The Polo Course was a luxury development, seven or eight big houses on large plots, each widely separated from its neighbors. The architectural styles were a potluck, from Modernist glass and concrete to faux Mediterranean, but the group was united by immaculate lawns and shrubs, all meticulously trimmed to the regulation lengths specified in the community bylaws.

Maggie Craine’s was at the end, where Polo Course Lane curled into a cul-de-sac. It was the largest, a white clapboard house with a wraparound porch, carefully designed to evoke Old Florida.

A Hispanic maid in a gray uniform and white pinafore let him into the house. It was dark and cool, with glossy, ebonized walnut floors and tall white sheers covering the windows. The maid gestured wordlessly to the gloom of the back of the house; she looked like she’d been crying. Jenner walked through the huge kitchen and out onto the back veranda.

The back garden was beautiful, an extravagant outburst of tropical plants—clusters of big white Amazon lilies, spikes of red and orange heliconia, elephant ear leaves the size of platters, still glistening from the previous night’s rain; the air was sweet with the perfume of thick vines of shining jasmine dripping from an old mahogany. He walked down the steps and made his way to a glassed-in cabin at the bottom of the garden, where a sentinel mynah bird tethered to a black metal stand hopped silently from foot to foot.

The cabin seemed to be built of glass casement windows, and as Jenner approached, he saw it was Maggie’s studio. A big easel supporting a half-finished, brilliantly colored self-portrait in oils stood in one corner, the easel supports and the floor underneath thickly encrusted with dripped paint. More self-portraits leaned against the walls of the studio; most were portraits of her face, others were nudes, her body painted so that the breasts were lush and full but her belly, flanks, and hips were gaunt.

She coughed and he turned to find her behind him. She was dressed in a paint-flecked man’s shirt tied at the waist, and similarly spattered rolled jeans and espadrilles. Her hair was up in a ponytail, and her eyes were red.

“You hate them.”

He shook his head. “No, not at all. They’re very striking, very…expressive.”

Maggie dismissed his comment with a wave of her hand. “I’ve been calling you at the shelter all afternoon.”

“Why didn’t you call my cell?”

“I deleted you.”

He didn’t react. She said, “She’s gone, Jenner.”

“Who?”

“Lucy.” She fumbled for her cigarettes in her pants pocket. “I think Daddy took her.”

“Oh.” He was confused. “Well, call his cell.”

“He’s not answering.”

“When is your flight?”

“What flight?”

“He said you were going to France today.”

“What?” She began to cry. “No! No, we’re not going to France! Why would you think that?”

“That’s what he said. I thought…”

“What did he say?”

“I think his exact words were something like ‘I’m going to take my daughter to France this afternoon.’”

Maggie was crying hard now. Jenner put a hand on her shoulder but she shook it off, weeping as she tried to put a cigarette in her mouth. He said, “I don’t understand.”

“He’s taking Lucy to France!”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I misheard him.”

She turned and raced across the garden to disappear into the house. He followed her, winding through the kitchen into the den. She was opening a small wall safe tucked into a bookcase; the door swung open to reveal several large envelopes, a jewelry box, and stacked bundles of cash. Weeping, she held up a passport—hers.

“He took her passport!”

Then she sagged into a chair, put her face in her hands, and shook with tears.

Jenner stood next to the chair, put a hand on Maggie’s shoulder.

“He didn’t tell you?”

She sobbed, “Jenner! You never understand anything!”

“Listen—you’re her mother. You’re her legal next of kin; she’s in your custody, and it’s up to you whether she goes or not. Maybe you should call the police…”

“I can’t! You know I can’t!” Maggie’s hair had come out of her ponytail, and she was mopping it across her face into her tears. “He told me he told you! You know! You know!”

He sat next to her. “Listen, he doesn’t have the right to take her. It’s that simple. How would he get to France? Has he gone before?”

“We go at least a couple times a year.” She sat up, face flushed. “There’s a JetBlue flight at seven thirty p.m. from Fort Myers to Atlanta, connecting to the eleven thirty p.m. Delta flight to Charles de Gaulle.”

“Okay, well, let’s find them, then. It’s almost two p.m. now, and it’s, what, an hour’s drive to Fort Myers? We’ve got almost four hours to find them. Have you been to Stella?”

Maggie snuffled. “I was there a little while ago—he’s not there. He’s closing it up. The staff have been moving valuables into storage and putting everything under covers since yesterday; he told them he’s opening up the Connecticut house before the summer gets too bad here.”

“Okay, well, where else could he be?”

“He doesn’t go anywhere else. We have a boat, but it’s in dry dock for a new keel. And that’s it.”

Jenner said, “Except the farm.”

“Well, yes, I guess.” Maggie nodded slowly. “Except the farm.”

She was silent for a second; when she turned to him, her eyes were desperate and pleading.

He couldn’t say no. He told her to stay at home in case Lucy came home, or her dad called, and said he’d call when he’d found them.

He entered his number into her cell phone again, then got into his car. He told her he’d call a friend in New York, make sure Chip and Lucy wouldn’t get on the Delta flight to Paris. He told her not to worry, and set off. She stood in the driveway and watched him leave.