She smothered him in kisses and he ran his hands all over her, trembling, and pulled her on top of him. When he came, he didn’t pull out but pushed into her deeper, squeezing her to him, feeling their hearts thumping together.

They watched the moon rise, hypnotized by the sound of the waves. The wind picked up and the surf crept toward them, reaching their feet. Alma said, “Oh,” and sat up, and he sat up, too, to see what she saw: a haze of light stretched over the horizon, and everything around them—the sheen of the sand below the tide line, a lifeguard’s station close by, the big pier to their right, the hotels behind them—was clearly visible.

They ran to the surf to wash the sand off of them and started back up the beach. They were at least a quarter mile from where they’d entered, and as they jogged back along the smooth part of the sand, the sky grew brighter until, by the time they reached the ramp up to the promenade at Philadelphia Avenue, the sun had pierced the horizon and they were two naked people in the clear morning. Alma covered her breasts and crotch as they streaked across Beach Avenue. Henry saw headlights approaching from afar, down near the town center, and they ran down Philadelphia until they reached New Hampshire, rounded the corner, stopped to catch their breaths. No more cars. They had nothing to fear. It was a beautiful morning. They strolled easily the rest of the way down the street to the Victorian house. He took her hand. She smiled at him.

It was after seven. It seemed impossible that so much time had passed. Effie was likely up already, but it didn’t matter. They ran a hot shower and lingered in it for a long time.

“Tonight, then, my love,” she said down in the foyer, seeing him out.

“Yes. Tonight.” He kissed her.

“It’ll be torture until then.”

“It’ll only be a short time now.”

“Are we really going to do this?”

“Yes.”

“If you don’t come, Henry…”

“I’ll come. I’ll be here. Just wait for me.”

Eleven