I took off in the direction of the music, shouldering through the noisy mass of people, walking around the crowd by the fountain, and finally breaking into the open.

Past the arch, the band on the platform had launched into a respectable cover of the Rascals’ “How Can I Be Sure”—a song full of doubt and anguish, a brooding song about love in a world spinning out of control. I counted eight couples dancing on the grass to the right of the platform, and then I spotted Glenna farther off to the side. She was dancing alone between two cherry trees, and I’d never seen her move with such languorous grace—at least not with her clothes on. She was moving as though the rhythm of the music had somehow gotten inside her and was now trying to get out, shifting her side to side, as if she were being buffeted by waves of summer air.

Gradually, the other couples became aware of Glenna and stopped dancing to watch. I had thought about joining Glenna, but I was spellbound by the sight of her, this supple enchantress, her bare arms and legs, browned from the beach, and the tops of her breasts, visible in the scoop-necked dress, white as cream. My heart pounded as her hands pushed back her long hair, and she shimmied down, then up and down again. Her eyes were shut and aimed toward the rays of light filtering through the leaves of the trees, and a small smile was on her face, a strange smile, as much sadness in it as happiness, and as her hips rotated under the peach cotton in perfect time to the bittersweet melody, I felt frightened and jealous, as if Glenna had betrayed me by making love to the sun and sky—by dancing alone, encased in the music, on that grassy, sunstruck patch of Washington Square, happy all by herself.

The song ended, and Glenna opened her eyes and saw me and the others watching. She glanced away, as if she’d been caught running naked through the park. A few of the onlookers clapped as she walked over to me.

“Done, Gordo?”

“Done,” I said.

ROBIN HAD bought a big bottle of Chianti and made a spinach salad dressed with basil vinaigrette to go along with the lasagna. We ate outside in front of the house, under the oak trees, sitting on Adirondack chairs with the plates set on a big weathered-wood spool that had once held Con Ed cable.

“Can I ask both of you a favor?” Robin said.

I wasn’t surprised. Robin seldom cooked, and when Glenna had told me she was making dinner, I’d figured she wanted something. But Glenna didn’t respond to her question. She had been remote during the meal, hardly touching her food or wine.

“What’s up?” I asked.

Robin said, “Can I come to Woodstock with you?”

I was hurt that Glenna didn’t immediately tell Robin to forget it and annoyed that she was leaving it to me by sitting there and gazing out at a kayak knifing across the glassy surface of the creek.