The grounds of the country club were on a promontory, many acres jutting out into the water, with immense visibility of the western half of the island. It was a clear, crisp day. As people began to arrive you could see Bob looking up and down the coast.

Phylida was walking funny in that long dress. I could see from this distance how red she was, sunburned. “I fell asleep on the beach,” she said. I had forgotten to come back to get her. Up close her face held patches of rouge. She said, “I wish I was dead.” I started to apologize. She said, “This isn’t your fault.” She didn’t actually remember applying sunblock. She said, “It hurts to have these clothes on.” She was in bad shape. I asked if she wanted to have a seat. She said, “I can’t bend.” I asked how she got here. She made a motion to indicate she’d been lying down in the taxi. “I hate myself so much.”

I said, “It’s O.K.” We backed into the shade and stood there, and she looked at me and whispered something. There were tears in her eyes.

“I can’t believe I did this,” she said. I wanted to hold her. “I’m responsible,” I said. “I’ll never leave you again.” I told her I loved her, and I kissed the ends of her fingers because I didn’t want to harm her burns. I ignored people who wanted to be seated, I let the other guys do it, and then we watched the ceremony standing. We couldn’t hear any of it because the wind was blowing. She switched her weight from one foot to the other. Even her ankle was white skin striped with bright red. Afterward waiters came through with hors d’oeuvres and champagne. “Should I drink?” she said. When she’d arrived her face was flushed. Now it was pale and sweaty.

A helicopter, just a speck at first, came chopping along toward us—you could barely hear it over the surf until it was upon us. I guess the trained eye could tell from way off, this was not the vice president’s official green-and-white airship. Then it hovered, knocking in the air above us, and Bob stood staring up, standing by his mom and dad, sun blazing in his copper-bristled hair.

“Paparazzi?” he said.

No. It was just some guy having a closer look at our festivities before flying away.