He heard voices down on the patio. Clara’s laughter. He got up from the bed and went to the window, covering his groin, pointlessly, with his hands. They were all sitting together at the round table by the pool. Max and Clara. And Effie. It was sunny out, but they were dressed for the fall. Effie wore her cashmere sweater. She was nodding at something Max was saying, her expression mild. The scene confounded him. How comfortable they all seemed together.

He dressed and went quickly downstairs and out to the patio, thinking vaguely that he would catch them out. It was a brilliant day, cool under the sun. Clara was standing in one of her bright sundresses, a shawl over her shoulders, gathering plates from the table, and when she saw him she greeted him warmly. “Henry, dear. There he is.”

“Hey, boo,” Effie said.

He stopped before the table. “What’s going on here?”

“You’re leaving us, apparently,” Clara said, let out a mirthless laugh, and headed toward the patio door, carrying the plates inside.

“How are you faring, Hank?” Max asked. The sight of him was loathsome. He was slouched in his chair, smoking a cigarette. He wore khaki shorts in spite of the chill, and Henry saw—would never be able to unsee—the bulge at his crotch.

“What’s this about?”

“I packed our things while you were sleeping,” Effie said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No,” he said. “Are we going home?”

“There’s the ten o’clock to Philadelphia tomorrow morning. We could stay in a hotel, but I thought we might as well go back to the cottage, if it’s just for a night, and save us the money. Uncle George would never know.”

He was confused. “Were we going to talk about this?”

“Do you want to stay here?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “Not if you don’t want to.”

Max pushed his chair back and stood up. “I’d better go in and help Clare,” he said, and Henry watched him cross the patio and go inside.

“How are you feeling?” Effie asked.

He didn’t know. He was in a fog from sleep. There was a sharp ache in his temples, and he was dying of thirst. But he said he was fine, and pulled a chair out to sit down. There was no way to talk about what they’d done. “So we’re going home,” he said.

She rubbed her forehead and closed her eyes. “We can call our folks from the station tomorrow. I can’t face it today.”

He didn’t need to ask why they were leaving. What disturbed him was how calm she seemed. She sat with her legs crossed, elbows up on her armrests. She was wearing her knee-length skirt, her sheer white stockings, and black pumps—her travel attire.

“What day is it?” he asked, and she laughed wearily.

“It’s Friday,” she said.