“No!” She sat beside him on the sofa and pressed her cheek to his forehead. “You don’t feel hot.”

He told them Alma had gone out, he didn’t know where. They’d stopped by the fish market and would have fried cod tonight. They were all exhausted. They’d overdone it last night. Tonight would be an early one. That sounded good to him.

Effie was tired but radiant. “Let’s never leave,” she said. “Let’s just stay here forever.”

“This is Circe’s island,” Clara intoned, “and I am Circe.”

They didn’t stay at the Bishops’ house that night. It was still early—just after one in the morning—and the night was warm and clear. Henry wanted to go outside, under the stars, and Alma had an idea: they should go down to the beach and skinny-dip in the ocean. Henry still hadn’t been in the ocean.

They left their clothes where they’d dropped them in the living room and went out the front door, and as they made their way down New Hampshire Avenue, toward Philadelphia, the same way he and Effie had gone—ages ago, it seemed—he felt the twinge of his betrayal. This had been their secret, and now he was reenacting it with someone else. But the air on his skin was wonderful. The night was darker this time, the sky was teeming with stars. They came to the streetlights at Philadelphia and turned toward the sea, walking through the shadows of trees, over lit patches of exposed sidewalk—walking easily, without a care.

Beach Avenue was bright with streetlights and traffic lights, the lights along the promenade. They kept to the shadow of a motel on the corner and peered up and down the street, to make sure no one was coming. Then they dashed across the street, up the steps to the promenade, and down the long, sloping ramp into the darkness of the beach.