Florida felt more prehistoric than futuristic to Teresa. All those gargantuan flying palmetto bugs, and lizards curled up inside the mailbox waiting to jump onto her hand. Still, she liked it here. Roy seemed to like it here, too. And while Matt, who was turning nine today, sometimes spoke of how Florida was “crummy” and D.C. was better, and of the father he still remembered and missed, Katherine never seemed to think of Dermot at all, and Joseph and Frankie were so young that wherever they were when they opened their eyes in the morning was home. She could see herself content as a resident of Brevard County, on this island, in this house, for the rest of her life. Not that she cared much about the space program. Apollo 11 was heading toward the moon at that very moment, twenty-four hours away from landing, if things went according to plan, and Teresa seemed to be the only person who wasn’t excited about the event. She was a thirty-one-year-old woman with four children and a good husband. They had their health, they owned a home. What could she possibly want with the moon?

She was clearing the breakfast dishes when Katherine—too young at six to have any common sense when it came to surprises—asked what kind of cake they were having.

“Shhh!” Teresa said, darting her eyes toward Matt. “There is no cake.”

“There has to be a cake,” Matt declared.

“They were all out of cake. Not a single birthday cake left on the island. Katherine, would you keep an eye on Joseph for me while I finish cleaning up? He’s in the living room.”

“No he’s not. He’s in his bedroom.”

“Well, could you go play with him, please? And Matt, could you get Frankie out of his high chair and put him in his playpen—even though it’s your birthday? That would be a big help.”

“Some birthday,” Matt grumbled.

“And be careful with him.”

As Matt reached for him, Frankie swept his tiny hand back and forth across the high-chair tray, scattering bits of scrambled egg and chopped-up bacon onto the floor. “Smooth move,” Matt said. “Joe might not be a parrot, but you’re a pig.”

“Frankie is not a pig.” Teresa sank a frying pan into a sinkful of soapy water. There was movement in the corner of her eye, and she looked over to see Roy standing in the doorway of their bedroom, still in his pajamas, his robe hanging open. He was waving her over.

Teresa pointed to the stack of dirty dishes.

Leave it, Roy mouthed.

She turned off the water. She dried her hands and, glancing around to make sure the coast was clear, crossed the dining room and stepped into the bedroom. He closed his arms around her waist as she shut the door behind her. “What was all that about a bicycle? Does he really think he’s getting one?”