In the bathing hut there had been instructions for men to “enter the water briskly until it reaches the waist,” which Randolph had obviously followed. Women were exhorted to proceed with caution lest they be overcome with hysteria. Intent on immersing herself, Margaret waded out as steadily as she could. Forgetting to be embarrassed, she concentrated on keeping her balance, for the sand underfoot was soft; the waves not quite so gentle as they looked; and more importantly the flannel swimsuit was like a huge sponge, soaking up the water and dragging her down.

By the time the water was the required waist-deep, her suit was soaked, her hair was escaping and flying about her face, and her skin was tingling with salt. Yet she was imbued with a feeling of fierce, wild happiness, the joy of being alive and of being only just in control and not quite out of her depth.

“You did it!” Randolph swam smoothly to within a couple of yards of her and stood up. “I’m impressed. Seriously.”

His bathing suit had short sleeves. His forearms were faintly tanned and surprisingly sinewy. The neckline of the suit had stretched, exposing his throat and a smattering of dark hair on his chest. The wet fabric clung to his lean body, making her acutely aware of him not as her friend but as a man. And a very attractive one at that, with his wet hair falling over his brow.

Meeting his gaze, Margaret saw her awareness reflected in his eyes. Abruptly conscious of her own suit clinging to her, she turned away just a fraction too late. “It’s cold,” she said unconvincingly, wrapping her arms around herself.

“It is,” he agreed, though she knew she had not fooled him. “Let’s go claim our free chowder, and you can buy me a beer.”

Ever the gentleman, Randolph headed for the huts, leaving her to wade in unobserved, though he did not, Margaret noted, go into his own hut until she had safely set foot on the sand.

THEY CAUGHT THE LAST, CROWDED STEAMER back to the city and shared a hansom cab to Washington Square. “My nose is burnt,” Margaret said, watching the cab head uptown. “I’m afraid my hat isn’t very practical.”

“It’s cute, though,” Randolph said.

“It’s supposed to be elegant!”

He laughed. “Whatever you say. Did you have a good day?”

They had reached her stoop. The day had cooled, and it was that quiet time after sundown but before dark had fully fallen, when the city seemed to pause for breath. The square felt deserted. “I did.” Margaret smiled up at him, and her breath caught and her heart fluttered as their eyes met; and the awareness that had flickered between them all day took a more decided hold in the pit of her stomach. “It was perfect.”

“Almost perfect,” he corrected her softly, taking a step closer.