They spent the rest of the morning cleaning to music, following King George’s instructions—sweeping and mopping, wiping the counters and dusting, stripping the sheets off the bed and leaving them in the hamper, throwing out the perishables—and then Effie bathed and dressed and they packed their suitcases and brought them down to the den. In order to avoid a full-blown diplomatic crisis, Effie said they’d better try and restock the bottles they’d used. And so after a sandwich for lunch they headed out, to see if the liquor store was open.

Another beautiful day. He thanked Jesus for this too. As usual, they took the long way to the town center, down along the promenade, and unaccountably, Henry wanted to whoop for joy. It was the music, it was the eternal sea beside him, it was how alive and invincible he felt, now that he’d escaped ruin, the night still white-hot in his nerves, on his skin, the day and the night to come already trembling with promise. He wasn’t tired at all—only time felt strange: it was incomprehensible to him that only six hours ago he’d been with Alma in the blue bedroom, and that that time was continuous with dinner at the Salty Dog and also with this bright, clear, perfect afternoon, while the waves struck the shore again and again like a metronome. The secret to life was hidden from us, Henry thought, because we couldn’t be awake to see every moment of it. If you could forego sleep a little while and see it uninterrupted, something essential would be revealed to you. But you could only just grasp it, because eventually the veil had to be lowered, you had to sleep. He wished he never had to sleep.

The liquor store was open. They bought a bottle of Cutty Sark, a bottle of Remington’s, and two bottles of Beefeater’s gin—one for Uncle George, another for Clara’s. Maybe Effie would have her daddy wire them the extra money after all. The clerk provided them with a box to haul it. “Must be some party,” he said.

Back at the cottage they latched all the windows, locked the front door behind them, and left the key in the hanging pot with the dead fern.

“Bye, little place,” Effie said from the sidewalk. “I guess I’ll never visit you again.”

“We’ll be back,” Henry said. “One of these summers.”

“Maybe,” she said.