“It is getting hot,” admitted Carter, wiping the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand. He gave a little cough to clear his throat. “Looks like you’re going to the beach,” he said, trying very hard not to stare at her slender figure.

“Nope,” said Sheila, nonchalantly adjusting the shoulder strap of her top. “I’m just going out back to catch a few rays for a little while. Then I’m going to a cookout later on, maybe watch the fireworks downtown. How about you?”

“Heading down to my parents’ house,” he told her with a shrug. “They’re doing their usual cookout. I’ll probably watch the fireworks tonight at the town beach.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Happy Fourth of July, Carter,” came a familiar voice from inside the house. It belonged to Sheila’s mother, who just then happened to pass by the screen door.

“Hi, Mrs. Mahoney. Happy Fourth to you, too,” he called back in.

Mrs. Mahoney didn’t linger, but instead went straightaway to some other part of the house. “Tell your parents I said hello,” he heard her call.

“I will,” he replied.

He turned back to Sheila.

“Well, I guess I should get going,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “Have a nice Fourth, Sheila.”

“You, too,” she said

Carter started back down the porch steps.

“Hey, by the way, how did you like Satyricon?” said Sheila before he could go far.

Carter turned around and gave her a rueful smile.

“It was—what did you call it?—Felliniesque,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “Now I know why they call them foreign films.”

Sheila laughed.

“They’re not all like that,” she assured him. “Next time ask me first. I’ll recommend something you might like better.”

Carter did not reply, but instead smiled and nodded goodbye.

The telephone was ringing when he went back inside his house. It was his mother, calling to give him a list of things to pick up for the cookout before he drove to their beach house. As he listened to her, the handset of the portable telephone nestled between his shoulder and ear, he rummaged about the kitchen counter for a pen and paper with which to write everything down. He had just found both when he chanced to look out the back window. Through a break in the bushes that separated the Quinns’ backyard from the Mahoneys’, he caught a glimpse of Sheila. She appeared to be spreading a towel across a lounge chair out on their back deck.

“Right, five big bags of ice,” he said into the phone, scribbling on the paper while straining to get a better view of what she was doing. The break in the bushes was small, however, and to his annoyance, Sheila stepped out of sight. His curiosity piqued, Carter took the paper and pen, and walked out of the kitchen.