She must have seen the joy light up in Henry’s face, because she made a little hop and continued: “Please come. It’s a perfect day for sailing. It’s just Maxie and me. And his little sister, Alma, sadly. A dear girl, but useless. We could use the extra crew.”

“Do you want to?” he said to Effie, and Effie, looking cornered, said, “I mean…”

Now their honeymoon had begun, Henry thought. Now the clouds had parted and the bright days were upon them.

Back at the cottage they put the groceries away and went up into the attic room to change into their bathing suits. He had an erection again, and when he was naked he put his hands on his hips and waited for Effie to admire it. “Jesus!” she cried. She stood by the vanity table in her underwear. “On the Lord’s day?”

“The Lord is pleased with us,” he said, and dragged her down onto the bed.

She made a show of giving in—sighing, lying flat on her back, arms flung out: “Just do what you got to do, heathen, I won’t help you”—and so he pulled her underwear off her hips and pressed his nose in, breathed in deeply the close, pleasant smell of her hair. He gave it a lingering kiss. She got up on her elbows then, alert, as if to say, What do you think you’re doing, sir? And in answer he freed her from her underwear, spread her legs, and opened her with his tongue: a soft, soft bursting, warm and smoothly wet, like olive oil. The baffling folds of skin. A scent, mostly, of Dial soap.

“Hello,” she said, and held very still, until a car horn down in the street interrupted them, and they leapt out of bed—flushed, laughing, saying nothing—and hurried into their clothes.

Four

The baby-blue Cadillac idled at the curb. Max was behind the wheel, Clara was in the passenger seat in a headscarf and sunglasses, and in the back sat a girl in a light-green dress.

“Katie Scarlett, Hank,” Max called to them as they came down the porch steps. “We meet again.” He leapt out and pulled the seat forward to let them in, bowing grandly, wearing the same red trunks and Oxford shirt he’d been wearing Friday night. Like a gentleman, he took Effie’s bag, where she’d stuffed their towels and tanning oil, and Henry remembered he didn’t particularly like this man.

“You know Max,” Clara said. “And this is Alma. You met her the other night.”