He played only nine holes. Not feeling on top of the world — all the sun he guessed — he had a drink at the clubhouse with a fellow from Glen Cove who it turned out knew Irene’s family. Very bright girl, the fellow said. Bobby Putnam liked him for his complimenting his golf shoes. When he got back to the cottage it was still light and the rooms were as they had been that morning, only straightened up by the maid. He looked around outside and there was no sign of Irene, not at the table, not on the beach path. He went up to the lounge to see if she was there, but found only sunburnt guests looking forgotten and a bartender shoveling at ice. At the desk he asked if they’d seen Mrs. Putnam. A headache throbbed at his temples, he was annoyed having to look for her. The woman listened to a voice through the door behind her, and said with some uncertainty that they’d not seen her. Their car was not in the lot. He borrowed a bicycle and rode through the dusk down to the beach where they’d been. Coming around the corner, he saw the car parked among the curving tree trunks. He rested the bicycle against the fender and called her name. It was quiet on this side of the island, the western side, and the water was flat, lit up as bright as the sky, a flat blue blending into pale pink, brighter at the horizon. Her towel was still on the beach, beside the picnic basket and her crumpled sailor pants, and the big bag with sun lotions and combs and paper pads and books lay collapsed nearby. She always brought two or three books to the beach as if she were going to read them all, as if she had the time, but once there would simply stare at the water or draw lazy sketches. He looked down the beach to the left, where the sand dwindled to a sliver; he walked up to the little point on the right and looked around the cove. Irene! he called. His head was pounding and he felt the beginnings of panic. He was used to the troubling presence of Irene, but her absence was something new, more troubling. And it was only then, he said — Lilian thought it delayed of him not to have thought of it before — that he realized how serious it might be.

Later he’d found the letter she’d written to the children, slipped between the pages of her book.

Dear Pets,

The beach I’m sitting on has white sand and the one next door has black sand. Right now Daddy is swimming in a big green wave. At night they give us porpoises in our drinks. At night I miss my babies most of all. Bobby, you must look after Julie and Blair. Your mother loves you very much.

She always will.