At Orleans the summer coaches were still running and they rode north again in a cluster of strangers. If there were any among them that Sloane knew he did not speak to them and no one addressed him either. At the store in Truro he bought a stock of groceries without consulting Joey who trailed him along the shelves and then went outside to stand on the porch and wait for him. When he came out he stood silent a moment before explaining the groceries would be delivered with ice later in the day. Then he took up her valise and led the way out through the dunes to the beach and they trudged south more than a mile, she trailing him to watch the water and the sky and the birds skittering along the waves’ froth. At the house he went through it quickly, explaining the water system and the small cookstove and the icebox and then hat in hand he stood before her and told her to stay until she knew what she would do or the weather drove her out, told her then also that if she needed anything more, anything at all, to contact him at his store and he left a card for the business on the table and then they stood looking at each other and she knew she wouldn’t see him again and guessed he knew it also—guessed he understood her well enough to know it was true. So she stepped forward quickly and kissed him and as she took her mouth away a small groan of anguish came from him. Then she stood on the porch and watched him walk away down the beach.

Finally, without preamble or apology she finished by explaining that since she’d left New Hampshire she’d fashioned herself Joey Pelham. That she had taken his name long since.

The day had gone into pale blue and slate twilight. From the sound she knew the tide was coming up. He’d sat on the floor without moving through her telling, the bottle of warm beer untouched beside him. With his bare feet and pants rolled up he shivered from time to time as the porch breeze came off the water. She wondered if he’d brought his shoes up somewhere into the dunes or on the steps; if he’d left them on the beach they were gone. When she was done he sat some time without moving or speaking, his face confused and strained, soft as a young boy, she wrapped in the quilt, wanting to go down to him, to touch him. After a time he spoke.

“Did you screw him?”

“If I told you yes or no would that change how you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“If I told you no you’d always think I was lying. If I told you yes you’d use it on me, always, come a hard time. So, you sure you want to ask?”