The girl gave them the thinnest of smiles and moved over to make room for them. She was the one Max had pulled away from the Coast Guard cadet—his sister. She had long, light-brown hair bundled carelessly on her head, and a scatter of freckles on either side of her nose. If Max was in his twenties, she might have been eighteen—Effie’s age, maybe younger. She sank low in her seat, impenetrable behind her sunglasses, and looked away from them.

Max tossed their bag into the trunk, and with no further preliminaries he got back in the car and put it in gear, and they lurched forward and flew down New Hampshire Avenue. Clara whooped and raised her hands. In a few minutes they pulled into the empty parking lot by the marina and got out at the gate. Henry helped Max unload a large cooler and picnic basket from the trunk. Clara unlocked the gate, and they followed her down a dock crowded on both sides with sailboats, their masts gently bobbing and clinking.

Effie’s hair was wild; she’d neglected to bring a scarf. “It’s awfully windy today, isn’t it?” Out in the cove beyond the marina the water was choppy. “You’re sure it’s safe?”

“Of course it’s safe,” Clara said. “I told you, it’s a perfect day.”

Theirs was a large boat—a sloop, Clara called it—near the end, with a white hull, a deck of stained wood, and a single mast. It was named The Mistral, after a Mediterranean wind, but Clara’s papa called it his mistress. She wasn’t technically allowed to sail it, but not to worry: she’d done so many times and was an expert. She gave orders, and Henry leapt aboard after Max to remove the canvas shroud over the cockpit while Effie and Alma waited on the dock. Clara opened the hatch, releasing a musty odor from within, and Henry followed her below, where there was a galley, a head, and a stateroom. On a sailboat, Clara said, everyday things had new and interesting names. He helped her bring up the jib sail, as she called it, and he and Max, who had made it known that he was an expert sailor himself, started hooking it up while Clara busied herself back at the wheel. Effie stepped gingerly aboard and stood as if uncertain what to do. Alma got in, dropped her bag to the floor, lay back by the stern, and tilted her face up to the sun.