By late afternoon, the inn was almost filled. A black family from Brooklyn arrived. A Bulgarian man who wouldn’t utter a word. A Middle Eastern man with a mustache and glasses and a tweed coat. Each of them had chosen to spend at least one night at the inn. Perhaps more. They would all travel the following morning to Caginish Point; it was too late that afternoon for the journey.

Just before dusk, one last limousine showed up at Trachis Inn. Kevin went outside to greet the newcomer. Mrs. McIntyre had disappeared, and the other care partners and clergy had left for the evening. The day was growing dark, the footlights along the pea gravel paths already lit. The rain had picked up again. Kevin approached the car with the golf umbrella overhead. A woman climbed from the opposite side of the limousine and stood in the twilight. She hardly noticed Kevin, or if she did she gave no indication of it. She wore a black beret, blue jeans, a thick mocha cable-knit sweater. He expected someone else to emerge from the back of the car or the front passenger’s seat, but no one did. The woman held a small tan knapsack in one hand. She was staring beyond the bluffs out toward the ocean.

Kevin came around the vehicle, cleared his throat, and introduced himself.

The woman didn’t turn right away. And when she finally did, she looked over Kevin’s head, into the trees. He asked if she would like to be taken to her room.

The woman shrugged uncertainly. Then she said in a small, cold voice: Okay.

May I get your luggage? he asked.

She lifted her knapsack to indicate that was all.

Well, then. He held out a hand. I believe you’re in the Quahog Cottage.

They walked in silence down the lawn. He held the umbrella over her head—rather he tried to, but she kept lagging behind, beyond the circumference of the nylon. The wind shook water from the spruce trees. The air felt cool. The woman kept pausing on the walk and looking out toward the sea, which forced Kevin to slow his pace. A bit of cold blue was still left in the sky out toward Caginish. The lights of the main house burned above. Kevin began to talk but stopped himself. He had the urge to fill the awkward silence with his usual patter, pointing out to new guests the view, the garden, what was blooming that time of year (sedums, nightshades, ligularias), the names of the rocks on the bluff (basalt, galena, quartz), the history of the place (Trachis Island, named after the sea captain). Yet he held his tongue; it wasn’t easy. What could he possibly say that wouldn’t sound trivial? That he was sorry? That everyone on the island felt personally the loss?