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breathe because his body was on top of her. She screamed for her mother, crying with terror.
    But her eyes were on the boy. Smiling up at Caroline was Joe Connor, six years old, his picture lying on the floor right under her face. The little boy whose father had just killed himself instead of Caroline or Clea or their mother and the new baby, whose mother didn’t love him enough, who would never see his father again.
    When Augusta Renwick, weeping, managed to pull the man’s dead body off her daughter, she clutched Caroline to her breast and wiped some of the blood off her face and tried to hear what Caroline was saying to the picture of the little boy.
    “I want my daddy,” Caroline was crying. “I want my daddy now.”
     
December 30, 1969
Dear Joe Connor,
I am your friend. Because your father came to our house and showed me your picture. I am sorry that he died, very very sorry.
Sincerely yours,
Caroline Renwick
     
     
     
January 14, 1970
Dear Caroline Renwick,
My father showed you my picture? He was nice and laughed a lot. We played baseball at Cardine Field. My father had a heart attack with you. I am glad you were with him.
Your friend,
Joe Connor
     
     

     
    JUNE 2000
     
    I T WAS THE LONGEST DAY OF THE YEAR . T HE FULL MOON was rising out of the sea. The old dog lay on the grass beside Caroline, his chin resting on folded paws. Caroline, her mother, and her sisters sat in white wicker chairs. The gathering had an edge; family ghosts were circling around.
    Caroline Renwick felt like a matriarch, but she was just the oldest sister. She loved her family. They were strong yet vulnerable, ordinary women who happened to be exceptional. Sometimes she felt she spent too much time with them, shepherding them along like a flock of eccentric sheep. Whenever that happened, she would jump on a plane, go on a business trip. It didn’t matter where, as long as it was far enough away to give her mind a rest. But for right now, she was home.
    As the moon rose, it grew smaller and colder, lost its pinkness and became silver. Stirred and panting, Homer raised his head from his paws…to watch. “Oh, girls,” Augusta Renwick said, looking at her three daughters once it was entirely up.
    “Isn’t it incredible?” Augusta asked, staring out at Long Island Sound.
    “A full moon on the longest day of the year,” said Caroline. “That has to be a good omen.”
    “You’re always looking for signs,” Clea teased. “A full moon, shooting stars…”
    “The North Star,” Skye said. “Caroline taught me how to find it the last night I was ever really happy.”
    “The last what?” Augusta asked, smiling.
    “Mom…” Caroline warned.
    “My last happy night,” Skye said sadly. She stumbled slightly on the words, making Caroline wonder how much she had already had to drink.
    “You’re happy now, darling,” Augusta said. “Don’t be ridiculous. How can you say something like that?”
    “Easily,” Skye said softly, staring at the old dog Homer.
    “Mom…” Caroline started again, racking her brain for something light and conversational.
    “Oh, Skye. Stop now,” Augusta said, looking wounded. “We’re celebrating the summer solstice! Let’s get back to talking about stars….”
    “The North Star…” Clea said, laughing. “I don’t need it anymore. If I want to go somewhere, I’ll call my travel agent. No more hiking, no more hunting for this girl.”
    “Don’t need any stars,” Skye said.
    “We all need stars,” Augusta said. Then she said it again, as if it were very important: “We all need stars.”
    “We need cocktails,” Skye said. “Isn’t it time? The sun’s down, the moon’s up. There: I’ve got signs too. It’s the cocktail hour. Right, Homer?” The ancient golden retriever thumped his tail.
    “Well, it is,” Augusta agreed, checking her small gold watch for added confirmation. She glanced at Caroline and Clea as if she expected them to interfere. Watching her mother, Caroline