On Labor Day they were in Southampton, Devlin in a guest room. Old Brennan was in a great mood, and if he was still ill at ease with Devlin, he was trying to be friendly. Apparently Brennan always reserved this weekend for his family, another Brennan Tradition. Devlin marveled at how seriously they took themselves, even when they were trying to have fun. Dinner Saturday night had to be in the town’s most expensive and fancy restaurant, the men in ties, the women splendidly turned out, their hair done that afternoon. The Brennan boys had dates, Park Avenue debutantes whose talk, mostly with Mrs. Brennan, was of openings and shows. Jack was banging the blonde, and Joe was banging the blonde and brunette. Everybody would be in separate guest rooms later, of course. Devlin had a bottle. Maryellen had said that the beach house, as they called it, had walls too thin for midnight visiting. Another of her moods—the week before, she had given him a blowjob on the Grand Central Parkway at fifty miles an hour.

Tomorrow would be Mass, a big family breakfast, a family day on the beach, an early family dinner, and a family movie in the living room. Next day would be the traditional family barbecue. Maryellen’s conversation in the previous weeks about Labor Day had given Devlin fair warning: plenty of clothes. It was all a grand show they were putting on for one another. Jack and Joe behaved altogether differently around their father, stiffening up and deepening their voices. They were lawyers, Jack in private practice, Joe an assistant in the Queens County D.A.’s office. Jack was almost thirty, Joe three or four years younger.

Devlin had hoped to get a moment alone with Maryellen sometime during the weekend, but no. Definitely not. The more he made love to her, the more he wanted to. He realized what was happening between them, and he was determined not to let it make a monkey of him again. She was too emotional for him to think about surrendering to her; it was going to have to be the other way around … But Devlin wasn’t sure he wanted that, either. There was a fury in the excitement she boiled up in him that made what other women did entertaining, but always flawed, like the dancing of nightclub chorus girls. He wanted her, but he was sure he couldn’t trust her behavior for long. For that matter, he wasn’t sure he could trust himself. He was still running after other women; he was angry with her too much; and he was thinking—couldn’t help thinking—that he didn’t really want to change his mind. He didn’t have to pay attention to it; he was still having too much fun.