“Don’t,” Mrs. Brit said to her husband in a way someone scolds their dog. She took the book from Mr. Brit and handed it back to Frank. With her left hand, the one wrapped by the Cartier watch. Frank noticed it again and thanked her for the book.

Mr. Brit and Frank engaged in a dueling sulk; Frank returned to Tacitus, holding it up in weak defiance, while Mr. Brit refused to look in our direction, staring off toward a place where no one ever read or ever heard of Tacitus. Mrs. Brit gave me a conspiratorial smile, amused at her husband’s uncharacteristic wounded silence. We were still stranded, with no explanation from anyone and no visible sign that anyone was working the problem. The rocky coastline bobbed up and down in the distance, the cars snaked their way along the road above us, boats passed by with little more than curiosity.

“They’ll send another boat,” Mrs. Brit said to me. Her husband didn’t respond, but continued to look elsewhere. Then, the engines started again, sputtering back to life, and we continued on as before. “That’s better,” Mr. Brit said to the wind or the water or the coast, before finally turning back to his wife. She reached for him with her left hand and took his right hand and held it, coaxing him back to his old self. It wasn’t long before he began talking, telling us about this or that thing on our left, the town up ahead. Frank put his book down and nodded at Mr. Brit’s observations, but I should have known that the skirmish might have ended, but there was a battle waiting to be waged.

We all got off the ferry in Amalfi and Mrs. Brit offered to buy us lunch without saying it was an apology for her husband. “There’s no need,” I said, “besides, we’re not dressed for it.” “Then at least let us buy you a drink,” she said and was needlessly embarrassed when I told her that we didn’t drink. “Well, that’s that,” Mr. Brit said. “We’ll see you at dinner then,” Mrs. Brit said and I assured her she would.