The annual party at the summer home of Henry Sheffield, dean of the college, was one that never failed to live up to Giancarlo’s expectations, if for no other reason than his expectations for it were never exceedingly high.That this was so was in no way due to any shortcomings on the part of Sheffield or his wife, Amanda. Indeed the two were lively, gracious hosts, and their South County home, perched as it was on a little hill overlooking Narragansett Bay, was a lovely spot for the pre-solstice gathering.The inevitable clambake, catered by a firm out of Wickford, was, if one enjoyed steamers and lobster, always well done; the cocktails flowed easily; and the jazz trio usually engaged for the evening—a piano player, bass player, and drummer—kept spirits high without forcing the party-goers to converse in shouts over the music and into one another’s ears. It was as convivial an affair as one might hope to attend.

For Giancarlo, however, the whole thing was something of an ordeal. Even though, in his heart, he truly liked most of those in attendance, by the time June rolled around each year, he had seen quite enough of his fellow faculty members and looked forward to a prolonged absence from the groves of academe to renew his fondness for their company. Giancarlo was also one of those people who never seem to acquire the knack for small talk, and he dreaded situations in which he was forced to make it. Doing so usually required more effort than he seemed able to muster, and he often came across as aloof simply because when he had nothing of particular interest to say, he preferred to leave things at that and say nothing. Nevertheless, despite his aversion to such affairs, Giancarlo felt obligated to show up at the Sheffields’ house every year, the first Thursday after commencement, to do whatever he could to help celebrate the close of another academic year.

On this particular evening, as he often did at parties, Giancarlo stationed himself in a corner, in this case out on the veranda overlooking the bay, where he could watch the proceedings while maintaining his distance. He lingered there on the fringes by himself, content to sip his drink and nod an occasional hello to the other guests as they came to and from the lawn below. For the most part, though, he simply leaned against the railing and stared out at the darkening ocean, his eyes and thoughts fixed on some unspecified point far away on the horizon while he listened to the music. It was at such a moment that Patricia discovered him.

“Here you are, Giancarlo,” she said, suddenly emerging from the crowd.