“Has it ever been any different? He’s never really been into all this historic stuff like you. Remember how you had to beg to live in that old house while he wanted to live in the new subdivision they were building in Mr. Harbor’s cotton field?”

“I know, I know.”

“Well, why is it bothering you so much now?”

“I don’t know. But it definitely is. He could at least be glad I have some help from Joe and Nick.”

“Oh, God, what are you talking about? What kind of help from Nick? No wonder Phil’s pissy.”

“He said he knew someone who could get us out to the island. You know, it’s Nick’s specialty and all that—land preservation.”

“Yeah, I know what his specialty is.”

“This is different. He knows a ton about the barrier islands—has contacts.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he has contacts.”

“There’s something else. . . .”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything, Carol Anne. He told me something . . . something about how he didn’t leave me . . . then.”

“What did he say?”

“Asked me about some telegram I never received. I ran . . . away. I don’t want to talk about it. I’m exhausted from it.”

“You have to talk about it, or—”

Amy pointed at the tennis complex. “Not here. Not now.”

“Okay, but don’t do anything until we can talk. Promise?”

Amy nodded.

Carol Anne hugged her. “I knew he was trouble from the day he asked you out when he was supposed to be going out with the more fabulous, more fun me.” She hugged Amy again. “Damn him. Damn that Nick Lowry for showing up now.”

Busyness became what kept the memories and wondering at low tide, not controlled by the moon that Amy had lost that evening on the dock, but by the ebb of her own memories. After watching Molly win her tennis match, Amy wandered the aisles of the grocery store, knowing that only the sharpest focus would hold back the recollections of Nick.

The tomatoes were too soft, the lettuce wilted. Focus on the details. She lifted the asparagus; the thick tops looked like the trunks of the palmetto trees on the beach. Which beach was that? A nature preserve? A public beach?

Nick.

She and Nick had walked, lazy, smooth. Oyster shells had cracked under their sandals. Sand granules clung between her toes. The sun was high, too bright, beating, the air viscous, blood-thick. A seagull hung in the sky, neither flying nor sinking, as if the dense air held it in midflight. A sailboat tipped; sun glinted off its hull, winking in shattered-glass fragments. The whipped-cream waves stood out from the molten navy sea. Her skin prickled with the sunburn she knew would show up that evening in red slashes.