Clara asked if they were moving over that night, and Effie said no, they still had the cleaning to do. Though Henry, she said, smiling at him, had gotten a start on it this morning.

“You’re a better man than some I know,” Clara said.

“We’ll need to restock,” Max said. “I hope the stores are open tomorrow.”

“The grocer’s is, I know,” Effie said.

“But the liquor store,” Clara said.

“How much longer are we staying here?” Alma said, and everyone stopped to look at her. She held her fork aloft, a chunk of swordfish on it.

“I don’t know,” Max said. “For as long as we want, I suppose.”

She nodded, turning back to her plate, and stuffed the swordfish into her mouth.

“Why?” Max said. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” she said, cutting into a potato. “I was only asking.”

“Because if you’re unhappy, or bored…”

“I’m not,” she said. “I’m perfect.”

“It’s nice here,” he went on. “I can feel myself think for the first time in ages. I think I might start writing tomorrow.”

“You know, dear,” Clara said, leaning forward so she could see past Max, “you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. There’s a train straight from here to Penn Station.”

“Clare,” Max said.

“I’m only saying, darling,” she said, putting her hand on his forearm. “In case she wants to go home. She can take care of herself.”

“I appreciate it,” Alma said. “It’s good to know. Maybe I’ll do that.”

Henry fought the urge to beg her not to go. As it turned out, Effie did it for him: “You can’t leave. It’d be too sad.”

“No one’s leaving,” Clara said, chuckling, waving her hand, and took a sip of her martini. “You’re all trapped here with me.”

They finished their dinner, ordered another round—Alma was drinking Coca-Cola—and listened to the music. Max, Clara, and Effie clapped along to a jaunty number. Finally the check came. Max paid, and to Henry’s relief, Effie didn’t protest.

When they got outside, Alma said she wanted to walk out to the point, and Max said nothing to dissuade her. She put her cardigan on and started away from them, down Decatur Street toward the promenade. Henry wished he could go with her.

“Poor girl,” Clara said. “My mother taught me that if you can just pretend to be cheerful for a little while, you’ll actually turn cheerful. It’s been a great skill for me. I could teach it to her.”

“You’d better not.” Max laughed wearily. “Maybe she should go. I have to remind myself she’s not my problem.”