"Thank goodness."

"Mike insisted on taking the wheel and I just let him do it. He went north up the Taconic Parkway for about an hour and a half, to some little inn where they'd spent the night once. Just parked in front, got out and walked around the grounds, without saying a word to me. Then he cut back across upstate New York to Connecticut, over to New Haven."

Val's architectural firm had been working on Yale's master plan. He loved to look at the buildings, the physical structures she had envisioned and created. "Yeah, they'd been up to the campus together a number of times."

"When we hit I-95 at five this morning, I assumed we'd be headed south, back to the city. But he came up this way. They spent a weekend together here, at the wedding of one of Val's friends, last fall."

"Mercer, I've got an idea. Jamestown isn't much more than an hour from the ferry. Take him to the Vineyard. I'll call my caretaker and he can run over and open the house by the time you get there," I said, calculating the driving time plus the forty-five-minute boat ride from Woods Hole.

"I don't know, Alex. He's kind of flailing about. He doesn't know what-"

"Mike loves it there. And Val liked being there, too. There's a wonderful photograph of her in one of the guest rooms, from a day we spent at the beach. It's deserted this time of year. It's the most peaceful place on the face of the earth-and, well, there's something so spiritual about it. Besides, he can grieve any way he needs to without anybody getting in his way."

"He doesn't know what he wants. He's just paralyzed with pain."

I didn't speak for almost a minute. "I know exactly how he feels, Mercer. You tell him I said that this is one thing I can help him with."

Mercer and Mike knew all about Adam Nyman, my fiancé who had died the day before our Vineyard wedding, driving to reach the island.

"Yeah, but-"

"I can fly up through Boston and be there by early afternoon. I'm not supposed to be working today anyway, am I? It would be the perfect medicine for me, too."

"He may fight me on this, Alex. All I can do is try."

My suit was dirty and musty, but dry. I was dressed by the time Dr. Schrem arrived and approved my release. "Give it a few days before you go back to work," he said. "Bed rest, plenty of fluids, don't use the painkillers unless you absolutely need to. Going directly home?"

"Right now," I said. He didn't know I meant Martha's Vineyard when I said "home."

Officer McCallion had orders to get an RMP to take me uptown to my apartment. On the way there, Mercer called to tell me that Mike agreed that some time on my secluded hilltop in Chilmark might help him deal with the tragedy that had taken Val's life and so violently disrupted his own.

I changed into jeans and a sweatshirt. I scrounged around in my dresser drawer for some cash, ID, and a credit card and called a car service to take me to La Guardia to catch the shuttle. I made the ten-thrty, landed at Logan within the hour, and was on a nine-seater Cape Air at noon. There were only two other passengers on the twin-engine prop plane, and the February headwinds tossed us around above the low clouds, slowing our speed so the trip across to the islands took almost fifty minutes.

Unlike the line of minivans that greeted planeloads of summer commuters, there was only one taxi awaiting incoming flights from Boston, New Bedford, and Hyannis. The driver agreed to make a stop while I ran into the up-island supermarket for some staples, then took me to my home, ten miles farther west to the most glorious part of the tranquil island.

Mercer heard the van pull in and came out to meet me.

"Where's Mike?"

"He can't be still. Got back in the car and drove up to the cliffs, I think. All he's had in the way of sleep was a twenty-minute nap after we gassed up this morning."

The red cliffs of Aquinnah formed the most dramatic vista, high above the western tip of the island, overlooking the point where the Atlantic Ocean crashed against the Vineyard Sound. The ancient tribal home of the Wampanoag Indians, the open land and seemingly endless dunes stretched out to where the sea met the sky. I knew Mike would find his way up there, probably trespassing out onto the heights of the fragile clay, to sit and talk to Val.

"Let's go inside. The wind is vicious," I said. "Is Vickee okay with this?"

"You have to ask? Whatever Mike needs-those are my orders."

"I'll just put my stuff away. Give me five."

I closed the door behind me in the master bedroom and walked across the room to stare out at the view. The French doors look out over several acres of gently rolling hills, bordered by the handsome stone walls that ringed the entire property. Thick trunks of the sturdy bare trees dotted the horizon, all the way down to the bright blue choppy waters of Quitsa Pond and the sandy outline of the Elizabeth Islands' shore.

I had been standing here when my best friend and my mother broke the news of Adam's death to me, more than a decade ago. That moment had changed the island for me forever, and at the very same time made it even more important for me to savor its unique beauty and restorative power.

I freshened up, put the groceries away, and helped Mercer stack the logs to start a fire. It was three in the afternoon when Mike came back to the house.

I waited for him at the front door and held it open for him.

Mike walked past me, his jaw clenched and his face drained of all emotion. He touched my forearm as he whispered the word "Thanks." He had a terrible pallor, with patches of color only where the wind had whipped his cheeks and bitten at the surface of his hands for the last couple of hours. His thick, straight black hair was blown all over his head, and even when he ran his fingers to smooth it down, it remained out of place.

I followed him into the kitchen, where he helped himself to a can of soda from the refrigerator and held one out to me.

"Do you want to talk?"

"Not really," he said. "There isn't very much anybody can say that I want to hear."

"You know that I adored-"

"I know."

He walked into the living room, leaving me leaning against the counter. I went to my bedroom and made some calls-first to one of Mike's sisters to make sure the family knew what had happened, then to my friends-in the office and out-who had come to treasure his friendship.

I grabbed a pair of gloves for myself and a couple of Yankees caps that were in my closet and went into the living room, where the guys were sitting.

"Keep the fire burning, will you, please, Mercer? I'm going to Black Point, Mike. I'd like you to come with me."

He looked up at the solid wooden beams in the tall ceiling. Anything to avoid me.

"C'mon. Let's take a walk." I tossed one of the hats in Mike's lap.

He played with its brim without saying a word, then lifted it to his head and pulled it down, dipping it so that he didn't have to make eye contact with me.

"I'll drive," he said.

"Can't do it except in my old Jeep." He had been with me before to the private beach, more than a mile off the paved roadway, down a rutted dirt path that was inaccessible by sedans or sports cars. "My wheels this time."

We drove along South Road for miles-past sheep farms, a cemetery, and horse pastures-until we came to the turnoff to Black Point. Mike's head rested against the window, oblivious to the landscape around him.

There was nothing to mark the entrance, but I could have found the well-hidden access in my sleep. I had come here for solace whenever I needed some kind of comfort. I drove down the quiet road, kicking up dust all the way, finally reaching the old gate and stepping out to unlock it. I rounded the bend, scrubby brush giving way to the great expanse of wetlands. Tall brown grasses waved on the edges of the ice blue pond, backing up against the dunes, which dropped away to the fierce surf of the Atlantic.