The air had a sharp edge to it when it stirred, and he noticed, with surprise, that the trees in the backyard, the birches, and even the chinaberries and shrubs, had lost most of their leaves already. It had happened overnight, or it had happened gradually and he hadn’t been paying attention. Henry’s insides were churning. He looked down at Effie’s stockings, the kind young women and girls wore back home at church, and the image of her from last night seemed impossible, like a nightmare.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

She tipped her head back and sighed. “I feel like I could sleep for six days.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted. But then he had no idea what answer he wanted.

Henry brought their suitcases down. He’d been surprised to learn it was almost three in the afternoon.

Max was working—or hiding, Henry thought—back in the study. Archly, Clara had put on a Johnny Mercer record, and to Henry’s shock she was fixing herself a gin and tonic. You had to muscle through it, she said. You had to face the enemy head-on.

The big living room seemed open and clean, and no sign remained from last night. Effie must have gathered up his clothes at some point and put them into his suitcase.

Clara called down the hall for Max—“Maxie, they’re leaving us now”—and Max appeared, smiling, in his shorts and T-shirt and wool cardigan. So easy and carefree. Henry couldn’t get away from him quickly enough. They gathered at the edge of the foyer, and for an uncomfortable moment, no one said anything.

“I think you’re being ridiculous,” Clara said, finally, to Effie, and Effie smiled.

“You can think whatever you like.”

“You’re still a child,” Clara said. “I should have understood that.”

Effie turned toward the door. “Let’s go, Henry,” she said, and Henry, bewildered, took up their suitcases and, because he couldn’t bear to be impolite, said, “Thank you for having us.”

Clara laughed. “Darling. The pleasure was mine.”

“Katie Scarlett,” Max said, as if Henry weren’t standing there beside her, “I hate for you to go this way.” And when Effie looked back at him, holding the screen door for Henry, something fluttered across her face—a little tremble of feeling, which Henry couldn’t read.

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry.” And they went out.

They walked down the street to the cottage without saying a word. Effie’s expression was dark. She never looked at him. They stepped up to the porch, retrieved the key from the hanging pot, and let themselves inside. The musty smell of the place was like a whiff from another time. Henry set their suitcases down at the foot of the stairs. Effie dropped her pocketbook, sat heavily down on the couch, and rested her head in her hands.