like the hardware store-were humming with activity.

“That was a really good breakfast, by the way,” Will said at last. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

They walked a little farther. The town had recently refurbished the business district, and the pavement was set with red bricks. A few branches were down here and there, but it looked as if the city had cleaned everything up early in the morning.

Will stopped suddenly, his arm dropping from Gretchen’s shoulder. Something in the window of an antiques store had caught his eye.

“What’s up?” Gretchen asked.

He was looking at what seemed to be an ancient flute. A very familiar-looking flute. But he didn’t want to have to try to explain it to Gretchen. Especially since he didn’t know what he was explaining. Instead he just shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing? Nothing, like-nothing? Or nothing, like-dramatic pause-nothing that’s really fraught with something?”

Will blinked at her. “Nothing, as in that’s a cool flute. But the store isn’t open, anyway, so forget it.”

“Okay, keep your secrets.” She pointed to the Help Wanted sign in the window of the vintage silver diner next door. “Destiny has led me here,” she announced dramatically.

Will looked dubious. “You’re going to work at Bella’s? You’d get better tips at the Villa. Or that new Paz place.”

Gretchen studied the caboose-style diner. The windows were filled with hand-lettered signs advertising specials-$2.99 for eggs, toast, bacon, coffee. Free ice cream with kids’ meal. Breakfast served all day. It was located at the scruffy end of a nice street, next to a run-down liquor store. This corner was the only blot on the pristine block. And Bella’s was the only place where the locals could still afford a meal. Most of the summer people never set foot in there.

“Rich people are crappy tippers,” Gretchen replied. “How do I look?” She straightened the pale blue halter she was wearing with a pair of white denim shorts. “Do you think I should go home and change?”

“You look great,” Will said. “You don’t need to wear a business suit to get a waitressing job.”

“Said like someone who works on a farm.” Gretchen raked her fingers through her thick, wild blond hair and smeared on some lip balm. She peeked at herself in the reflection of the glass and took a deep breath. “Wish me luck,” she said to Will.

Will studied her a moment. “Why are you even doing this? You’ve got plenty of money.”

Gretchen looked pensive, as if she was about to say something heavy. Then she seemed to change her mind, and flashed him a smile. “What else am I supposed to do all day?” she asked. “Sit around on the beach and work on my tan?”

Will shrugged. “That’s what most girls do.”

Gretchen put a hand on her hip. “I’m not most girls,” she told him.

Will gave her a brotherly arm punch. “Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”

The chain saw screamed as Mr. Archer sliced into the fallen tree’s thick trunk. As he approached his house from the rear-cutting across Gretchen’s yard to get to his own-Will got a good look at the greenhouse wreckage. It wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. The oak had glanced off the sloped roof, popping some windows and crushing a few tender seedlings. Two feet over, and the greenhouse would have been totaled. The tree lay like a fallen giant on the

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