Each time Ana arrived on Trachis Island she went first to Caginish Point. She’d bring flowers to the spot, bouquets she’d collected along the way. That year was no different, and she and Pars drove to the end of the island first. Ana brought a bouquet of wild lupines and blue aster. Pars brought a wreath of lavender for his niece. Earlier that summer, a colleague at the Smithsonian had named a previously undescribed bee-eater after Russell—the trinomial part of the name at least. Years before he’d brought the specimen back from one of his collecting trips in Southeast Asia. The naming was really quite an honor, and Ana had framed the article from The Auk alongside a photograph of the bird and brought it to Trachis. It was a bit sentimental, she realized, but who cared? She leaned the framed article against the marble monument, alongside all the other flowers and stones and melted candles. She placed her own bouquet against the glass. Pars laid his lavender wreath beside it.

By the time they arrived at Trachis Inn, it was already four in the afternoon. The keys to their cottages were left in the office. Ana was ravenous. They hadn’t eaten since an Irving station outside Antigonish. She’d been saving herself for one of Kevin Gearns’s meals.

Twenty-Two

And now the sun lowered over Trachis and poured into the dining room. The late afternoon light—chill and Septemberish—glimmered against each spoon and glass and wine bottle. Diana Olmstead shaded her eyes against the glare. Pars Mansoor did as well. Ana Gathreaux sat across from him. A tall boy with an earring and unruly red hair sat beside Claartija. The meal had already begun, the mushroom appetizer, the corn chowder, the bread, the wine. Kevin stood outside the kitchen door, uncorking another bottle of Cloudy Bay. They were calling for him to join them.

Just a minute, he shouted.

He draped a towel over his wrist and walked around the table refilling glasses.

Diana Olmstead grabbed his arm. You must sit down now.

One more thing, he said. He had to check on the roast, the vinaigrette.

Douglas rose from his chair and went around the table and put both hands on Kevin’s shoulders. He steered him across the room to a seat at the head of the table, then lowered him into the chair.

Kevin blushed slightly. He didn’t like being there—at the head of the table—but it was the only seat left. Douglas returned to his place and shook his head across the table. The sun was on the lip of the ocean now. Everyone’s face looked flushed in the orange glow.