They spent the early afternoon after breakfast by Clara’s pool, drinking Champagne and orange juice. Clouds drifted overhead and the light swelled and faded and swelled again. They lay out on deck chairs in their bathing suits, but the pool was too dirty to swim in. Leaves softly clattered over the patio and into the water.

“We’re lovers, you know,” Clara said, after Max had shown them his backflip off the diving board and gone upstairs to wash the grime off. “I’m a little tipsy already, so forgive me if I’m being shocking.”

Effie laughed. “It’s none of my business.” But Henry had perked up, wanting to hear more.

“We always had this kind of open thing with each other, whoever else we were with. You’re such decent people, maybe it sounds bad to you.” She was smiling at Henry, who smiled back, and shook his head.

“Honestly, Clara,” Effie began, but Clara went on:

“It’s not so unusual. Richard and I, we have an arrangement. I don’t mean we actually talk about it, you know, but—but of course you don’t know, you’re so sweet and young. There are different kinds of marriages. Happy families are not all alike. I’m a comfort to him. And he’s a dear, sweet man.”

“So long as you’re happy,” Effie said.

“Oh, I’m happy,” Clara said. “Oh, I really am.” She sighed and tilted her face up to the sun, stretching her legs out.

When Alma came down at last, squinting, wearing the same dress she’d been wearing the night before, they roused themselves and went out for a walk.

The town seemed to have emptied again after the weekend. They wandered the deserted streets, no longer alone. If a place was open, they drifted inside. A malt shop. A curio shop, full of crafts made of seashells and driftwood and sea glass. Effie was happy and lively. As they walked she shared facts about the place. It had been the first beach resort in the country. In 1878 a fire—arson, most likely—had destroyed most of it, and most of the Victorian architecture dated from the rebuilding. “Our own little docent,” Clara said. There had been great floods, of course. Some years ago, in the winter, the sea had surged as far as New Hampshire Avenue, and Clara said she remembered it well: how they’d found the house in ruin, shattered glass, stains on the walls, a mildewy smell everywhere. They were coming back along the promenade now in the early evening. The sea softly roared to their right. Henry imagined a wall of water rising up, curling a hundred feet overhead, consuming the promenade, smashing into the hotels beyond, rushing up the avenues. At any time, he thought, it could happen again. The danger was exhilarating.