He thought of the days and nights ahead, and as always, the future cheered him. He and Alma would sit up again some night—maybe, probably, tonight—and they’d talk. The moon was already rising, a pale orb, barely visible. He’d tell her he understood, now that he’d had some time to think about it—that he’d reacted like a child, that he’d panicked, that she’d been right to be angry at him. But everything was all right with him now. It was no big deal. They would probably laugh about it. They would probably, in the days to come, exchange glances and smile at each other. Because they had this secret now.

They crossed Beach Avenue and headed into the town center.

There was a phone booth at the Western Union office, and Henry waited on the bench beside it while Effie called her folks. An old man sat behind the counter, reading a battered paperback.

Really, he hadn’t been unfaithful to her, not in any important way. He loved her as much today as he had yesterday, possibly more. It had been a lapse in judgment, that was all. He’d been drunk. It had nothing to do with Effie, and she would never have to know about it. She shouldn’t know about it, because knowing it would only hurt her pointlessly. That God knew was another matter, and when he thought of this, a shadow passed over him. But boys will be boys. Name an upstanding man who had never … Name a faithful husband who had never once … He could square it with his conscience. He could pray.

Effie was staring into space, holding the phone to her ear, and Henry could tell she was talking to her mother. “Uh-huh,” she said. “Okay. Right. Oh, neat.” And then: “Hi, Daddy!” She told him they were having an amazing time. In an annoying, pouty voice she explained that she’d taken ill. But, brightening, she said they’d met the most interesting people, including a member of the Hewitt family. Didn’t he know? Hewitt-Rowe, the shipping company? Henry stood up and paced to the other side of the room and examined a corkboard filled with out-of-date flyers. He disliked the importance she placed on money. It made their lives seem impoverished. Max and Clara never spoke of money—they never had to. It was the air they breathed.

When she wrapped up the call at last—“Bye, Daddy. Okay. Bye-bye!”—she seemed refreshed and happy.

“How’d they take it, about us staying?”

“Oh, Mama just fretted about Uncle George. Daddy asked if he should wire us some more money, but I told him we were fine.” There was an ice-cream shop across the square, she said, and she thought she’d go there while Henry called his folks. She asked if he wanted anything, and he reminded her he couldn’t take dairy. “Right!” she said.