“That lasted three years, until she latched onto someone with a family business and a house in Antibes. So David went and found himself a girl whose father is the majority stockholder in an oil company. She’s nice enough, but she’s got the IQ of an artichoke. If David had any sense, he would have known when he had it good and he would have held on to you.”

Ellen blushed and said softly, “You’re nice to say it.”

“I’m serious. That’s what I’d have done if I’d been him.”

“What did you do? What lucky girl finally got you?”

“None, so far. I guess there are girls around who just don’t know how lucky they could be.” Hooper laughed. “Tell me about yourself. No, don’t. Let me guess. Three children. Right?”

“Right. I didn’t realize it showed that much.”

“No no. I don’t mean that. It doesn’t show at all. Not at all. Your husband is—let’s see—a lawyer. You have an apartment in town and a house on the beach in Amity. You couldn’t be happier. And that’s exactly what I’d wish for you.”

Ellen shook her head, smiling. “Not quite. I don’t mean the happiness part, the rest. My husband is the police chief in Amity.”

Hooper let the surprise show in his eyes for only an instant. Then he smacked himself on the forehead and said, “What a dummy I am! Of course. Brody. I never made the connection. That’s great. I met your husband last night. He seems like quite a guy.”

Ellen thought she detected a flicker of irony in Hooper’s voice, but then she told herself, Don’t be stupid—you’re making things up. “How long will you be here?” she said.

“I don’t know. That depends on what happens with this fish. As soon as he leaves, I’ll leave.”

“Do you live in Woods Hole?”

“No, but not far away. In Hyannisport. I have a little house on the water. I have a thing about being near the water. If I get more than ten miles inland, I begin to feel claustrophobic.”

“You live all alone?”

“All alone. It’s just me and about a hundred million dollars’ worth of stereo equipment and a million books. Hey, do you still dance?”

“Dance?”

“Yeah. I just remembered. One of the things David used to say was that you were the best dancer he ever went out with. You won a contest, didn’t you?”

The past—like a bird long locked in a cage and suddenly released—was flying at her, swirling around her head, showering her with longing. “A samba contest,” she said. “At the Beach Club. I’d forgotten. No, I don’t dance anymore. Martin doesn’t dance, and even if he did, I don’t think anyone plays that kind of music anymore.”

“That’s too bad. David said you were terrific.”

“That was a wonderful night,” Ellen said, letting her mind float back, picking out the tiny memories. “It was a Lester Lanin band. The Beach Club was covered with crepe paper and balloons. David wore his favorite jacket—red silk.”