They were no longer shy of each other. They slept naked. In the morning she greeted his erection with a kiss, tickling it with her tongue, until he said he was going to die if she didn’t do it. So she did it, for the first time, and he lay back groaning, holding as still as he could, afraid of choking her. When he was about to come he said, Okay, okay, and she left off, and watched it leap out onto his stomach. It smelled like starch, she said. She reached down by the side of the bed to retrieve a towel for him and mooned him spectacularly. He laughed: now he had seen everything. She threw the towel at him. He apologized, laid her back, and repaid the favor, and she drew her knees up and sighed. That’s nice. That’s very nice. They rolled around on the bed. They made a sixty-nine. Angels averted their eyes. When he was up again she straddled him, which was how she liked it best.

They took the boat out again in the late afternoon. A film seemed to lie over Henry’s senses, and through it everything seemed soft and sweet and desirable. He felt open and unbounded. He relished every scent, every touch, every taste. How the world flaunted itself. At the marina he pointed to the octagonal building out on the pier and told everyone there was going to be a dance there on Friday night.

“The Historical Society fete,” Clara said. “I heard about it the other night.”

“We could crash it,” Max said.

“We don’t have to crash it,” Clara said. “It’s open to everyone. Except I don’t have anything to wear.”

“That’s our last day here,” Effie said, taking Henry’s hand.

“That’s too sad,” Clara said. Henry couldn’t tell if she was being sincere. “What day’s today?”

“It’s Tuesday,” Effie said. “It’s still days and days away.”

The sea was calm this time, deep blue in the late-afternoon sun. They sailed straight toward a ghostly tanker in the distance, until Cape May was nothing but a line of fiery orange and yellow land behind them. After they’d dropped the sails and made a round of drinks and drifted for a while, Alma stood up without a word and dove into the water.

Max leapt to his feet. When she came up for air she made a shriek and said, “It’s freezing!”

“It’s October,” Max called out to her. “It’s the North Atlantic. You’re an idiot.”

“It’s the Mid-Atlantic,” she called back.

“Stay close, dear,” Clara said. “We’re not anchored.”