The sermon had to do with the woes of the Pharisees. All worldly concerns were worthless. The only thing of value was the soul, which was a candle in a vast dark. The preacher, a slight, balding man in a white alb, was not a gifted speaker. Not like Reverend Miller back home, who preached like he was sharing an amusing story, who made Jesus an amiable friend. This preacher intoned, the sound of his voice like an omen of doom.

“Ye are like unto whited sepulchers,” he read, “which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones, and of all uncleanness.” Then he stared into the space above the congregation. “Your bodies are naught but walking coffins.”

They bolted as soon as the sermon was over.

“Do you feel better?” Henry asked outside.

“God,” Effie said. “If I had to listen to that man every Sunday, I think I’d slit my wrists.”

They found an ice-cream shop that was open—a miracle—and bought cones of Neapolitan and walked with them through the town, making a lazy circuit past closed storefronts and houses, through deserted but sunny squares. They could go to the grocer’s while they were out, Effie suggested, and stock up on a few provisions, and then they could go to the beach later and try to swim—for once. “Does that mean you want to stay a little longer?” Henry asked, and she looked up at the sky and said, “If it’ll be like this.”

They passed a fence overflowing with bougainvillea, bright pink and violet, and below it fragrant lavender. Reverend Miller had once said that all we see of life on earth is a brief flourish of the elements. God breathes life into the seed and the seed rises, it turns the crude matter of the earth into a flourish of color and shape, scent and sound. How the world flaunted itself. Effie’s skirt swished about her knees. She was wearing her prim white stockings. When they got back to the cottage he would pluck the garter straps off one by one, place his nose and lips to the tender skin there, breathe in the faint scent of talcum powder.

At the grocer’s they bought enough food for two or three meals, plus cuts for sandwiches and a bundle of oranges, and they started back, Henry carrying the bag. They turned down Madison in the direction of the sea—and just before they came to New Hampshire he spotted Clara, down at the house on the corner, sweeping the flagstone patio in a lustrous blue robe, a pattern of giant, overlapping flowers.

“Oh, hell,” Effie said.

Henry laughed. “Do you want to hide?”

Clara saw them, tossed her broom aside, and cried, “Hallo!” They waved back.

“What about your heart-to-heart?” Henry asked. “Aren’t you friends now?”

“I have no idea.”