Several minutes later they both sat at a wrought-iron table on the stone terrace. Pars brought a bucket of ice, the gin bottle. Ana a glass shaker and two martini glasses and a bottle of Noilly Prat. Pars lit a candle in a glass flue on the table. The moon had risen in the east, a tiny fingernail clip. The wind was light. They could hear buoy bells banging gently somewhere out at sea. Ana mixed the drinks. She’d learned how from Russell. A martini, he liked to say, was merely a vehicle for the olive. Sevillanas preferably. Two or more. He liked his dirty, with a splash of olive juice. But Ana hadn’t found any olives at the bar, and that seemed appropriate too. The gin and vermouth would have to do on their own.

She handed Pars a glass and apologized and said it should really be colder and it should really have at least one olive, but—did it matter?

No. He shook his head decisively and lifted the glass in the direction of the ocean. She lifted hers too. Ana sipped. Pars made a face and put his glass down.

It’s that bad?

No, he said. It’s…interesting.

Sorry. Perhaps we should have skipped the vermouth altogether.

It’s fine, he protested, and took another tentative sip.

Ana closed her eyes. The breeze smelled of low tide. The dog had wandered over from the lawn and stood beside her, wagging his tail. He laid his head on the armrest of her chair and looked up at her.

He likes you, Pars observed.

He likes getting rubbed.

The dog sat, and she scratched his head behind the ears and then his chest.

He’s been visiting my cottage, she explained.

Do you know what he is?

A Portuguese water dog.

When she stopped scratching, the dog lifted his right paw and set it on top of her forearm.

Enough, she said and raised her drink again.

The dog tilted his head at her, then looked at Pars.

Enough, Oscar, Ana said. Go lie down.

You know his name?

Kevin told me.

The dog clicked away, circled, and lay down at the edge of the terrace, and looked out into the night. Ana slipped off her sandals, cradled her left foot in her crotch, and tried to pick at the splinter. Pars nodded toward her foot.

It’s still there?

Yes.

He put his drink down.

Here, let me see. He gestured toward her foot.

It’s fine, she said.

Come on, I went to medical school. I’m practically a specialist.

In splinters?

He scooted his chair closer and brought the candle to the edge of the table. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a Swiss Army knife.

You’re prepared, she said.

Yes. A real Boy Scout.

He pulled out a miniature tweezers from the end of the knife.