He went around the room switching off lamps while Ana Gathreaux turned back to the sliding glass and pushed the curtains aside again. She hadn’t been able to see the ocean before because of the reflection from all the lamps against the glass. Yet as Kevin extinguished each bulb, her reflection disappeared in the sliding door and the dusk outside came into its own. She saw spruce trees now, the cedar deck, Adirondack chairs in the blue dusk; and down a few hundred feet, the ocean itself, lead gray and churning; and with the lights all off, she stood in the half dark with the innkeeper behind, neither of them speaking. Toward the west, between dark clouds, a patch of orange blazed faintly high in the stratosphere.

It looks like it’s clearing, Ana muttered to herself.

Excuse me?

Ana turned toward Kevin and looked into his face.

Was it near here? she inquired.

Kevin had the sudden urge to tell her everything about that night: the fog, the lit-up fuselage, the awful, sickening blast. But if he started to tell her, he reasoned, he wouldn’t be able to keep it together.

He swallowed and answered: It was near enough.

She nodded and turned back to the glass and pulled the sheers together again.

Thank you, she said.

Can I get you a dry sweater, a coat? Kevin offered.

I’m fine, she said.

I’m sorry, he stammered, that you had to visit under…these circumstances.

She stood by the glass doors and gazed at her fingernails. They were bitten terribly, down to the cuticles. Kevin wanted all at once to step toward this woman and hold her, not for her comfort—but for his.

He left the key on the table. He regretted saying anything now. It had probably been a mistake. He wished he could just slip out the door. If she should need something, he said in parting, he’d be up at the main house.

Five