Gradually the day turned dusky and windy outside, but inside they were warm. The fire was strong. There was no question of sailing. They made more drinks, and the gin made Henry feel nicely cocooned. Effie manned the record player. She was on a kick of elegant crooners—Frank Sinatra, Johnny Mathis, more Johnny Mercer. Max teased her for her taste, but she didn’t care, she was a romantic, she said. They settled into their usual places, listening to music, talking, drinking, passing the time until dinner.

The more hours separated him from Alma, the more the whole thing seemed unreal. Like a fever dream. Effie put her feet up on Henry’s lap and he massaged them, and she smiled and closed her eyes. He lifted her foot and kissed it, and she squirmed and said it tickled.

Alma had gotten on the train. Which meant she was either on her way to New York without him, or she was trying to make her way back. Maybe she’d gotten out at the first stop—Egg Harbor? Atlantic City?—and was now waiting on a platform for the next train back, intent, whatever it took, on making it to the Victorian house tonight. Max had insisted on seeing her off, so she’d had to get on the train or else tell him everything, which might have led to disaster. But would it really have been so hard to make him leave? She could have said, Max, Jesus, I just want to be alone—and he’d have shaken his head, eventually, and left her. Fine, whatever you want. But she’d gotten on the train. And maybe, he thought now, maybe it was because she’d had the same misgivings he was having—that had been roiling in him all along, that in fact had made the idea of running away with her so exciting—and as soon as they’d parted, she’d come to her senses and understood they were being foolish, that they’d been drunk on each other, and determined that the only way to put an end to it was to go away, as soon as possible. That was why she’d seemed so determined when she told them she was leaving. It had not been a ruse: she was going home.

By six they were hungry but fairly tipsy already, and no one felt like cooking. As a group they went back into the kitchen and scoured the refrigerator for leftovers. A bowl of rice and beans. The baked chicken from Sunday, a couple of hamburger patties from Tuesday. Bread and butter and garlic. Smoked gouda and soda crackers. Clara put the chicken and hamburgers onto a baking sheet to warm in the oven, and they carried everything back out to the coffee table. Max opened a new bottle of gin. Effie put on a Bing Crosby record. They settled around the table and ate.