From inside I could hear faintly the scratching of the record player. The unmistakable piano, like breaking glass, of Nina Simone, “Here Comes the Sun.” This was a bad sign—I could see in my mind Lucas bent over the record player. I could feel the intensity of his longing. I felt desperate to escape the sound of it.

The lounge at the Island Inn was scattered all around with soft armchairs and little low tables. There was a small dance floor by a grand piano near the bar. A pianist in jeans and a Hawaiian shirt was playing “Take the A Train.” I wouldn’t normally come to this bar—I liked Jack’s where Eddie worked. But I thought I might see the stranger here, and I did.

He was with the tourists at the bar. He was watching the room, taking it in with the same almost-possessive look I’d seen at the landing. Mine, all mine, his look seemed to say—to everything in the room, armchairs, barstools, piano, pianist.

I crossed the lounge and sat next to him.

“Hi,” he said. “I recognize you.”

“From the information booth.”

“No, from—” He shook his head. “Actually this is convenient, because I’m in need of some information.”

“I thought you might be.”

Laughing, he said, “I find islanders very accommodating.”

“Some of us are.”

I ordered scotch, which was what I liked to drink. I loved the way it burned, the way each sip seemed illicit, even long after I turned twenty-one. The stranger paid for it. Already, that force was blooming between us, a kind of invisible presence, air pressure, humidity, the fullness before a storm. The way the air around you grows arms and legs, a beating heart. He was here from New York, he said, not on vacation, more like a retreat. His name was Cole. He had no wedding ring. He smelled like salt, like corn flour.

“What kind of information did you need?” I asked.

He thought for a moment. “Best lobster roll on the island?”

“Drake’s.”

“Best pancakes?”

“The diner. Mady’s.”

“Bookstore?”

“No, sorry. Library.”

“Affordable hotel—for a possible extended stay?”

I shook my head, considering. “The Sea Breeze is cheap. But you can stay here for the same cost if you ask for room eleven.”

“What’s wrong with room eleven? Haunted?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t wait to find out what that means,” he said.

“Do you already have a room?”

“Number five.”

“I’ve never seen that one,” I said. “I’d like to.”

I watched his eyes dilate, that sudden opening to the light, darkness creating space for desire. But he shook his head. “I would offer to show you. But everything is...everywhere. It’s a mess.”

“I like messes.”

“Do you have a room?”

“I have a house.”

“I would love to see it.”

“But—I also have a brother, and he will be there.”

“I like brothers.”