“Me, I can’t stand it any longer. I’m no channel swimmer but I’ve got to get my money’s worth.” He began applying sun-­tan oil to his arms and shoulders. The odor of the heavy sweet-­smelling stuff floated over the group like another kind of heat.

Hauman sprang up. “Here, let me do that for you.”

“Much obliged, on account of I can’t reach my back.”

Hauman poured some oil into the palm of his hand and began spreading it over Bill Howard’s back and shoulders. Howard murmured contentedly under the pressure of the broad hands. “Boy, this is service.”

The job finished, Hauman moved over to Grandin. “I’ll do it for you too, Johnnie.”

“No, thanks. I can manage myself.”

But Cliff ignored this. “I can do it much easier than you can, Johnnie.” He bent down and placed his hands on Grandin’s back.

Grandin pulled violently away. “I said I didn’t want it!” He was surprised at the sharpness in his voice.

A sudden silence fell upon the little group, as if it were a moment of painful embarrassment to them all. The situation was saved by Bill Howard who, though no one listened to him, said casually:

“Better let him. I knew a guy once who dislocated his shoulder putting sun-­tan oil on his back. And jeepers, I do believe it was the same brand as this: Sun-­Glo. Though I don’t know; on second thought, I guess it didn’t smell so bad. . . .”

Ethel got up, and Sarah Howard followed. “Don’t expect us till late afternoon,” Mrs. Howard said. “We’ll lunch in Nantucket and then maybe do some shopping after the hairdresser’s.”

“Get yourself done up right, Mama. You’re going to have some heavy competition tonight, with Toni Lansing there.”

“I’m not worrying. ’Bye, darling.” She kissed him, and the two women went off toward the bluff.

John Grandin felt it keenly that Ethel had said no word by way of farewell, but it would have been even more of an admission of strain—a kind of pleading as well—if he had called after her: Good-­bye.

When she had gone about a hundred feet, she turned and came part way back, to say: “I left my sun-­tan oil for you. Please don’t forget it and leave it behind.”

He was grateful to her for this attention in the presence of the others; it helped. He had the small sticky bottle at that moment in his hand, his fingers tight around it. The warm moist grit of sand that had gathered upon its surface stuck to his palm; some of it had come off and collected uncomfortably beneath his fingernails. . . .