The dress she’d chosen was silvery and long, with thin shoulder straps and straight lines, and the fabric was as light as a slip and had a sheen to it. She came slowly down the staircase, trailing her hand along the banister, and though she never looked at Henry, he was certain that she’d been waiting for him to arrive, that this entrance had been for his benefit. Her hair was pinned up, little tendrils falling from her temples, her makeup was light and glossy, and she wore sheer stockings and silver heels. He’d never seen anyone more beautiful.

“Aren’t you a pretty thing?” Effie said, dabbing at her nose with a tissue. Her fever had broken, and though she was still weak, she’d been determined not to miss the dance. Henry had said little to dissuade her.

“You’re a pretty thing too,” Alma said.

They were all pretty, after so many days in swimsuits, wrinkled linens, bathrobes, and bare feet. Effie wore the forest-green dress she’d worn at their senior prom. Henry wore his wedding suit. Max wore a white tuxedo with black lapels—because why not, because it was the only formal thing he’d brought with him from New York, because it had been in his trunk, by happenstance, from some wedding or other—and Clara wore her white halter top from last week, spiced up with a silver choker and extra flourishes in her makeup and hair. In the foyer they’d said, “Look at you!” “And you!” “But you clean up well, don’t you?”

They ate out at the patio table in the dusk, by the light of votive candles. The power was still out. Max had whipped up a simple pasta Bolognese with a canned ragout. Alma sat beside him. She seemed cheerful, in her way. Henry thought she might at least have smiled at him, gestured to her dress, let him smile back and nod his approval, but she barely acknowledged his existence. Maybe she’d lost interest in him when he’d refused to go out with her. Or maybe she was toying with him.

But the promise of the night, and of the days to come, cheered him, and set his nerves humming. He and Effie had decided to stay—maybe until the next weekend, though they’d play it by ear. He knew his family wouldn’t like it, that Carswall would want him back at the farm, but he was a grown man, and he could do what he wanted. They’d call their families tomorrow, and move their things over to Clara’s on Sunday.

After dinner they abandoned their plates and glasses on the table and piled into the Cadillac. Max kept the top up to preserve the ladies’ hair. In the back, Effie sat in the middle and leaned her head on Henry’s shoulder. “Are you going to make it?” he asked.