She meant to ask what it was all for, what was going on—but this was where they’d been headed all along, wasn’t it?

“And,” he said, reaching in his pocket and pulling out a key, “we can get in the house.”

“What?”

“A friend of a friend convinced the owners that he wanted to rid the house of any architectural artifacts—to prove the house is worth nothing.”

“I’m not sure I want to know who your friends are.”

“It doesn’t matter. But I have the key and you can get inside.”

All else—the cold, the boat, the coming night—seemed irrelevant.

She opened the truck door. “Okay, what’re we waiting for?” No more waiting. The thought was warm and drowsy in the crevices of her mind, her body.

Nick laughed—a sweet sound. Moths flapped against the headlights of the truck; waves whispered against the dock.

The hum of the motor filled the boat as they huddled inside the cab. Waves slapped against the hull. Her heart slapped against her chest.

Nick anchored the trawler off the edge of the island, then lowered a small Boston Whaler Tender from the back. The island now seemed to beg to be left alone—not to be anyone else’s personal haven beyond the wildlife already living there, as the afternoon light mellowed the once-inhabited playground of a rich indigo merchant.

They snuggled up in the Tender as Nick ran it aground on the beach. They bundled up in coats and hats, then he threw a hiking backpack and a large parcel of down over his shoulders and waved his hand to come on.

“I feel like a marshmallow,” Amy said.

Nick poked her arm. “Yeah, it’s a little big for you, but it’ll keep you warm.” He reached down and held up a broken shell. “Time brought us back here, Amy.”

“What?”

“Remember? The shell.”

“Yes.” Her voice was thick despite the cold. Yes, the other beach, the other shell, making love on scorched sand . . .

He handed her the shell, placed it in her palm. He pulled her to him and she fell against the soft down of his coat, of him. He pressed the shell into her hand and the memory invaded as a flood beginning in her legs, then finally reaching the recesses of conscious memory. She lifted her face to him—only memory and body in control now.

His mouth found hers and he kissed her, slow, easy, as if making sure her mouth remembered his. Not only did her mouth remember, but also her arms and hands. She reached behind his neck and pulled his kiss deeper. There was nothing else to be done but this. He released her and she leaned into him, swallowed the words she wanted to say: “Keep holding on, just keep holding me.”