If she suspected he was up to something, she said nothing about it. And it amazed him, because he felt like he was saturated with guilt, that it gave off a feral smell. But if you aren’t looking for signs, he supposed, you are blind to them. She was making eggs, she said, if he wanted any. He did—and coffee, he was dying for coffee. He joined her in the kitchen, and while she finished the eggs and he made the coffee, he worried about Alma coming in, whether Effie would hear her, whether it would be enough for her to suspect. But then, from the stereo in the den, the sunny opening of Beethoven’s “Pastoral” began, and a moment later Max strode in, singing, “Good morning, friends!”

There was music all morning. Beethoven, Strauss, Bedřich Smetana, the heavenly “Vltava.” Henry dozed to it out on the patio. “Poor baby,” Effie said, running her fingers through his hair. Max and Clara had decided, apparently, to take a break from work today. Max set himself to cleaning the pool, and as soon as he’d cleared the leaves from the surface he dove in, and Clara and Effie dove in after him, though the water was still green and full of who-knew-what. As if from a great distance, half asleep, Henry watched them splashing around, taking turns at the diving board, playing a game of Marco Polo. At some point he drifted off, behind a wall of light, their voices reaching him, the sighing of the trees overhead.

Now Alma appeared, finally—he didn’t know what time it was—pirouetting out onto the patio to “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy,” wearing white shorts and a striped T-shirt. The shorts made her legs look extra-long, like the little ice nymphs in Fantasia. She smiled at him. He smiled dreamily back.

“You’re perky today,” Clara said to her.

Max suggested they sail all the way to Atlantic City—it would take, what, two or three hours?—but the water was choppy, and they turned back to Cape May after an hour.

That evening, after grilled hamburgers and baked potatoes, while they played Max’s dice game out on the patio, Effie pressed her hand between Henry’s legs, where no one could see, and leaned into him and kissed him on the neck. Alma, across the table, met his eyes. What could he do? He pulled Effie’s hand away and muttered into her ear, “Hey, now.”

“What?” she said.

He kissed her temple. “Save that for later.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

A little later, after ten, Alma went away.

And then it was eleven, and midnight, and one in the morning. Henry watched the clock over the bar. He nursed his drink, trying to stay alert. The rest of them got drunk.