Page 3 of The Summer Guests

“Sheer discipline,” Ingrid said, and she settled into an Adirondack chair with her own drink.

“So are we all ready to discuss this month’s book selection?” said Declan.

Ben grunted. “If we have to.”

“Because I thought the book was absolutely brilliant.” Declan waved his new ZEISS binoculars. “It inspired me to upgrade to these beauties.”

“The book was far better than that ridiculous spy thriller we read last month,” added Lloyd, settling his generous bulk in the chair next to Ingrid’s. “Novelists never get it right.”

“What was everyone’s favorite chapter?” Declan asked.

“The chapter on sparrows,” said Maggie. “I love how most people ignore them because they seem so common, so ordinary. Yet sparrows have cleverly managed to infiltrate almost the entire globe.”

Ben snorted. “Are you talking about birds, or about us?”

“Well, there are parallels, don’t you think?” said Ingrid. “Sparrows are like the covert operatives of the avian world. Unobtrusive. Unnoticeable. They slip in everywhere yet rouse no attention.”

“Wait,” said Ben. “Could this be a first? Did we all actuallyreadthe book?”

They looked at each other.

“Thisissupposed to be a book group,” said Ingrid. “Even if we really come for the martinis.”

“And dinner,” added Lloyd. “Which, by the way, should be ready now.”

But no one moved. They were all too comfortable sitting in their Adirondack chairs, sipping their drinks and admiring the view. In the distance, bells tinkled as Maggie’s fourteen-year-old neighbor, Callie, just a twig of a girl in blue overalls, led her goats and her Jersey cow across the field, back to their barn. Callie waved at them; they all waved back. Crickets chirped and the swallows continued their aerobatic show overhead, flitting and swooping.

Ingrid sighed. “Does life get any better than this?”

No. It does not,thought Maggie. This was one of those rare perfect moments, with the tingle of vodka in her mouth and the scent of freshly mowed hay on the breeze. And dear Declan, sitting beside her, smiling. His once-black hair was now half-silver, but age had only deepened his Irish good looks, something she’d come to appreciate now, in the autumn of their lives.

She had spent her career on the edge of crises, never certain when everything might fall apart, so she knew how ephemeral moments like these could be, with everyone healthy and safe and no calamity in sight. But disaster could strike at any time, against any one of them: A car crash. A heart attack. A suspicious spot on an x-ray. Even on this perfect evening, surrounded by friends and with twilight settling gently over her fields, she knew that trouble was coming.

She just did not know when.

Chapter 3

Susan

They drove north to Maine with George Conover packed in the trunk.

Susan thought it more than a little disrespectful having her late father-in-law’s cremated remains wedged in alongside their suitcases, but no one else in the family had objected, so why should she be bothered? She had scarcely known the man, had met him only three years ago, when Ethan first introduced Susan and her daughter, Zoe, to his parents. George had been polite enough, but he’d also been coolly distant, a blazer-and-boat-shoes Bostonian who seemed to be reserving judgment on these two new additions to his family until they could prove themselves worthy of the Conover name. When he’d died of a stroke three months ago, Susan felt no particular sense of grief. It might as well have been a stranger’s burned bones and ashes in the urn—that’s how little she’d known the man. Still, it struck her as unseemly to treat him like the rest of the luggage.

A sentiment that George’s widow didn’t seem to share. When they’d stopped in Brookline to pick up Ethan’s mother, it was Elizabeth herself who wedged her late husband’s remains in with her suitcase, Elizabeth who matter-of-factly closed the trunk. When Elizabeth decided an issue was settled, no discussion was needed.

Susan glanced over her shoulder at Zoe and Elizabeth in the back seat. Although they sat side by side, the two were not at all engaged with each other. Fifteen-year-old Zoe was focused on her smartphone, just a typical teenage girl isolated in her own virtual bubble where conversations consisted of clicks and swipes. Elizabeth, too, seemed to be in her own bubble, staring out the window at the scenery as they drove north up the Maine coast, through a chain of oddly named villages. Wiscasset. Damariscotta. Waldoboro. Thinking, perhaps, of past summers when she and George had driven this same highway to their summer home on Maiden Pond. After fifty-five years of marriage, this would be their last journey to Maine together, yet her face betrayed no grief. She sat ramrod straight, a silver-haired stoic of a woman. That was Elizabeth, practical and unsentimental.

“Hey, Ethan?” Zoe said. “You told me the house is on Maiden Pond. Why is it called that?”Ethan,she still called him. How long would it take for Zoe to finally think of him asDad? Susan looked at her husband, wondering if it bothered him, but Ethan seemed unperturbed, calmly gazing through his glasses at the traffic ahead.

“It’s called Maiden Pond because some girl drowned there ages ago,” Ethan said.

“Really? How long ago was that?”

“Um, Mom? Do you know?”

Elizabeth stirred from her reverie. “It was at least a hundred years ago. There was a group of schoolgirls who went out on a rowboat, and it capsized. That’s what I was told, anyway.”

“And the girl couldn’t swim?”

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